by Mara Purl
Charles W. Jones dropped the day’s mail on his desk and sank into his leather chair. Still exerted from his golf game, he tilted his head back to gulp the last of the designer bottled water. When he tossed the spent container into the pewter trash basket, it rang in protest.
Miranda would be horrified I don’t recycle, he thought absently. But then, my daughter always has worried about the wrong things.
Reaching for his silver letter opener, CW methodically slit each envelope in the stack of mail, not looking at the return addresses. He paused when he found the postcard. Odd that I was just thinking of her and now, here she is. Without reading her message, he turned the card over. Hmph. The image isn’t half bad this time. At least it isn’t one of her homely birds, nor some maneating beast.
It seemed a long time, now, since his second daughter’d moved 230 miles south to one of those silly no-account coastal towns—a place without real history or architecture—far below the Bay Area not only geographically, but culturally and financially as well. His mouth twisted as he recognized that her card made the place look almost charming.
If only a fraction of her mother’s common sense had been passed along to the girl. CW sighed. Beauty and grace, poise and brilliance—both girls have the gifts. But sensibility landed on the other daughter. That Meredith—she’s going places. Of that I have no doubt.
But what of poor little Miranda? She was sweet enough when she wanted to be, but stubborn as one of the animals she painted—her refusals of sensible jobs as numerous as the drawings she used to bring home when she was in kindergarten. Even then, she used to make pictures of creatures. In the last few years, she tried for the Duck Stamp prize several times. But then, things began to click for her. And just as she begins to get some success in the Bay Area, she leaves! She’d run off with the excuse that it didn’t make sense for a nature-artist to live in the city. Her mother had begged her to reconsider. But after nine months, it was apparently a lost cause.
What would his old friend Joseph Calvin have to say about her now? Years ago they’d struck that bargain, promising their offspring would marry—Joseph’s son and Charles’s youngest. In the beginning it’d been a joke. Then they’d been half-serious. Now it would be a humiliation to imagine foisting his struggling daughter onto the likes of an accomplished young man like the junior Calvin. According to the Wall Street Journal, he was a rising star in business. No doubt the apple of his father’s eye. It’s just as well I lost touch with Joseph. Better to leave well enough alone.
CW read the printed legend on the back of the postcard.
Milford-Haven, U.S.A. by artist Miranda Jones
Artist Representations, Zelda McIntyre, Santa Barbara CA 93101
Finder’s Gallery, Milford-Haven, CA 93450
The personal message read, “Here’s my first painting of my new home town. Things are going well. I’ll invite you to visit, but not yet, as I’m still not really settled. Lots of love, Miranda.”
Well, that’s a fine how do you do. Apparently her mother and I are UN-invited. He turned the postcard over in his hand. Looking again at the image he saw blue water, tall trees and quaint buildings. For this, his daughter had given up hearth, home, position and power—everything a good family name could buy.
Miranda’s illustration showed a nice enough place to drive through, but you wouldn’t want to live there. What a waste, he thought This card’ll only upset her mother.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the card into the pewter trash basket, where it barely made a sound.
Chapter 22
Miranda Jones couldn’t seem to get any real work done. What’s my problem today? It was such a great morning. First, the workout at Burn-It-Off, and then discovering Shell Shock and finding the heart cockle. She looked again at the beautiful shell where it rested on her studio windowsill. The late afternoon’s red-gold sun rays touched its delicate ridges, so enhancing its natural colors, it seemed to glow. Looks as if it’s lit from within. I want that kind of lighting in this cheetah painting.
But all she’d managed in the studio today was to stand in front of her easel; pace the floor; groom her brushes … all the while day dreaming. Tired of staring at the unfinished piece that seemed to stare right back at her, she unclipped her painters’ overalls, let them drop to the floor, then stepped out of them. Too much going on in my head. I need a bike ride.
Hanging the overalls on their wall hook, she ran downstairs for a quick change into bike clothes, then headed out the door. After snapping her helmet into place and pulling on gloves, she grabbed her mountain bike’s handlebars and took off up the hill. Pedaling uphill is the only antidote I can think of for this dysfunctional dreaminess.
She stood in the pedals and pumped hard, lowering the gear mechanism still further. One thing I love about biking, it’s usually hard to think about anything else. Push right. Push left. She gripped the rounded handlebar ends she’d had installed recently. They allowed her to pull as she powered herself uphill. Her gloves felt good gripping the handles. Right. Left.
But not even the steep incline could quiet her thoughts. I’ve got the Sea Otters to finish, I’ve got to go by the press to see how the printing of the baby seals lithograph is coming, I have two paintings to ship off to Zelda. Now, besides Lia the cheetah, I have two new commissions, one huge, one small. She pedaled even harder, as if strokes of the wheels could remove deadlines.
Topping out on the crest of Upper Pine Ridge, she gulped air when the terrain evened, then lifted her head, her breath coming more easily. She pulled the bike to the road edge, the sight of the Pacific instantly calming her spirit. A pacifying presence … as good as its name. Even against the bright orange-gold of the afternoon sunlight, she could see the lighthouse beacon’s flash. And as the sun sinks, the darker the sky, the brighter the beam. Such a comfort.
Noticing the lighthouse suddenly took her back to riding in Zack’s car on the way to the Cove. He’d thought enough of her as an artist to commission her on the spot. She heard his voice again: “It’s your passion. You’re a natural.”
They’d been sitting on the couch last night. He’d looked right into her, acknowledging her as an artist, as a person, as a woman. Or at least that’s how it felt. But maybe he makes a practice of looking deep into women’s eyes. Maybe that’s part of his cultivated charm.
Company was nice … companionship with someone smart and curious, attractive and responsive. But solitude offered a different kind of nurturing, one she’d coveted and chosen … and had grown accustomed to pull around her like a child’s well-worn blanket.
What if I do get involved with Zack? What do I do if the strain of a relationship tears holes in that blanket of mine? She could feel herself fighting the idea, grasping at the tatters of the fabric she’d woven, which suddenly felt like the only thing she could really call her own. Her talent, her beauty—these were gifts for which she could claim no credit. But her capacity to be alone—this she had carved from her days with stony resolve.
She pushed off again and stood in the pedals, angling the bike back onto the road. It’s not like he actually said he wanted to start seeing me. Not sure whether I resent more his not asking, or his brazen intrusion into my world.
Yet, a romance—at some point and with some man—would happen to her again, wouldn’t it? Yes. But how do I know it’s the right man? Do I just trust my heart? Doesn’t wisdom play a role?
The wind fluttered her T-shirt as she accelerated downhill. And while she was on the subject, what did the man do for a living? He’d avoided telling her, adeptly changing the subject. Something to hide? Or does he dislike talking about himself? Do we have that in common?
Miranda tore her chinstrap open and grabbed the helmet from her head, tossing it into her bike basket. As she sped down the road, her hair lifted suddenly in the wind, its long tendrils floating behind her, like the thoughts she could not outrun.
Zack Calvin pulled onto Highway 1 and glanced back at Morro Bay, startle
d by how the image had changed just in the few minutes it’d taken to drive up the hill from Dorn’s Restaurant.
The sun—one diameter above the horizon and curtained by an offshore fog—now appeared as an ochre disc that bronzed the sky and water, rocks and shoreline. It left a metallic landscape where a natural one had been just moments before. Not even Miranda could paint that. It could only be captured by a sculptor working in metal.
Zack found the three-hour lunch with Will Marks both pleasant and productive—more useful than he’d expected it to be—even though it’d marked the end of Zack’s vacation and the return to work. Accelerating down the highway, he began to picture the office as he expected to find it tomorrow: stacks of messages, files and reports, all neatly arranged by Mary.
Maybe I’ll give Dad a call. He reached for his cell phone, flipped it open and pressed the auto-dial sequence. The number rang twice before his father answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Dad, it’s me.”
“Zack! Good to hear from you, son. Have a nice weekend?”
“Terrific. I can’t believe I’d never been to Milford-Haven before. It’s so close—but it’s another world.”
“So that’s where you were. Your mother and I used to go up to Milford-Haven. We even took you along once, but you were pretty young.”
“Aha. That explains … well, wish I could say I actually remember it.”
“Did you meet with Marks?”
“Yeah. I’ll give you all the details when I see you.”
“All right. And you know we’ve got some pretty important things to discuss before that meeting with the Coastal Commission next week. I think I’ve got them convinced we should be granted that extra offshore lease, but it’s going to take the both of us to work this strategy.”
“Yeah, Dad. We’ll … we’ll talk about it. I’m sure we can find a good solution.” Zack could feel the job blasting into his mood like an alarm clock waking him from a delicious dream.
“The only right thing for us is going to be to get those leases. Without them, we’re going to see a severe drop in our profit margin in the third quarter.”
“Listen, Dad, we’ll discuss all this tomorrow.”
“And that’s just the third quarter. We haven’t even worked out our final strategies for the fourth, and for that matter—”
“—Dad, Dad! I just wanted to check in and let you know … let you know it’s great up there.”
After a pause, Joseph spoke again. “What’s her name?”
Zack chuckled. “Hey, who said a she is involved?”
“Am I wrong?”
It was Zack’s turn to pause. “No … no, you’re not wrong. So. How’s Chris?”
“Don’t know!” he snapped. “She didn’t show up the other night. You know how it goes when you date a reporter, though.”
“Breaking news?”
“I guess.”
Dad’s worried … but keeping it under wraps.
“Care to have a bite when you get in?” Joseph asked.
“I don’t think so, Dad. I want to unpack and get organized for tomorrow morning. Catch you for breakfast before we go to the office?”
“Sounds good, Zack. Drive carefully.”
“Always.”
Zack pressed the “end” button and put the phone in the center console. The sun hung lower now, and Highway 1 rejoined the 101 South. All I want tonight is a quiet evening. And maybe … maybe a quick call to Milford-Haven.
Joseph Calvin replaced the phone in its cradle. Though he felt the call had ended abruptly, he’d learned long ago to let go of such petty annoyances where Zack was concerned. Their friendship—their closeness—meant more to him than that.
Milford-Haven. What memories that brings back! Joan had always loved it there—had begged him to go with her house-hunting. Something small, she’d said, something simple. Some place to escape to: far enough away to keep him out of the immediate reach of the office—and yet not so far that he’d feel he was being irresponsible. “A place to feed the soul,” she’d called it.
She’d worked with a broker over several months, meticulously searching for the perfect place. She’d been nonchalant when she found it—not wanting to overwhelm him with her own enthusiasm.
I see that now, how careful she was of my feelings. But I didn’t see it then. I was angry, belligerent. I’d built her a mansion in Santa Barbara, after all, and she acted as though it wasn’t enough for her.
She wanted more. Another house! He saw only another drain on energy and resources, a needless expense, a place they’d never use, one more thing to worry about. Perhaps she never wanted the mansion. Perhaps what she really wanted all along was a small, simple place by the sea.
Though he’d agreed to look at the place she found, he’d turned it down flat, disconcerting the realtor, shocking his wife. The drive back home to Santa Barbara that Sunday night was tense and sullen. Joan looked out the window the whole ride, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. He tried to explain, and she listened with no reply. He understood only later the depth of her disappointment. Too little, too late.
Shoving away the memory, Joseph pushed his large leather chair back from his desk and stood. James is off tonight, and Zack isn’t free for dinner. I’ll have to fix myself something. He pulled down on the edges of his cashmere sweater and headed for the main kitchen. His Kenneth Cole loafers thudded on the terra cotta tiles as he passed through the serving area.
Entering the spacious kitchen, he couldn’t help responding to its comforting decor: the gleaming Mauviel copper pots, the back splashes of blue-white-and-yellow talavera Mexican tiles. The warmth and whimsy of their hand-drawn designs offset the cool, functional elegance of the room.
On the center island he found a note in James’s familiar handwriting:
Mr. C—There’s a plate of chicken breasts marsala and fettucini alfredo in second refrigerator. Place plate in microwave and press Reheat, 120°. Also see salad on lower shelf. Dressing in small white pitcher.—J
James—ever thoughtful—had left him one of his favorite meals, fully prepared. That recipe … the chicken Marsala, another thing Joan taught Joseph how to make…. His mouth began watering at the thought. Though relieved dinner would be such a simple matter, still, he found himself mildly annoyed. Attempting to cook would’ve kept my mind occupied for at least another hour.
He pressed the prescribed buttons and sat on the nearest rattan-and-wrought-iron barstool, glancing through the carefully stacked array of daily newspapers James had arranged. Wall Street Journal on top as always. Financial Times of London. Barrons. Shipping News. Herald Tribune. Then the magazines: The Economist. U.S. News & World Report. His eye went back to the pink newspaper. Joan always called the Financial Times the “pretty” paper because of its color. I should read the Foreign News page of the FT, check the news on that oil spill…yes, here it is.
Milford Haven, Wales: The Liberian-flagged, Russian-crewed 147,000 ton oil tanker, Sea Empress grounded on the rocks in the mouth of Milford Haven. In the six days it has required to free the tanker, 73,450 tons of oil have leaked from the tanker. This is the third largest oil spill to have occurred in UK waters.
Another Milford Haven … ironic that both towns by that name should be mentioned on the same day. He wondered if the Welsh town was still as beautiful and pristine as its California counterpart—a fact that would make the spill all the more tragic. He shuddered to imagine what the consequences would be if one of his own partners’ tankers were caught on rocks … fouling the coastline, despoiling the wildlife, creating a public relations nightmare.
His bad mood worsening, he put down the unfinished paper and returned to the carefully arranged kitchen counter. Noticing the tray James had left out for him—preset with flatware, plate and glass—he waited for the microwave to beep. Then he placed the steaming food on the fine china, poured himself a short glass of Chablis, and headed for the large comfortable den adjoining the kitchen.
Joseph clicked the TV remote and watched absently as the CNN reporter held forth on matters of interest in Tel Aviv. Switching to Chris’s station, Joseph thought, If I can’t see the woman in person, I can at least see her regular feature on the box.
“Our special report is next,” announced the unseen voice. Joseph took several bites while the endless local commercials scrolled through. “So unprofessionally produced,” Chris always complained. “If they’re spending all this money on the media buy, why in blazes don’t they hire decent advertising firms?” Her pet peeve.
Joseph took a swallow of Chablis and refocused as the program resumed. There he was, Chris’s cohort, the news anchor who introduced her each Friday evening. Handsome devil, Joseph thought with a twinge of jealousy.
“Nothing animates the face,” Chris had insisted. “He’s not a real reporter—just a talking head.”
“Since Chris Christian has the night off, we’re bringing you a special report by yours truly.”
Joseph sat up straight. The night off? What the hell? Where is she? She must be seeing someone else and hasn’t the decency to tell me. Joseph put his tray aside and strode away from the TV, the anchor still blathering his report. Joseph began to pace. He should’ve known better than ever to begin dating a woman twenty years younger.
What’s the matter with you? he chided himself. You’re a fool! All that talk about deadlines and crazy schedules … she was setting you up, idiot! Trying to cushion you, knowing there’d be a fall.
Samantha Hugo paced her cramped living room, marching to and fro along the back of the sofa. The events of the day had her in thrall.
