Lady Sunshine

by Amy Mason Doan

  I pull out my car keys. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ingram. Careful walking back down to the campground. That T intersection on the coast road can be dangerous this time of year.”

  “Wait, Jacqueline. Please?” His voice breaks. He sets his guitar on the gravel, trying desperately to slow things down. “Okay. I get it. You’re worried I’m a leech. But it’s the last chance to do this right.”

  He paces between the fence and my car. Faces the house, hooks his fingers in the chain-link and arches back, gazing up at the house. He looks for all the world like a kid locked out of an amusement park.

  “It would take eight weeks, nine, tops,” he says, then glances over his shoulder at me. “To honor your uncle’s memory?”

  I’m already in the car, but when he comes over and stands by the door, I give in and lower the window.

  He bends so we’re eye level and says it so softly I’m not sure I even heard correctly: “You don’t have to do it for me. Or Graham, or Angela. But what would she have wanted?”

  She.

  Willa.

  I start the ignition, press the automatic window button. He jerks his hands from the fast-rising glass and hops back.

  Even with the window closed and the engine rumbling, I can hear how his voice cracks again with regret: “Jacqueline, wait! I’m sorry I said that! Let’s start fresh, just talk...”

  He’s still pleading, reaching out to the car as if to draw it back, as I drive off.

  At the bottom of the hill, where no one can see me, I park under a thick stand of coast redwoods.

  And only then do my hands begin to shake.

  * * *

  I’m down at Glass Beach; it’s late afternoon and I’ve been here for hours, walking back and forth along the water. After driving aimlessly up and down the highway, I dialed my Boston machine from a pay phone:

  There was a hurt-sounding message from Paul. “Just checking that you arrived safely, sweetheart.” I’d forgotten to call him last night.

  An excited one from the estate lawyer. He’s received a proposal for the recording studio. The project—Shane Ingram’s, I take it—could be “quite lucrative” if we draw up the right agreement, and he’d be more than happy to oversee things this summer so I can get back to my life in Boston.

  And a kiss-assy one from some reporter at Rolling Stone: “We’ve all heard about the anniversary album that’s happening at the estate this summer, and I understand Bree Lang is attached. It sounds absolutely phenomenal and I’d love to set up an interview...”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  There’s a new tribute to Three for you, Shane Ingram.

  I hung up the pay phone in shock and somehow ended up here, gathering sea glass—trash made pretty only after tumbling in the waves for decades. There are fewer pieces glinting in the sand than when I was last here, when it could take a whole morning of hunting to get a decent haul. But the small beach still holds a smattering of treasures, still deserves its name, derived from local legend that it was completely blanketed in the ’40s and ’50s. I sit at the tide line, my bare feet numb and pruned up, my collection of three cloudy pieces, two the pale yellow of Vaseline and one the color of cola, before me. I don’t remember where I left my shoes, and the hem of my gray dress is drenched from ankle to knee.

  I pick up a piece of the sea glass and turn it over in my hand. So. I’m supposed to let a pack of strangers spill bourbon on Willa’s window seat, screw in Angela’s garden, snort blow off of Kate’s beloved marble pastry counter? Talk to reporters who’ll probe me for dirt on the tragic family? All for the sake of Graham Kingston’s art? His nascent fandom?

  I could have the attorney write a cease and desist letter, or whatever legal jargon would scare Shane Ingram away. I could say that he stole intellectual property from Angela. Except I know in my heart that’s not true.

  His question comes back to me.

  What would Willa want?

  Nothing else matters. Not money or listing timelines or logistical hassles. Not what Angela may have agreed to at the end of her life, sentimental and lonely, or stoned out of her mind on painkillers. Not Rolling Stone printing stories that make me sound like a villain if I say no, a hero if I agree. Not how the teachers back in Boston will talk about me when I return. Certainly not what this Shane Ingram thinks.

  And not how hard it would be. Staying here. Inviting visitors in.

  It’s Willa I’m here to serve. I’m only her custodian.

  What do you want me to do, Willa?

  “Are you okay?”

  I glance up, shading my eyes with my hand. It’s him, drenched from sweat and fog, like he’s just washed ashore. He’s tied his nice black crepe suit jacket around his waist as if it’s an old sweatshirt.

  But the worry in his eyes hasn’t changed; it’s still convincing. His eyes are old-looking, wide-set, large-lidded, under expressive brows. They amplify his every feeling, and I have to look down.

  I examine the sea glass in my hand. “I’m fine.”

  “May I?” He unties his crumpled jacket and offers it to me but I wave him off.

  “Come on, you’ve got to be freezing. Your teeth are chattering.”

  “It’s refreshing.”

  “Well, I’m boiling. I ran all the way to the top of the waterfall trail to look for your car. Then when I finally saw it parked on the highway I ran down even faster so I wouldn’t miss you. I think I need to work out more.”

  He sits next to me, tents the ruined jacket over his knees. “This was supposed to impress you. Make me look professional. Thirty dollars, secondhand. I haven’t spent so much on a piece of clothing in years.”

  “I thought you music industry types spent thirty dollars on a bottle of water.”

  “Maybe I pick the wrong projects. I let my sentimental nature cloud my judgment. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

  The wind whips us and I catch his scent. Mixed with the smell of the ocean, it’s strong but not unpleasant.

  I pick up the rest of the sea glass, piece by piece, and drop each onto the sand between us, forming a little pile. Each piece makes a sweet clink as it strikes the others.

  “So, I got a message from Rolling Stone,” I say. “But that’s not a surprise, is it?”

  “What?”

  He seems genuinely mystified, but I can’t keep the bitter edge from my voice: “Rolling Stone. They left a message for me about the album. Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone’s really psyched about it. So if I don’t agree, I’ll forever be the bitch who killed the great Graham Kingston’s legacy. Somewhere on the spectrum of music villains between the town council that bans dancing in Footloose and that purple octopus in The Little Mermaid. That was part of your plan, right?”

  “I—” He sighs. “Jacqueline. I didn’t tell Rolling Stone.”

  If he’s lying, he’s masterful at it. “I guess someone else put the word out, then.”

  “I guess. I haven’t exactly kept it a secret. And I’m not the only person who thinks Graham’s lyrics were...exceptional, and not meant to be hidden away.”

  This hurts. Like I’m one of the “suits” Graham despised. The industry people who heard only his numbers, not his words. “I don’t think that. I’ve never thought that.”

  But there are hundreds of other places he could record this album.

  “And I don’t think you’re a villain for saying no. It must be overwhelming for you, being back here with them gone.”

  “I didn’t know them that well.”

  “No? Sorry, I thought... Because you and your cousin were around the same age. I was wrong.”

  We sit in silence for a minute, facing the ocean. The fog is thinning, and the sun peers through the clouds at last. I stretch my legs out so my chilled, pickled feet can catch its precious warmth.

  Shane breathes deeply. “Well
, listen, I’m truly sorry about how this morning went.”

  “I am, too.” And I mean it. So he’d overstepped a bit in his excitement. He couldn’t possibly understand how complicated this is for me.

  “No, it’s not your fault. I blew it, tramping around like that so close to the fence. And coming at you so hard. Mentioning your cousin. Making assumptions. And the embarrassing thing is, I rehearsed talking to you a ton. I probably should’ve gone only through your attorney, like all the rest.”

  “You have a single-minded obsession about a project that’s important to you and you’re trying to do everything in your power to get it done.”

  “That sounds awfully sterile.”

  “It’s not a bad thing. You could take it as a compliment, actually. I respect focus.”

  “Because you’re a teacher?”

  Ah. So he’d done his homework on me.

  “I’ve always respected focus,” I say.

  He examines the small pile of sea glass between us. “Nice little collection you’ve got.”

  “Hmmm. There used to be a lot more here in the old days. It was practically wall-to-wall. Is it the same in LA? Is that where you grew up?”

  “I... No. I never noticed much of it down there.”

  I pick up a yellow piece and brush sand from its smooth surface.

  “Diamonds are made by nature and polished by man,” I say. “Sea glass is made by man and polished by nature.”

  Willa told me that. Twenty years ago, sitting not far from here. The wind whipping her hair so it escaped the lace she’d always used to tie it back, tendrils blown across her cheeks, her gentle smile.

  She also told me this: It starts out ugly, but after a long, long time, it turns into something beautiful.

  And I know what I have to do.

  “So, here’s what’s going to happen, Shane Ingram of BlueHour Music. I’ve decided that you can make your record. You’ve got your eight weeks.”

  “You’re kidding,” he sputters, joy animating the taut planes of his face. “Really? I mean, you were so against it just a few hours ago. Was it the Rolling Stone thing?”

  “It doesn’t matter why. I’m not going to stand in your way. Your people can even crash here this summer, if that’ll help you wrap it up faster. There’s plenty of room.”

  “That’s wonderful, just perfect, I can’t thank—”

  “The place goes up for sale soon, and I’m donating the studio equipment, so I’d appreciate it if you’d be careful.”

  “Of course—we won’t wreck anything. I’ll make sure everyone treads lightly. But...I don’t want this to be weird for you. I don’t want any...friction.”

  “There won’t be friction. You and your crew do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I’ll stay for a few weeks while you get settled.” My voice sounds more certain than I am, but I can’t hand the keys over to the realtor. Not yet. I have unfinished business here, no matter how painful it may be. “After I fly home, my real estate agent will keep an eye on things for me. But I have some conditions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “One, all the profits go to charity. Not ‘a portion’ or ‘a majority.’ Every cent. A charity I select.” I watch his face carefully, expecting it to collapse in disappointment.

  But his expression doesn’t change, and he says, “Of course!”

  “Two, if someone lets my cat escape into the woods this week, I’ll kill them.”

  He waits for more.

  “That’s it? Those are your terms?”

  “That’s it.”

  He smiles, offers me his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  5

  Lady Jane, Lady Jane

  1979

  As I walked through the trees to the sunny field that first morning after what Kate gruffly called “the invasion,” I held my head high, my shoulders back. I was determined to pass as an adult, coolly unfazed by the overnight transformation.

  I registered two things as I reached the center, flat section of the grass: smiles and skin. It was hard work, not gawking. Two women sunbathed topless by the pool. Three shirtless, bearded men tossed a Frisbee near the campfire circle. A crown of gray hair and a thin bare arm peeked above a hammock, its owner wielding a joint like a conductor’s baton, swirling graceful figure eights in the air. A gust of wind carried the sweet, skunky cloud to me.

  A boy of three or four, fresh from the beach and wearing only a wet T-shirt, with dried sand sugaring his tiny bottom, marched in front of me with his mother, dragging a long, olive-green whip of kelp.

  “Morning!” his mom said as I passed them, carefully stepping over the fat green rope. “Great hat.”

  “Morning! Thank you.”

  “You see we’ve caught a dragon’s tail,” she said gravely.

  “It’s a beauty.”

  I walked in a straight line across the sunlit grass, my eyes on the house. But I was secretly seeking out my cousin. As if I was in the middle of an invisible radar line, sweeping it around and around in hopes of locating her. I glimpsed at least a dozen clouds of blond hair, but my cousin’s wasn’t one of them.

  It was my uncle I found first. He was large and round-shouldered—a lion in repose. Wild silky yellow hair, sideburns, and beard circling a round face, which was both large and large-featured. He wore a tasseled Mexican pullover the color of burlap. The kind the young surfers down at Stinson wore, the hoods pulled over their dripping heads. But his hood was down.

  He sat on top of a picnic table—a bunch of them had been shoved together in a long line perpendicular to the front porch, and he perched on one near the center—demonstrating something on the guitar for a small cluster of people on the grass below.

  I settled on the grass by the front steps. Hiding behind my hat and diary. In an hour, I filled only one page.

  But at last my uncle glanced my way. He slowed his hands on his guitar strings, so that the fast song he had been playing became desultory...dtung, dtuuung...dtuuuunng. He stopped playing, stood, stretched.

  Then, fast as a wild cat, he leaped off the picnic table, walking up the field, toward the north side of the house. He was headed back to his studio, and in a second he would pass me.

  I tipped my hat low and scribbled furiously:

  The time has come for all good men to come to the aid of their country.

  The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

  The time has come for all good men to come to the aid of their country.

  Sandaled feet on the grass near me. Moving fast. Foolish to think my uncle would realize who I was and hail me with his pseudo-medieval formality, the way he’d embraced his friend on the motorcycle last night. He had no idea who I was.

  I propped the diary higher on my knees, my head so low that my hat brim touched it.

  The quick brown fox jumped over the good country...

  He stopped. As his huge body cast mine entirely in shadow, he began playing his guitar again. Something familiar. The same four full notes over and over. It was as simple as a children’s song, but catchy and strangely insistent:

  D, B, D, B,

  D, B, D, B

  “Good Day Sunshine.” He’d read the words on the outside of the diary. I looked up.

  I’d guessed that he was big from a picture I’d seen of him in the house. But he was a wall of a man. Tall, thick, wide. His gaze swept from my absurdly large straw hat down to my absurdly expensive Pappagallo sandals. But I refused to shrink, sitting up straighter, pulling the diary close to my chest so he couldn’t read my nonsense entry.

  He unslung his guitar and set it down on the grass. “What, no applause? I was sure it had to be your favorite song since you chose that diary.”

  “I didn’t choose it, and it’s not a diary. I’m just using it as a workbook.” I sounded d
efensive. Not to mention the fact that this was a lie. But I couldn’t help myself. He was such an overwhelming presence up close, and I didn’t want to be the silly kid with the diary. I wished I had a book from the house to use as a prop instead. Philosophy, or medieval Celtic folklore. The stuff in his songs.

  “Man,” he said, shaking his head. Then he whispered something unintelligible to himself, his voice low and disbelieving. It seemed like, “Day to day. Day to day.”

  He smelled of weed. How high was he?

  “Don’t scare the poor kid, Graham,” Kate said, walking down the front steps with a stack of towels. “Cut the drama. This is obviously your niece, Jacqueline, from the city, and this is your unmannered, unwashed uncle. You’ll have to make allowances for him. He’s been holed up in his dungeon too long to act civilized.”

  “Unwashed?” he boomed over me at her. “I’ll have you know I scrubbed every inch of this fine form at the waterfall at five a.m., Kate. Look at these fingernails!” He splayed his large hands in front of me, inches from my eyes. I saw scars and nicks, calluses, springy hair, a little darker than that on his head. And yes, his fingernails were surgeon-clean.

  “Well?”

  Something made me want to prove he couldn’t intimidate me, so I said playfully, “Immaculate.”

  “See, Kate? You’d have this girl thinking her uncle is some kind of derelict.”

  “Your word, not mine,” Kate humphed, walking past us down to the field to distribute her towels.

  He grinned after her. Then, resting his heavy hands on my shoulders, he said in a lower, private voice, all joking gone: “Forgive me. It’s just that you look exactly like her, and sound like her. Man.” Another, smaller head shake.

  Before I could react to this he pulled me up, gathered me in a hug, squeezing any protest out of me. My hat and diary fell to the ground. My cheeks were pressed into his burlap-rough pullover. He spun me. So fast and so suddenly that I had to close my eyes and hold on to his voice, like clutching the safety bar on a Tilt-a-Whirl.