What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One

by Mara Purl

  Reaching the entrance, she walked in, immediately charmed at hearing a delicate chinkle. Sure enough, near the front door, a cascading mobile hung from the ceiling, capiz shells strung in multiple strands, the luminous discs catching the light as well as the breeze.

  “Hello there,” a woman’s voice called from the back of the store. “Let me know if you need help!”

  “Okay!” Miranda answered. I hear a trace of accent … maybe South African? Or Australian? As she began exploring, fascinated, she moved alongside waist-high tables that held box after wooden box of shells, each labeled. Lambis… limpet… marble cone… I’ve never even heard of most of these! Melon… there’s a shell called “melon”? Murex … olive… strombidae… and over, here triton … turrid… volute….

  “They’re amazing, aren’t they?” The woman’s voice was closer now, and Miranda looked up to see an attractive female, probably in her forties, with a unique sense of style: upswept bob of burgundy hair, a loose, silky maroon blouse over tight leggings, stylish sandals and a massive shell necklace.

  “Incredible! Your whole shop is fantastic. Great name, by the way. When did you open?”

  “Ta very much! Spent the summer doing renovations, September getting organized, and finally opened just a week ago.”

  “Welcome to town. The shells you have … a lot of these I’ve never seen, or never knew the names. Where do they come from?”

  “All over,” she replied. “All over the world, I mean. Incidentally, it looks like you started in the middle of the alphabet.”

  “Oh! I didn’t realize they were in order.”

  “Easiest to find them that way—although sometimes I have to choose between the Latin name and the popular name. Anyway, you might want to try the other wall as well.”

  “Okay, I will.” As she turned away, Miranda smiled to herself, enjoying the sense of discovery as well as this woman’s obvious pride and expertise.

  So, over here the labeled boxes begin with Auger. I recognize the shell, just never knew that was its name. Maybe it augurs well that I came into this shop today. Chuckling, she continued to read labels until she came to the “H’s.”

  Hebes, cylindrical spiral … hebraeus, round and swirled, with a half-moon opening … hecuba, long and narrow with a slitted opening …. But she’d missed a box, she realized, one located farther away from her, closer to the wall. Something about the shape of its shells drew her attention. Wonder what that one is. Almost looks like a heart.

  “Heart Cockle, or Cardium Cardissa,” read the label. “Oh!” Miranda exclaimed.

  “That the one, is it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, when a customer can’t resist, it’s because they’ve been grabbed. Shells have a way of doing that.”

  Miranda laughed. “They do, don’t they? Only for me, it’s always happened on a beach.”

  The woman smiled and tossed her head. “That’s how it started for me, too. Then, as you can see,” she added, sweeping her hand through the air, “I got carried away.”

  “You’re the owner?”

  “Yes. Michelle. And, yes, I do go by ‘Shelly.’ Unavoidable, I suppose.”

  “Sounds like it was meant to be.”

  “Shelly Larrup.”

  Miranda held out her hand to shake. “I’m Miranda Jones.”

  Shelly’s eyes widened. “You’re the painter? I’ve been admiring your work at Finders.”

  Pleased, but suddenly shy, Miranda muttered, “Very kind.”

  “Say, maybe you’d do me a favor. If you fancy that shell—the heart cockle—I wonder if I could hire you to do a sketch for me, if I can afford you, that is?”

  Miranda thought for a moment. “I imagine we can work out the fee. What would you be using it for?”

  “For now, just a flier for the holidays. I thought it could say something like ‘Follow Your Heart to Shell Shock,’ and then it would need an image.”

  “I could certainly do a drawing—but how quickly would you need it?”

  “Well, if I had it by, say, the first of December, that’d give me plenty of time to get it printed up.”

  “Sure.”

  “And of course, please take whichever heart cockle you’d like today as a gift.”

  Miranda gazed at the shell in her hand. “I’d love to have one these. And I can get the drawing to you in time. It really does look like a heart, doesn’t it?”

  “Mm-hmm. And it’s a bi-valve—two connected halves—so the metaphor continues, as in ‘warm the cockles of—”

  “—of my heart—”

  “—cockles being the innermost chambers, as it were.”

  “Right!”

  “So, Miranda, choose the one you like best. Please let me know what you want to charge. And just get the drawing to me when you have time.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  The heart shells seemed to come in several shades from white to yellow. But the most beautiful to her were white as snow. Like a pure heart, I suppose. Choosing one with perfect symmetry, she took it the counter, where Shelly wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it in a small bag.

  “Lovely,” Miranda complimented. “Thanks, and I’ll be in touch about the drawing.”

  “Ace!” Shelly confirmed. “Cheers!” she added.

  Miranda left the store, knowing, now, exactly what she’d walked down Main Street to find.

  Chapter 21

  Zack Calvin took a last look around his room at the Belhaven Inn. The carved-wood furniture, the private sitting room and the small fireplace all seemed as inviting as they had when he’d arrived. Yet now they looked familiar. A lot can happen in three days in this little town.

  He thought back to last evening with Miranda—her skittishness at dinner, her responsiveness later at her home; her near-fury over the killing of whales, her gentleness when caring for the orphaned cat. She’s a nexus of contrasts … intriguing, beautiful, confusing.

  They’d parted reluctantly at her door, very late, and not a little frustrated. At least, that’s how it was for me. But maybe it’s just as well. If I’d tried to push things at this stage, she’d have put the brakes on. He had to admit he also felt a tinge of relief things hadn’t gone any further—at least for now. Miranda didn’t seem the kind of person to indulge in casual sex. And I’m not sure I’m ready for another entanglement. Still, something about her had touched him. And he knew that if their personal relationship—assuming they actually had one—was to progress, the next move would have to be his. I’ll call her soon.

  With regard to their professional agreement, they’d left it that after he’d handled the contract with her rep, Zelda, Miranda would keep him apprised of progress on his commissioned painting.

  He’d already packed and checked out of the Belhaven. Now, carrying his black Tumi bag, he walked along the path beside the planted flower boxes, passed steam rising from the outdoor hot tub, and headed for his car. After stowing his bag in the trunk, he slammed it shut and took his seat behind the wheel.

  Late-morning sunlight made it tempting to stop again at the Cove. Miranda called this lemon-colored light… I never noticed it before. He pulled out of the Belhaven’s parking lot onto Touchstone Beach Road, his mind already shifting from vacation back to work.

  It’d all start this very afternoon at the business lunch in Morro Bay with Clarke Shipping VP, Will Marks. Haven’t seen him in at least a year. Mary left me a message that we’re meeting at Dorn’s. Perfect—great seafood, and a view of the bay. Though they’d be discussing business, still the lunch would make for a gentle transition back to the “real” world.

  But the almost-fantasy world he’d touched in Milford-Haven—something that’d appeared out of the mist like Brigadoon—still lingered and he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Not quite yet.

  Crossing the highway at the light, he nosed the car up the steep incline. One more drive by Miranda’s, just for fun, he told himself. The tall pines grew up here, on these narrow uplifts, e
ach hill having its own name. According to Miranda, her was Temescal Hill—he wondered what the derivation might be. Pine needles edged the road, making its borders less distinct. Redwood and stucco homes sat tucked safely behind low fences. Hand-crafted signs bore numbers and names. Pumpkins crouched by front doors. Pots held cornstalks and sunflowers.

  The road wound down, around, past a pole house jutting out into thin air, suspended over the hill’s sharp decline. An ingenious feat of engineering. Or else a foolhardy enterprise doomed to catastrophe. Such was the California propensity to build anything, anywhere. In keeping with this trend, in Milford-Haven a sense of individuality emanated from each unique structure.

  He followed the road up a still-steeper incline and rounded to the right. It leveled here, bordering a ledge where two or three houses were perched in an uneven row. Here it is: 29 Pine Ridge. He could stop. He could ring the bell, surprise her. Interrupt her work. Say hello. Say good-bye. The car slowed. No. We said our good-byes.

  The car edged over the hill, beginning its descent. He remembered the sweetness of her fatigue-softened face. He gathered speed winding through the turns. He remembered the scent of her skin. The Mercedes pulled out onto Highway 1. He remembered their kiss at her front door.

  Five minutes later, the road stretched away from Milford-Haven like a long strand of her hair, and Zack pressed the accelerator. He remembered everything about Miranda Jones.

  Cynthia Radcliffe had spent another boring day fulfilling her Charity League duties. This month involved tutoring a derelict high school student who couldn’t care less about her studies. Cynthia was hardly qualified for such a task. This isn’t what I had in mind when I offered my services as a volunteer.

  But, by religiously reading the society pages, she’d noticed that every woman who was anyone in this town had some sort of connection with the Charity League. So, she’d put on her most conservative suit and marched into their offices—far more humble offices than what she’d expected.

  The women were all so earnest, so committed to good works. She wanted to know when the big fund-raisers with plenty of high-rollers and photo opportunities were going to start. Meanwhile, she was determined to do her best putting in her time. She wasn’t much good at listening, and Jane Eyre struck her as the dullest piece of literature she’d ever encountered. But she’d heard the girl read the boring tale for a full hour.

  Now I’m finally home! Just as well I had something to distract me. Zackery’s been gone for days. But he was supposed to come home some time today, and I feel … anxious… or maybe just eager. Yes, that’s it. I can hardly wait to start out weekend. In a few minutes maybe I’ll call Calma.

  Though he hadn’t called her back all week—and she didn’t know what to make of that—she chose to overlook the omission as unimportant and to marshal her resources for a full frontal “attack” when he got home.

  Chuckling in anticipation, Cynthia tossed her purse onto the bed and impatiently unbuttoned her jacket. This high neck has been driving me crazy. And this skirt! Far too long and shapeless.

  She dropped the skirt on her bedroom floor and stepped out of it and kicked off her Jimmy Choo pumps. Ah, that’s better. What I need is lovely bubblebath. Still wearing her underthings, she moved into the bathroom to start a tub of hot suds. Leaving it to fill, she came back into her bedroom and touched the blinking button of her answering machine.

  “Cynthia, this is Zelda McIntyre. I believe I’ve located the perfect painting for you. Give me a call. Ta-ta.”

  Excited, Cynthia grabbed the handset, dashed to the bathroom to turn off the tap, and dialed the return-call function.

  “Zelda McIntyre.” The voice that answered was authoritative, crisp.

  “Zelda, this is Cynthia Radcliffe. Thank you so much for going to all this trouble about the painting for Zackery!”

  “Yes. Well, I work with several galleries up and down the coast, and I happen to have learned that Mr. Calvin expressed an interest in this particular one.”

  “Really? And it’s a painting of what?”

  “It’s a lovely seascape. I could send you a photograph of the painting, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, wonderful, please do.”

  “The painting is under contract at one of those galleries through the end of the year, but I’ve negotiated to have it released early, so you can receive in time for your event. I’ve put a hold on it, pending receipt of your check.”

  “No problem.”

  “I did the best I could for you, Cynthia, given the occasion. But I’m afraid the artist does have her bottom line.”

  “Well, this is such a special…. The uh, the artist is a woman?” I hadn’t counted on that—bringing another woman’s energy into the mix.

  “Yes! What better way to match your own sensitivity?”

  “Oh! That’s a lovely thought. So. How much is the painting?”

  “I was already promised $3,000 by a gallery.”

  Cynthia’s heart thudded in her chest.

  Zelda continued, “But I’ve reduced it to $1,500. I’d say that’s a steal.”

  Cynthia suppressed the sense of relief, keeping it from erupting in a nervous laugh. This’ll take a little bite out of my portfolio, but now’s no time to hesitate—not with Zelda on the line. “That’s marvelous. I’ll uh … I’ll send the check right away. It should be made out to you, or to…?”

  “Make it out to Art Placements & Artist Representations.”

  “And I should send it to the address that’s in your Yellow Pages listing?”

  “Yes. And when I receive your check, I’ll have your address and I’ll send the receipt and the photograph. I hate to rush you, but for now, I must run.”

  “Oh, fine, Zelda. Thank you again for all your trouble.”

  “Ta-ta!”

  Cynthia hung up and sat on the edge of her high bed with its white, ruffled pillows and valance. Well, no new gown this season. But my investments are doing well—well enough to cover the extravagance. She removed her bra and panties, letting them drop on her way to the tub.

  The hot water bit into her skin, reddening it under the pillows of white bubbles. I’m making a big investment in you, Zackery Calvin. She closed her eyes and pushed down into the water till it crept up her neck. You’d better be worth it.

  Delmar Johnson sat at his still-new desk and opened drawers. We’ve been in here for two weeks, but I’m still resisting the new space. Where in the world did I put the paper clips?

  The one saving grace of the move was his new computer. In this one regard, he was rabidly committed to keeping abreast of the times. Were it possible, he’d update software monthly, hardware annually.

  But amid the general maelstrom of modern life, Del favored the old over the new. He would sooner un-dent the metal body of a twenty-year-old car than order a new fiberglass bumper; sooner hand-finish a fifty-year-old table than replace it with something freshly veneered.

  The same recalcitrance applied to the idea of moving: he hated the very idea. As far as he was concerned, his mother had it right: buy a modest home, treat it with tender loving care, and it would shelter you in good times and bad.

  After his mother’d passed, he’d allowed it to stand empty for a couple of months, then reluctantly sorted through her things and readied the house for sale. For now, his boyhood friend Marcus rented it. When I sell Mom’s house, I’ll probably buy myself something up here on the Central Coast. Till then, the bungalow I’m leasing in SLO is fine.

  Workspaces were different. It seemed a useless exercise to form attachments to cubicles and desks, squad rooms and precincts. But somehow when he’d wrenched himself free of Los Angeles just over a year ago, he’d looked for a touchstone, and found it in the old San Luis Obispo County Sherif building. Though its Spanish tile roofs had leaked and its plaster had been in need of repair, it’d possessed a magnificence and grace that spoke of noble ideals and the serving of a higher purpose.

  Then the County, in its wisdom, had
decided to tear it down, and the Sheriff’s department had been forced to move. Del had to admit, the new building provided more sunlight. But the architects hadn’t seen fit to incorporate any of the old California glory into the new structure.

  Sleek and practical, the new building presented a facade of concrete, wood and glass. Its interior smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. There was a sameness to all the offices, a lack of seasoning to the oak furniture, and a sense that the building was still sitting too high on its foundation, not yet settled in for the duration. If the walls could talk, they’d have no stories to tell. Not yet.

  His mind had wandered and now he brought it back to the two papers he wanted to clip together: one, a copy of the notes from his interview of Sally O’Mally about the stranger who’d come to her restaurant looking for Chris Christian; the other, the rendering the police artist had sketched based on her recollections.

  A man of medium height, of medium build, with medium brown hair, wearing medium-weight glasses. An easy man to miss. And if he happened to be any good at disguises, an impossible man to track. Except that Sally had seen him close-up. And when it came to noticing details about people, Sally O’Mally missed nothing. So now at least they had a rough idea of the man’s facial features.

  A third piece of paper was a search warrant. The satellite TV station had called to report a suspicious disappearance. Their correspondent Chris Christian had failed to appear for work, and failed to respond to their repeated calls over a period of three days. Now, she could be officially listed as a missing person.

  Del squirmed at the thought of what he’d have to do next. We’ll have to search her residence. You never know what you’ll find. At worst, we might find a corpse. At best, I’ll have to rummage and pick through the details of another person’s private world.

  He stood and ran a thumb around the inside front of his wide leather belt. It was slightly loose against his taut midriff, but the heavily starched shirt chafed even through the tee-shirt where it made contact around his waist. His skin had always been delicate. When he shaved his face, he sometimes raised welts. But he endured. There was no room for delicacy in this job.