Under the Boardwalk

by Barbara Cool Lee

  Kyle stared at the road ahead as he drove, not even acknowledging the waves from neighbors as they passed through town. He seemed lost in thought.

  ~*~

  Kyle drove without really seeing the road. All his attention was on the silent woman on the seat beside him. He had something to say for every situation, but not this time.

  He knew what he wanted to say; he'd been up the last five nights practicing the words.

  We can make this work, he wanted to say. Everything you dream of can come true if you stay, if you open up to what's right in front you. It'll be hard, but I'll be there for you, and together we can make a life... a life together.

  But whatever words he practiced in the mirror, they never sounded right.

  I'll take care of you wasn't a promise to someone like Hallie, it was a threat. In her life no man had given her anything without attaching a price tag. The man who'd claimed to love her had used love as a cloak to disguise his need for power and control. She'd paid a terrible price for giving up control, and she wasn't stupid. She'd never do it again.

  She saw him as a threat to her freedom, he'd finally realized. She thought he was just one more man who would lock her in a cage and destroy her dreams. He would never hurt her the way David Cooper had, and he knew, in spite of her fears, that Hallie must realize that. But she was still afraid—afraid to wish for something more.

  Over the last few nights he'd thought of a hundred ways to explain to her that he wouldn't take away her freedom, that he wouldn't try to control her life, that dreams really could come true, but the words all sounded hollow.

  He took the exit for Pajaro Beach.

  The problem wasn't him. It was her. He glanced at her, sitting ramrod-straight in the seat beside him. She couldn't see in the mirror what he saw when he looked at her. And until she did, all his words meant nothing.

  He looked at her: the scared little mouse, so tiny and fragile-looking, knocked around by life, and his family problems had only added to the burden of fear and doubt she carried around with her. He ached to sweep her up into his arm and make everything better, but he knew he couldn't. He wanted to shout out his love for her, but he knew with a sinking heart that it wouldn't work. She didn't doubt him, she doubted herself, and there was nothing he could say to make her believe that she was entitled to happiness.

  She had an incredible strength inside of her—she'd faced down difficulties that would have destroyed a lesser person: she'd survived a sad childhood and an abusive marriage, and she'd outwitted a madman and saved them all from tragedy. But still she doubted herself. She thought of herself as fragile and delicate, even cowardly. She seemed fragile on the surface, but he knew better. He'd known from the moment he first saw her sitting calmly in the wrecked Beetle he was a goner. Her combination of gentle artist and steely-eyed pragmatist bewitched him, haunted him night and day. And now she wanted to leave.

  He'd paced the floor for a week trying to figure out what to do, but the solution had finally come to him. She needed her dreams to make her whole—so he was going to force her to do a little dreaming, whether she thought she was ready or not. He'd plotted with Dr. Lil to plant the seed, and now he had one final chance to make her see the truth.

  Okay, it would take her some more time to find herself. But there was no reason she couldn't find herself right here in Pajaro Bay....

  ~*~

  "Wait a second," Hallie said. Where were they going? The truck passed under the supports for the roller coaster. "Hey," she said, "you missed the exit for the bus station."

  "I know," Kyle said. He turned onto the maintenance road and pulled to a stop behind the haunted house. "I told Windy and the guys I'd bring you by before you caught your bus," he said. He was out of the truck before she could protest.

  Hallie sighed. She'd already said goodbye to them at the house. Why did they have to drag this out? Kyle came around to the passenger side and opened the door. When she didn't get out, but just sat there, he cleared his throat. "Please?" he said. "They're expecting us."

  She got out. The back entrance to the building was locked, so they walked around to the front.

  Tourists stood in line for the rides, laughing and having a good time. The roller coaster roared past overhead, the clatter of the train on the track mingling with the riders' screams. Kyle walked past the crowds, not saying a word. The place smelled of popcorn and cotton candy and salt air, and Hallie swallowed hard to keep from crying.

  "Closed until further notice," the hand-lettered sign in front of the haunted house still said. Kyle lifted the rope that now closed off the entrance, and Hallie slipped under. He followed.

  They walked along the track leading into the haunted house. Inside all the lights were on. They walked past King Kong and the vampire and then to the flying saucer, its crew of little green aliens piled up next to it. Downstairs, through the open trap door, they could hear voices and the raucous music of the out-of-tune band organ.

  They followed the music and voices down into the basement.

  Windy and the boys were in a corner, giggling about something. Hallie started to make her way past the junk toward them, but Kyle took her by the arm. "Why don't you look around a bit," he said. He handed her a notebook. "We've got plenty of time before the bus leaves." He walked away. She looked down at the notebook he'd handed her. It was her sketchbook.

  She looked quizzically toward him, but he had gone across the room to talk to the kids. She opened up the sketchbook. Each page brought back a memory of a time and place from her past. She remembered the old dog, Blue, who'd calmly posed for hours on the back porch of one foster home. Misty, the fat little shetland pony who'd belonged to a friend in grade school.

  She closed the sketchbook. The boys were involved in an animated discussion across the room, and Kyle talked quietly with Windy near them. She didn't feel ready to face any of them, so she looked around her, and gasped.

  She'd been so worried about leaving, and about saying goodbye to Kyle, that she hadn't even noticed her surroundings. The room was filled with sculptures as wonderful as those she'd imagined as a little girl. She stood for a moment, trying to absorb all the faded beauty around her. Carved horses were propped up against the walls, and others lay on their sides on tarps on the floor. She was surrounded by a sea of dappled grays and pintos and snow-white prancers that would make a child giddy with delight, every horse with a golden mane and fancy trappings, no two alike. She hadn't had a chance to really look at the horses when they'd last been here, fighting for their lives.

  Before long she found herself walking from horse to horse, marveling at the individual features of each hand-carved creature. She thought Kyle watched out of the corner of his eye when she gently ran her fingers over the gilt mane of a golden palomino. It was actual gold leaf—worn away in spots from countless young riders, but the mane was of real gold, and the stallion's saddle blanket was still lavishly outlined in gilded fringe. A tiny cherub peeked over the back of the saddle, watching her inspection with a cheeky little grin on his face.

  One horse was propped up against King Kong, and she went closer to investigate.

  "Oh, no," she muttered. She was down on her knees in front of the carving. The prancing filly's near foreleg was broken off just above the knee. She flipped through her sketchbook, and stopped on a page of perspective drawings of horses' legs. She'd been trying to carve a pony that day, and had gone to the racetrack to figure out why the legs didn't look right. She must have made a hundred sketches of thoroughbreds before she'd finally understood the connection of bone and muscle and sinew that made up the leg. She looked from her sketchbook to the filly. Yes, she could picture what someone would need to do to make the little horse whole again.

  She set down her sketchbook and ran her hands over the horse. The paint was chipped in some spots, and worn away in others, but there was no mistaking the beauty of the carving. "You poor thing," she muttered. "You must have been something in your day." Gilding still glittered on
her sweeping mane, and her saddle was trimmed in golden braid. But this horse was different from any other she'd seen. Across the breastplate and down the saddle blanket were intricate carvings of flowers. How many? Twenty? Fifty? Hallie stopped counting. She stood in front of the filly and touched the roses intertwined in her forelock. The lifelike glass eyes stared out at Hallie, and touched her soul. "You deserve better than this dusty attic, Beauty," she whispered.

  "She certainly does," a voice said from behind her.

  Hallie turned around. A gray-haired man stood there. He carried a small notebook in one hand, and he stopped to write in it before continuing. "Magnificent, isn't it? The American Beauty horse is certainly one of the best examples of an M.C. Illions outside-row stander I've ever seen. And to find an entire Illions Supreme carousel out of the blue like this—well, of course, you would understand how it feels."

  "I...what do you mean?"

  "Oh, excuse me. I should have introduced myself." The man handed her a business card. Jeremiah Smythe, Associate Director, The Foundation for the Preservation of American Folk Art. "When your Mr. Madrigal called us," the man continued, "we were thunderstruck, simply thunderstruck. Of course we'd all assumed that this carousel was the one destroyed in the fire thirteen years ago. Why, they'll have to rewrite the textbooks on this one. But I guess we'll have to wait and see how the ending will be written. I have my opinions, of course, but it's up to the owners to decide what they feel is best."

  "What's best?" Hallie asked, ignoring the man's comment about her Mr. Madrigal. "What do you mean, 'what's best'?"

  "Well, I guess from your point of view it comes down to a choice between profit and sentiment. Either way, we all win, whether the set is broken up and sold at auction to collectors who'll preserve the horses as the works of art they are, or—"

  "—Or what?"

  "Or whether you get to keep your job." He laughed. "Most amusement parks nowadays decide to sell for the quick profit, of course, since keeping a full-time restoration artist on staff is too expensive a proposition, but Mr. Madrigal seems to think he can make it work."

  "I don't know what you mean," Hallie said.

  "Ah, there you are," Mr. Smythe said, turning away from her. He shook hands with Kyle.

  "I see you've met," Kyle said to Mr. Smythe. He didn't look at Hallie.

  "Yes. We were just discussing your dilemma, weren't we Ms. —I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

  "This is Hallie Reed," Kyle said.

  Mr. Smythe nodded at her. "As I've already discussed with you, Mr. Madrigal, your chances of turning a profit running an antique carousel are very slim. Most people would consider it an impractical dream."

  "Would they?" Kyle said. He and Hallie looked at each other. "We don't believe in impractical dreams around here, Mr. Smythe. We're all pragmatists."

  "Will you excuse us for a bit?" he added. "There's something I need to show Ms. Reed." Kyle took Hallie by the arm and steered her toward a child-sized chariot in the corner.

  "What did you tell that man?" Hallie asked as soon as they were out of earshot. "He seems to think I'm Pajaro Bay's resident carousel artist." Hallie stared across the top of the chariot at Kyle. He looked downright sheepish.

  "Well, I didn't exactly say that," he said.

  "What exactly did you say?"

  Kyle finally looked her in the eye. "I said that you were a talented artist who has the skills to learn how to maintain our carousel."

  "Me?" Hallie was incredulous. "How could you say that? I don't know anything about how to take care of these." The sweep of her arm took in the whole room. "We found out the hard way how much they were worth. You can't expect me to be responsible for a million dollars' worth of art."

  "Four million, Mr. Smythe tells us."

  She choked. "You think I—with these hands—can be trusted with something worth four million dollars? What were you thinking? Are you nuts?"

  He considered it. "Maybe. You'd have to work your rear end off for very low pay. But these horses are part of our family's history, like the kids say, and I think that's worth saving."

  "But what makes you think I'm qualified to do this? This is too much. I don't have the credentials...." She looked around helplessly. "There must be a hundred people better qualified...." She shook her head. "No. This is ridiculous. I have a bus to catch." She crossed her arms, hugging the sketchbook to her chest. "Are you going to drive me or do I have to walk?"

  He smiled. "I'll make you a deal."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "What kind of a deal?"

  "Ask Mr. Smythe what Marcus Charles Illions did on his days off."

  She stared at him. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  He just smiled at her. "I'll drive you to the bus after you ask him." He walked away again.

  Hallie stared after him. What was he up to?

  She walked over to Mr. Smythe, who stood in front of another of the horses. He smiled at her. "I wish I had your talent," he said. "I'm just a museum curator, not an artist." He touched the carving reverently. Hallie noticed how the muscles in the horse's neck were bunched as if he were energetically tossing his head before a race; she'd seen that look herself on two-year-olds excitedly waiting their turn at the track on a summer afternoon.

  She cleared her throat. "Um, Mr. Smythe?"

  "Yes?"

  "Kyle said I should ask you about the carousel carver—what was his name?"

  "Marcus Charles Illions."

  "Right."

  "What about him?"

  "Well, this sounds dumb, but, what did he do on his days off?"

  Mr. Smythe chuckled. "I'm sorry. I was supposed to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  "I was talking to your Mr. Madrigal earlier today, before he went to pick you up, and he reminded me to tell you about that."

  Hallie crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell me what, Mr. Smythe?"

  "This is just a story I read somewhere—I forget which reference book it was in."

  "What story?"

  "About M.C. Illions. He ran his shop with his family back in Coney Island at the turn of the century. Oh, it must have been magnificent in those days to see him and his sons turning out carousels like this one."

  "But—"

  "—What did he do on his days off?" He laughed. "I don't know why Mr. Madrigal got such a kick out of it when I told him. He laughed and laughed. Well, the story I heard was that, after carving horses day in and day out, Marcus Illions would go down to the racetracks when he wasn't working just to watch the young thoroughbreds run."

  She must have looked startled.

  "Yes, it's funny, isn't it? He apparently never grew tired of watching them. And of course you can see the effect that dedication had on his work. His horses have an energy and fire that many feel has never been equalled. Mr. Madrigal seemed to think it was a funny story. He said that it made sense, that everybody has something they were born to do." He stopped. "Did I say something wrong?"

  She shook her head. She could feel the tears on her cheeks, but couldn't seem to do anything to stop them.

  Mr. Smythe looked worried. "I'm sorry, Ms. Reed. But I don't understand. What's the matter?"

  "I'm fine," she managed to say, and turned away, trying to compose herself. She saw that Kyle was watching her.

  She made her way over to him. "I won't be manipulated, Kyle Madrigal."

  "I'm not telling you what to do," he said. "I'm showing you a possibility. It's your choice. You can do whatever you want."

  "But—"

  The twins called out to her from across the room. "Hallie! Come here!" Windy gestured to her. "Come on and talk to us!"

  She waved back. "In a minute." She shook her head. "What if I fail, Kyle?"

  He kissed her on the forehead. "What if you don't?"

  She looked up at him. "I don't even know if I can do this—I mean physically do the work."

  "I've heard there's a good physical therapy retreat up by San Francisco." />
  She narrowed her eyes at him. "So Dr. Lil's in on this, too? Did she tell you how much the program costs?"

  "You'll have to discuss employee benefits with Tom."

  "But I'm not an employee here anymore."

  "Didn't you hear? We have an opening for a full-time carousel restorer. Comes with a medical benefits package, I believe."

  Hallie realized her heart was pounding. This was impossible. It couldn't be true. "I'd have to find my own place to live in town," she stammered, realizing she was actually considering it. "I couldn't stay out at the ranch anymore."

  He nodded. "That's a good idea. You need your space." He winked. "I wouldn't want you taking advantage of me, after all."

  She sighed. "I may need a lot of space—and a lot of time to get used to this." She looked around the room. "I don't know if I can do it."

  "Look," he said. "Just think about it for a while. There's a bus out of town every day but Sunday. You can give yourself a day or two to think it over."

  The boys called her again. "I have to go talk to them," she said. "Will you wait?"

  He nodded. "I'll wait for you."

  She heard him add under his breath, "as long as it takes."

  ~*~

  Windy gave her a big hug. "Gee, I missed you, roomie."

  Hallie smiled at her. "I missed you too, kid." She turned to the boys. "So what's so exciting you had to drag me over here?"

  "You're not really leaving town, are you?" Chris asked.

  Zac poked him in the ribs. "Kyle said don't bug her. Knock it off."

  "Sorry," Chris said.

  "No problem." She shrugged her shoulders.

  "Look what we found," Zac said.

  "What is it?" It was a box with a metal arm sticking out of it.

  "A ring machine. Look," he pulled a gray metal ring off the end of the arm, and another popped up in its place.

  "Your turn, Chris," Zac said. "We should hook this thing back up again, don't you think, Hallie?"

  She nodded absently. What was she going to do? What if she got hurt again? What if she failed? What if she tried—really tried this time—and she still only got partial use of her hands?