Sunshine Cottage: A Pajaro Bay Mystery

by Lee, Barbara Cool

She sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to empty her out, like her lungs had been filled to the brim with pain and fear, shame and regret, and she had been holding it in for so long it had almost consumed her.

  "Yes," she said. "I would. I'd like to talk about it. About who I am. And where I come from."

  "And how you ended up as a literacy tutor in Pajaro Bay," he said.

  "Yes."

  He held out his hand to her. She took it, almost flinching as if expecting him to draw away from her. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "It's not a scarlet letter," he said to her.

  "You did hear."

  "Yeah. They were good words, Teresa. About letting go of what other people think and living your own life. On your own terms. Maybe you should listen to that woman. She sounds smart."

  She frowned. "But it's easier to say it to someone else than to accept it yourself."

  He reached up and stroked her hair, then kissed her on the forehead. "Then let's see if I can remember the words. I'll tell them to you."

  "What's this?!"

  An irate voice brought Teresa out of her daze.

  Jack Payson… or rather, Langston King, was shouting his outrage at a poor nurse whose only crime appeared to be offering him something to eat.

  "What's the matter?" She and Logan went over to the bed, where Detective Graham and his mother had been chatting with the old man.

  The nurse set the tray down on the side table. "It's up to you," she said firmly. "I'm not going to spoonfeed you."

  She left.

  "What's wrong?" Logan asked.

  "That." Mr. King looked with disdain at the tray on the side table.

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Looks fine to me," Teresa said. She picked it up. "Scrambled eggs, toast and butter."

  He gave the offending tray a baleful look. "Watery scrambled eggs, dry toast, and margarine?"

  He pushed the covers back and tried to get out of bed.

  His grandson held him back. "Are you trying to start bleeding again? What's wrong with you?"

  "Stubbornness, from the looks of it," Detective Graham said.

  "A terminal case," Pamela said. "Have you considered tai chi chih? It calms the mind."

  "No coffee," Teresa said, recognizing the problem. "How about I bring you a cup? Will you eat the breakfast then?"

  He stuck out his lip. "I suppose I have to." Then he smirked. "If it's good coffee."

  "Okay. Where do I get a cup of good coffee in Pajaro Bay?" she asked. "I don't think Robin Madrigal's in her office yet. She makes the best coffee I've ever had."

  "Good Morning Pajaro Bay," Mr. King said.

  "Good morning to you, too. But where can I get you a cup of coffee?"

  "That's the place. It's a food truck. Parks at the base of the wharf for a couple of hours each morning."

  "A food truck!" Teresa said. "That's where you've been getting all those amazing breakfasts?"

  "I thought you were making them up," Logan said frankly. "I thought you were putting us on with the whole best breakfast competition."

  "Best breakfast competition?" Detective Graham asked.

  "You missed it, dear," his mother said. "So how did you find this food truck, Langston?"

  "There's an app for that," he said with a smirk.

  They all laughed. "An app for food trucks?"

  "Yup. I used to use it in L.A. When I got here I opened the app and there was this new place."

  Teresa set the tray in his lap and handed him the napkin. "Eat. You need your strength."

  He glared at the tray. "Today's special was gonna be ham and eggs and country-fried potatoes."

  "And coffee," Teresa said.

  He grinned. "And coffee." He took a bite of the toast and then scrunched up his face. "I guess I broke my winning streak on best breakfasts today."

  Teresa laughed. "Not necessarily. None of us have had anything to eat."

  "Then I still win."

  "Yes. You still win. And as soon as the doctor releases you, let's have one final round of competition. We'll meet at the food truck and—"

  "—Winner take all," Mr. King said.

  Logan put his arm around Teresa's waist. "Winner take all."

  Chapter Twenty

  On a foggy morning a week later, Teresa found the food truck stationed in the big parking lot at the base of the wharf.

  GOOD MORNING, PAJARO BAY! was painted on the truck's side, along with an illustration of a crowing rooster perched on top of the lighthouse tower.

  She looked around. She was the first to arrive for their planned reunion.

  Actually, the second to arrive.

  A chalkboard listed the day's specials, and there was a notice: Now every breakfast includes musical accompaniment!

  Austin sat by some picnic benches, guitar in hand. He was still too thin, but his hair was brushed and his eyes were clear, and he was wearing a new blue-checked flannel shirt that looked plush and warm enough to insulate against the heavy fog.

  When he saw her, a big grin came over his face, then he shyly looked down at his guitar and began to play. Alastor lay at his feet, the blingy collar sparkling every time a bit of sunshine poked through the fog and caught the rhinestones.

  She went over to them.

  When the song ended, he looked up at Teresa. "Mena says you told the district attorney everything, and they're not going to charge her."

  "Yes. They all agreed it was self-defense, so she's safe now. And her brother took the plea deal, so the whole case is over and they won't force her to testify against him on the accessory charge."

  "Thanks to you." Then he smiled. "She's gonna come visit on her winter break. Did you know Logan's mother said she could stay with them?" He sounded astonished.

  She had known that feeling herself—finding it hard to believe that people might do something just to be kind. "Mrs. Rios says she never got to have a daughter, so it will be fun to have a girl visit for a while."

  "Yeah," he said. "She's a good kid. She needs to stay with a nice family and not be out on the streets."

  "You're a good kid, too, Austin," she said, and he looked down shyly.

  He started another song. This was one Teresa hadn't heard from him before, and it was upbeat, filled with hope.

  She walked over to the line for ordering breakfast. She looked back toward the cliff and saw Logan's car emerge from the fogbank and pull to a stop in the parking lot.

  She watched as Logan went around to the passenger side of the car and helped his grandfather out.

  They came over to the truck, the old man moving very slowly, leaning on a cane.

  "How's the leg?" she asked him.

  "Can't complain," he said shortly.

  Logan helped him sit down.

  "You're the expert," she said to the old man. "What do you recommend?"

  "It's all good," he said. "I've got no complaints."

  Pamela and Detective Graham arrived last and joined them in the line at the truck.

  After ordering, Logan went and put a dollar in the propped-open guitar case Austin was using to collect listener's tips.

  When the song ended, he leaned over and said something to Austin.

  Austin nodded and grinned, and then went into another song, buoyant and upbeat.

  They got their orders and then gathered at the picnic table closest to Austin.

  "Owen Nunes needs a hand on his fishing boat," he explained when Teresa asked him what he'd said to the kid. "His son Zane made the baseball team this year and can't go out with his dad anymore because he has to go to pre-season practice before school."

  "So you got Austin a job."

  "Nope," he said. "He did it all by himself. Owen comes here for breakfast, and Austin heard him saying he was shorthanded. So he actually got up the nerve to ask him for the job."

  "Wow," Teresa said, thinking of the boy who wouldn't even speak when he'd first come to the community center.

  "So what were you telling him?"

&
nbsp; "That Owen called me and told me Austin got the job. He had two references: me and Dr. Nico."

  "Dr. Nico?"

  "He's his sponsor at his sobriety meetings. Apparently Austin hasn't missed a single meeting since he got out of the clinic."

  "He's going to be all right," she said.

  "I think so."

  "I think we all are," she said, looking around the table.

  "Yup," Pamela said. "I'm heading back home to Sacramento. My dojo needs me." She smiled serenely at Teresa. "And you don't. Not anymore."

  "I'll miss you though," Teresa said.

  "What about me?" her son said.

  "I'll miss you too, Detective Graham."

  "Paul. My name is Paul."

  "I know that."

  "Our official connection's finished now, so you can call me Paul."

  She nodded. No longer any need to talk. No longer any reason to call him up for advice or just to tell him how her day went.

  He handed her a little gift bag. "Mom picked the color. She thought you'd like the rose gold."

  It was a new phone.

  "So I can reconnect with the world now?" she said.

  "Yeah. You're not hiding anymore. You can connect with the whole world now."

  The whole world. Not that little box she'd lived in up until she came to Pajaro Bay. The whole world was in front of her and she could choose her own place in it now.

  The phone had a number already programmed in it. PAUL, it said. Her lifeline.

  "But that's not the number I had for you all this time," she said to Detective Graham.

  He held up his own phone. "That's my personal number. You aren't planning on needing a cop anymore, I hope."

  "Nope. Just a friend."

  She set the phone down on the table and Logan picked it up.

  "Do you mind?" he asked.

  She shook her head, and watched as he put his own number in the contacts list.

  He handed it to Mr. King, who typed in his own number.

  Then to Pamela, who added hers. "I also put in the dojo number, since I'm usually there," she said.

  Teresa saw Austin glance their way, then down at his guitar again.

  She took the phone to him. "Would you share numbers, too?"

  He nodded silently. He handed her his battered phone, and she handed her new one to him, and they each added their number.

  Then he joined them and they all sat together around the picnic table in the fog and ate their breakfast off of paper plates, laughing and comparing the merits of the Classic American with Bacon and Biscuits to the French Omelet with Croissant to the Signature Gluten-Free Organic Oatmeal with Sea Salt and Local Honey.

  "Detective Graham?!" she said to him. "Organic oatmeal? Really?"

  He looked at his mom. "What can I say? She's a bad influence." He stole a piece of bacon off Teresa's plate.

  "That's burglary," she said in mock offense.

  "Technically, it's robbery," he said, biting into the bacon. "Need me to make restitution? I can order you more."

  She shook her head. "Are you kidding? I couldn't eat another bite."

  "What did you get?" she asked Logan, trying to identify what was in his bowl.

  "Pumpkin spice cereal with milk."

  "Seriously? You could have anything, and you had a bowl of cereal?"

  He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a dull guy."

  Dull. Normal. A Good Guy. There were worse things to be.

  The old handyman gazed at her over his coffee cup, a wise smile on his face.

  "What are you going to do now that everything's out in the open, Mr. Payson—I mean Mr. King?" she asked him.

  "Call me Jack. Or Langston. No, I'm kinda used to Jack now. That will do." He rubbed his beard and thought about it for a bit. "Well, I'm going to eat this last biscuit. And then I thought I'd go back to work at the community center—if the boss will have me."

  "The boss will be glad to have you," Logan said.

  "And I'm going to try to make up for some of the mistakes I've made," Jack said.

  "You already did that, it seems to me," Teresa said.

  "Still," he said. "You can never quite undo the damage you cause when you get too big for your britches."

  "It's better to not cause the damage in the first place," Logan said softly.

  "Yup," he said.

  "Good advice—Grandpa."

  Logan put his hand over Teresa's. "Your hands are cold," he said quietly.

  "It's the fog," she said. "Seeps into your bones."

  "Just like Twain said," Paul Graham quoted, "the coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco."

  "It's a good quote, but Mark Twain probably didn't actually say that," Teresa pointed out. "It's an aphorism. I looked it up."

  "Told you she was smart," Detective Graham said to his mother.

  Teresa noticed how big and warm Logan's hand was, how gently it cupped hers. She put her other hand in his, and they sat there, their fingers entwined, lost in thought.

  Detective Graham beamed proudly.

  Pamela looked on serenely.

  Grandfather King chuckled.

  And Logan leaned over and kissed Teresa, right in front of everyone.

  Epilogue

  Two Years Later

  * * *

  GRAND RE-OPENING, the giant banner read. Then more text below it, explaining the purpose of the event.

  The lanyards banged against the side of The Owl, the crisp ocean breeze making the sign flutter around, hiding the words each time a wind gust swept down Calle Principal.

  But Teresa knew the words by heart already. She'd been part of it all. The fundraisers, the grant applications, the village council planning sessions, the inventories and book drives and elementary school orientations—all the prep work to get them to this point.

  The village library would be open seven days a week.

  Seven days. Every day of the week people would be able to come in and use the resources the village had scrimped and saved to gather and restore and organize. Every day people would have a safe refuge where they could read, could think, and could explore the wide world through books.

  It was all set. And tonight the community would celebrate.

  She went in.

  The mayor was making a speech.

  "And now," he said after much rambling about the history of the library and the town, "it's time for the main event. Ms. Soto if you please?"

  Teresa walked up to the stage. She wore a simple navy suit, setting off the red tint to her hair that matched the color of her eyeglasses. On her feet were a pair of red stilettos much like her beloved ones from years ago. A fashionable middle ground, something she'd found in the years since she had gone from pretending to be tough and streetwise, to pretending to be meek and innocent. Now she was herself, and unapologetic about it.

  She glanced down at the spot on her hand where the three dots had once been. Mi vida loca had once marked her as doomed to die, doomed to hopelessness. Now that tattoo had been covered by another: a tiny feather. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, Emily Dickinson had written. And now she understood what that meant.

  She looked down from the podium at the guy standing at the front of the stage. He was hard to miss, being taller than most and having golden hair and startling gray eyes. He'd been part of her transformation, too. At the beginning, when her hope had been a fragile thing, he could have shattered it in an instant with judgment and rejection. But he hadn't. He'd accepted her. His willingness to be patient and let her find her way into this world on her own terms had allowed her to reach this point.

  "It is with great happiness that we, the village council of Pajaro Bay, present this key to The Owl to our new, full-time librarian. Long may she reign!"

  The old iron key was handed to her, the crowd roared, and everyone went to the front desk where the refreshments were set out.

  Mena and Austin were waltzing to Mozart. They looked cute together
as they tried to figure out the old-fashioned way of dancing.

  "He's still working on Owen's fishing boat," Logan was telling Paul Graham and his mother. "But Teri's been tutoring him for his GED."

  "I think he's going to do it," Teresa said to them. "Now that Mena has been accepted to college, he's going to want to go with her. Love can be a heck of an incentive."

  "Is that right?" Pamela said pointedly, looking from Logan to Teresa.

  "What?" Teresa said. "You act like the cat that ate the canary."

  Logan set down his glass of champagne and cleared his throat. "I thought it was important for them to be here for this."

  She noticed the music had stopped.

  Logan's parents were standing there, and his four brothers.

  And Grandfather King was next to Logan's dad. His dad was helping the old man into a chair.

  The room grew very quiet. She could hear the banner outside banging against the wall, and made a mental note to check for damage to the stucco siding in the morning. She might need to call the contractor to fix any chips.

  Logan took her hand in his. His thumb rubbed on the feather. He knew what it meant—both the poetry that had inspired it, and the mark from her past it was covering. He knew it all, and so many evenings they had stood at the cliff and watched the sunset and talked about both their lives. Where they had come from and where they wanted to go, and how their two lives could intertwine to create something beautiful and filled with purpose.

  So it wasn't a surprise. Not really.

  But still she felt the tears start when he pulled a tiny box from the pocket of his suit jacket.

  Then he began to get down on one knee, and she stopped him there, putting her hands on his broad shoulders and holding him up. "No. It'll hurt your knee. It's not necessary."

  But he took her hand again and kissed it. "I have to."

  She shook her head. "No, you don't."

  "Yes," he insisted, looking deep into her eyes with those clear, gray, honest ones of his own. "I have to. You need the whole thing. You need someone to say, 'you are worth a bit of pain. You are worth the old-fashioned gesture.'" He kissed the feather on her hand. "You are worth it."