by Gerry O'Hara
At home later, after she spooned a small portion of canned cat food into Tosha’s dish, she called Margo on the kitchen phone. “I’m so excited,” she said. “The instructor thinks I have promise, and Margo, I love painting! I’m going to Big Sur next week for a two-day workshop.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to have competition,” Margo teased.
“Oh, sure. I can tell that you’re worried.”
“Actually, I’m jealous. If I weren’t so far along in my pregnancy, I’d fly out and join you. Big Sur is a popular location for artists and photographers. I hope to get there one of these days.”
After Christie said good-bye, she bent to pat Tosha on the back. It was obvious by the way the cat wove in and out between Christie’s legs that she felt neglected.
“Don’t be temperamental. You know I love you, Tosha. Soon as I fix a cup of tea, you can sit on my lap.” Tosha meowed as though she completely understood what Christie said.
After brewing a cup of mint tea, she settled onto the couch and pulled the blue afghan over her lap. Tosha favored the woolen blanket and Christie gave in to her preferences. Picky cat, she mused as she ruffled Tosha’s neck hair. Tosha tilted her head and stared at Christie. “Okay, go back to sleep. Sorry I bothered you. I swear, I don’t know if you curl up on my lap because you love me, or if you think I’m a piece of upholstered furniture.”
It had been a long day, and she had turned down a chance to go to dinner with Cash so that she could focus on the first day of the art class. It had seemed sensible at the time, but now she felt quite alone. Perhaps she had been hasty in turning down the invitation. They could have gone out for a late dinner. But she didn’t feel confident enough about their relationship to start calling the shots. Besides, she had to admit she was tired.
They hadn’t seen each other in four days. Cash had been tied up with Moreno’s case and then he’d attended a seminar in San Diego, with a side trip to see his family. She missed him.
When he phoned the following evening, her heart soared. But it was business, not pleasure, that had initiated the call. The detective he had hired to locate Elliot had contacted him with a hot lead. A Benson lived in a seniors’ gated community near the American River. Cash asked her to accompany him when he contacted Benson. He thought that a woman’s presence might soften the man if he was determined not to reveal Elliot’s whereabouts.
At nine o’clock Monday morning, she and Cash were on the road. Their destination was a two-hour drive from San Francisco, an hour from the Marin post office where the letter had been mailed. Cash was sure they had the right man. Benson had an unlisted phone number, so they were taking a chance on finding him at home.
“We’re almost there,” Cash said as he drove down the freeway off-ramp.
Christie glanced at the dashboard GPS screen. It indicated that they had fewer than three miles to go before they reached the turn onto Oak Tree Lane. “I hope Benson’s home. It would be a shame to waste half a day tracking him down and then come up empty-handed.”
“Keep the good thoughts, Christie. Keep the good thoughts.”
A few minutes later they were parked in front of a wrought-iron gate. Cash scanned the names listed on the call box. He jabbed the button for Benson’s unit and waited. It took a minute or two before a voice answered.
Cash identified himself and told Benson he was a friend of the Parkers. Benson gave him the code, the gate rolled away, and they drove through. The complex was typical of retirement developments: curved streets, attractive landscaping, a nine-hole golf course with a pond and ducks. No one in sight appeared to be younger than sixty.
At 450 Oak Tree Lane, Cash pulled into the driveway and parked. He and Christie hurried up the walkway. The man who answered the doorbell was a youthful-looking sixty-five or thereabouts—Elliot’s age. Tanned, he appeared to spend a great deal of time outdoors. Probably still fished; maybe played some golf or tennis.
Cash introduced Christie and himself. Benson invited them in and asked if they’d like a cold drink. When they said yes, he scurried into the kitchen and was back in a few minutes with a couple of cans of root beer.
“We’re trying to locate Elliot Parker.” Cash got right to the point. “His daughter, Margo, is having a difficult pregnancy, and having her dad come home would ease the strain. If you’d give us his address, we’d appreciate it.”
“There’s no address to give. Elliot bought a fancy motor home and he’s on the move. He took up painting when he stayed with me last summer. You know, one of those classes they have in the rec room to keep us old-timers busy. He got pretty good at it, said it must run in the family. Next thing I knew, he loaded up the RV and said he was going to explore California and paint. He didn’t plan to stay in one place long.”
Christie looked at Cash with dismay. They’d hit a brick wall. California was a big state; Elliot could be anywhere. Where would they start searching for him?
“How about a cell phone number?” Cash said.
“Can’t do it. Elliot told me that he doesn’t want anyone to contact him or know where he is. He’s pretty darn mad at his son-in-law. That was a nasty business.”
“You’ve only heard one side of the story, Ben. Hal wasn’t to blame for Elliot losing his position as head of Parker Electronics. But that’s beside the point. Margo wants to find her dad before the baby is born. It’s important to her.”
“Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll try and contact Elliot and see if I can break through that thick head of his and get him to relent. A grandchild—that’s worth mending fences.”
“We’d appreciate that, and remember, time is running out.”
“The only problem is, Elliot likes to paint on location. Doesn’t work from slides like a lot of artists do. So I might not hear from him for a while, and his cell phone may be out of range. But I’ll try.”
“That’s all we can ask, Ben. That’s all we can ask.”
Before they got in the SUV, Cash put his hands on Christie’s shoulders. “I’m glad you came; you took the edge off the meeting. You gave up a day at work and I’m sure that puts you behind. You’re selfless, Christie. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
One of the things he admired? What were the others? Would she have preferred that he tell her that she was pretty? Or smart? Or…? Well, she would accept what was offered. It was, after all, a compliment. But what she really wanted to hear was how he felt about her.
The following Saturday morning, Christie was on her way to Big Sur for Scott Cooper’s class. The drive along the coast was serene. She wished Cash had come along, but there was a plus in the solitude: time to meditate on the pleasant twists and turns of her life, on her involvement with him. They shared many interests, and she could now add an affinity for the desert to the list, too. She loved Cash’s home in Sedona, enjoyed the winter warmth, the red rimrock, the artists’ colony. What a joy to share time between San Francisco’s bustle and Sedona’s lazy way of life.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Their personal relationship did not equate to permanence. Still, working together gave them an opportunity to learn more about each other, personally and professionally. And a successful conclusion to his current case would push her reputation up another notch.
She crossed Bixby Bridge, high above the Pacific. Bixby was one of the most-photographed bridges in the West, probably second only to Golden Gate. The bridge’s graceful concrete arches rose high above the arroyo and Bixby Creek below, and was a stone’s throw from the ocean.
Reaching Big Sur Lodge, she checked in, found her cabin, and unpacked her gear. Fifteen minutes later she joined the group assembled outside the lobby and carpooled to a bluff above the beach.
Cliffs rose majestically from the water, stretching through layers of silvered fog. Waves crashed against a ribbon of sand edged with spires of rock that had once been part of the cliff. Gulls glided and swooped, their sharp eyes searching the sea for tidbits.
Serenity was the fir
st thought that passed through Christie’s mind. She was enraptured by the serenity. Is there a more beautiful scene anywhere? she wondered. How could she dare to believe she could capture this awesome sight on canvas?
A couple of students had already set up their easels. Christie was rooted to the spot, overcome by the strength and beauty of this stretch of coast. In all the years she had lived in San Francisco, she had never visited Big Sur. Too busy with college, too busy with her career. But here the words too busy did not exist. The environment invited you to linger, to absorb.
“Christie, are you going to paint?” The instructor interrupted her thoughts, her mood.
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “I was admiring the view.” That was an understatement of the tenth magnitude.
“It is spectacular. Be sure to take a lot of pictures,” he instructed, “for reference when you are not painting on location.”
She chose a spot to set up her equipment. Still, she hesitated; the wonders of the view captured her mind and heart. She wanted to drink in the atmosphere before she started to paint. Wanted to experience the emotions that she would try to inscribe on her canvas.
Before she knew it, it was time for lunch. She stretched her arms over her head. Her neck and shoulders were a bit stiff. She slipped a sandwich and soda out of a brown paper bag. The instructor walked over and studied her work.
“Your painting is coming along, Christie. I like what you’ve done with the palette knife. Works well on the cliffs.”
The effect was pleasing, and she was glad that she had paid attention to the demonstration the previous week.
At five o’clock it was time to pack up. She zipped her windbreaker against the chill sea air.
Back at the lodge, she ordered a latte and sat by the fire to chase the ocean chill from her bones. She wrapped her cold fingers around the steaming cup. A couple of other artists were sprawled on the couches and chairs, drinks in hand. It had been a good day for painting, and enthusiasm was reflected in their chatter.
A desk clerk noticed Christie and brought her a slip of paper. It was a message from Cash: “I have an appointment in Monterey. I’ll swing by at seven. If you don’t have dinner plans, I’ll take you to the River Inn.”
The anticipation of seeing Cash sent a shiver through her. It had been a week since she’d seen him. Seven days seemed like a lifetime. She looked at her watch: he would arrive in less than two hours. Her heart began to beat faster and she felt like a teenager anticipating a first date.
In her cabin she stashed the artist’s supplies, showered, and put on clean jeans and a pullover. She still had an hour to wait. An hour! Perhaps a walk would take the edge off her nerves. She hiked down the hill and passed the lodge.
Big Sur State Park was popular with campers and hikers. A river meandered through the grounds, lush with redwoods, on its way to the ocean. Campsites were scattered beneath the trees and along the river’s edge. Smoke curled into the air, spreading appetite-enhancing scents through the forest. A squirrel begged for leftovers at a picnic table. A pair of small girls tossed bits of food on the ground and the squirrel scurried from piece to piece, quite unafraid of humans.
The walk gave Christie time to contemplate: neither artist nor photographer could fully capture the beauty of this area. Big Sur could easily become her favorite place. It encompassed dramatic surf, moody wisps of fog, and majestic redwoods. A spiritual ambiance, a renewal of soul, existed in the combination of forest and sea.
Returning to the lodge, she spotted Cash’s SUV. She quickened her step into a semijog, eager to see him. He was perched on the split-rail fence, and when he spotted her, he stood and saluted a greeting. When she reached him, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly against his chest. He tilted her chin upward and gently kissed her on the lips.
“I’ve missed you.”
His words touched her soul. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said.
They walked arm in arm to Cash’s SUV and drove a short distance to the River Inn. The restaurant was casual, the setting was as promised: the river meandered past the redwood deck. They chose an outdoor table and ordered the house specialty. They clinked their wineglasses as they toasted each other, the night, the sea, the river, and anything else that came to mind. They were happy to be together, and she felt almost giddy.
Cash reached across the table and took her hand, linking his fingers in hers. His gaze was smoldering, and his touch hot. They spoke in quiet tones, shutting out the murmurs of other diners. It was the two of them, and only the two of them, that mattered, that existed in time and space. There was magic in the atmosphere, magic in the mood, and she wished the night could go on forever.
But forever wasn’t realistic. When dinner was over, he drove her back to the lodge. With arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they walked to Christie’s cabin. Towering pines and redwoods were silhouetted against a full moon. Stars glistened in the velvety night. This was not an ordinary evening, Christie thought. She felt close to him, as if they had bridged a gap in their relationship, going from dating to something more. Something she could not quite define.
Standing on her small deck, Cash crushed her to him for a good-night kiss that was deep and explosive. All of her nerve endings seemed to burst into flames. His hand combed through her hair and cupped her head. With a firm pressure, his other hand molded her body to his, as though they were one.
He pushed her hair up, away from her face, and kissed her neck. She gasped at the pleasure the gesture evoked.
“You’ve turned my world upside down, Christie. I’m glad we met.”
Her emotions were racing, and she hardly trusted herself to speak. “I’m glad we met, too,” she whispered.
She fumbled in her purse for the key to her room. With one arm around her waist, Cash took the key from her hand and opened the door. He kissed her once more, and she responded, wishing to be in his arms forever. He took a step forward, as if to sweep her into the room with him. Her eyes flashed open. She had boundaries, and they were on the brink of crossing the line.
“I guess we’d better say good night here.” She detected a note of regret in his voice, even though he had adhered to his own hesitation. “Pleasant dreams, Christie.”
He tipped an imaginary hat, kissed her hand in a gallant manner, and strode away. She watched until the taillights on his Jeep disappeared into the night. She knew without a doubt that she would have pleasant dreams.
CHAPTER NINE
The following week went by slowly. Cash was out of town again, and Christie was at loose ends. Her calendar was clear, an unusual situation, and that meant time on her hands. Well, she couldn’t conjure up work. At least her bills were paid; she was ahead of herself financially.
She decided a jog was in order. Digging into the gym bag she kept in the office, she yanked out her exercise clothes. She locked the door and, hopping from one foot to the other, stepped into black nylon shorts. She pulled a lightweight sleeveless cotton shirt over her head and smoothed it over her hips. The temperature was perfect for a run in Golden Gate Park, a short drive away.
Ten minutes later she was on the trail, joining other joggers out for an afternoon run. A good run cleared the mind, she mused, breathing in the scent of eucalyptus. Ahead of her, a woman and dog trotted side by side. The brown-and-white sheltie’s rear wiggled in rhythm to its mistress’s pace. She wished she had a dog to accompany her, to give her a reason for committing herself to getting out more. Tosha, however, would not adjust easily to a new roommate.
Coming toward Christie, a thirtyish man trailed a rottweiler. The barrel-chested animal tugged at the leash, almost dragging its owner. Christie gave the dog a wide berth, nearly twisting her ankle in an effort to move off the path.
A trio of horseback riders urged their mounts into a canter on the bridle path. A horn blared and one horse broke rank and trotted sideways, tossing its head up and down, yanking the reins. The rider fought to control the horse and bring it
back onto the path.
Christie turned into the woods, away from the road. San Francisco was a busy city, but Golden Gate Park was a country gem. Its lush redwood, cypress, and eucalyptus groves seemed a hundred miles away from the bustle of cars and buses. And cell phones. She had purposely left hers in the car, determined not to be interrupted.
It felt good to play hooky once in a while. One of the perks of being her own boss. With her luck her desk would be full of messages when she returned in the morning, but she was not going to dwell on that. The afternoon was hers and she would allow nothing to interfere.
She swiped at the perspiration that beaded on her forehead and upper lip. She slowed to hear the notes of a song sparrow, then stopped to catch her breath. She bent over and spread her fingers across her knees; her hair fell forward, swinging back and forth. She hadn’t paced herself well, had pulled out all the stops in the first twenty minutes, and now her energy was depleted.
It was a relief to spot a bench, and she dropped onto it. She draped an arm across the wood slats and watched people stroll or jog past. The sun was warm on her cheeks.
She wondered what Cash was doing right now. Probably scrambling at top speed to accomplish five things at once. He had unflagging energy. She could never keep up with him. Her thoughts turned to Margo, as they often did lately. Margo seemed to possess a fierce protectiveness toward her unborn baby that would undoubtedly carry into motherhood. The miscarriages had cost her, in a sense of previous loss and her present anxiety.
The relationship between Cash, Hal, and Margo was special. She envied people who did not allow longtime ties to be broken by distance.
Christie had lost touch with most of her childhood friends. She had grown up in Seattle, and moving to San Jose in her junior year of high school had not been easy. Cliques had already been formed among classmates and she was excluded. After high-school graduation, her one close friend went to college in Colorado, fell in love, married, and never returned. The extent of their friendship now was a Christmas card with a year’s worth of news condensed into a few lines scribbled across the bottom. Each year the greeting became shorter, and Christie would not be surprised if the next one simply said, “Best wishes, Theresa.”
