by Davis Bunn
CHAPTER 51
On Friday, Connor hired a U-Haul and drove back down to Los Angeles. He finished loading up on Saturday, tucked his bike into the rear hold, signed Gerald’s one-year lease, accepted the man’s fumbled thanks, and joined the heavy northbound traffic with a smile on his face. On Saturday night, he slept in the Kaufmans’ former home. Twice he woke in the night and padded through the rooms, taking it all in.
On Sunday, he was joined by forty-seven of his new best friends.
What happened was this.
At dawn, he went out to the east-facing Japanese garden and discovered a rough-hewn wooden bench tucked into an alcove of miniature cedars. The bench was situated so the sunrise would reflect in the ornamental pond. Now and then, Connor caught glimmers of liquid gold flashing in the water as giant koi rose and joined in his salute to the new day.
Then he went back to bed and slept until almost noon. He woke and stretched and showered, filled with a luxurious sense of languor. Connor drove his Beemer into town and enjoyed a late brunch at the diner. When Gloria asked a couple of questions about Hollywood, several tables turned to hear his response. It all seemed to carry the idle curiosity of small-town life.
Connor left the diner, crossed the street, and stopped by the guesthouse office to thank the matron and check out. When he entered the rear parking area, he was greeted by a dozen or so people milling about the small patch of green. The lot was jammed with cars and pickups. Estelle waved and continued with her conversation as Marcela walked over and declared, “I don’t know whether to shoot you or hug you.”
“I deserve the first, but prefer the second,” Connor replied.
“Don’t we all.” Marcela shook her finger at him. “You bad boy. Why didn’t you say something?”
“You saw the shape I was in when I showed up here.” Connor saw others shifting in closer. “I needed . . .”
“A reality check?” Marcela offered.
“A chance to step away and take a good look at all the wrong moves.” He asked, because he needed to, “How is Sylvie?”
“Hanging in there. Barely.” Another finger shake. “You hurt a good woman.”
Connor dropped his gaze. Nodded to the pavement. Guilty as charged.
Marcela stepped forward and hugged him. The woman’s embrace was as intense as her smile. “That’s for everything you’re doing to make things right.”
It burned his throat, but he said it, anyway. “If only I could.”
She cocked her head, with her dark eyes glistening. “Is it true, you’re moving into the Kaufmans’ place?”
“Signed the lease Thursday, slept there last night.” Connor could not ignore the people any longer. “What’s going on here?”
“We were planning to use Estelle’s studio for sorting the auction goodies and making preparations.”
Connor observed, “You’ll never fit all those people into her studio. Much less the items.”
“I know. Our auction has grown from a minnow to a whale. But we can’t get into the town hall until tomorrow.” Marcela started ticking off her mental list. “We need to set up the program. We’ve got volunteers supplying lots of finger food, but they need a kitchen. The beverage service that supplies the restaurant is donating a ton of drinks. We’ve got almost a hundred items to be auctioned, and turned down almost as many. We need to set up—”
“You can use my place,” Connor offered.
And that was all it took. Five minutes later, he was at the head of a car train that stretched back almost half a mile. Estelle was seated beside him, and spent the journey describing her time with Sylvie in the market. When they arrived, they jammed the drive and spilled down the narrow lane. Marcela took charge with the ease of a born general, showing the newcomers the same mix of brisk authority and warm greeting that endeared so many at Castaways.
Connor drifted around for a time, lending a hand here and there, feeling overwhelmed by the number of people and the frenetic activity. An hour after their arrival, he stepped outside to take a call from his Alabama-Russian detective.
“You say check in, so I check,” Jones reported. “So far, I find hints but nothing definite.”
“But where there’s smoke,” Connor replied.
“Indeed much smoke. This Hammond fellow, he probably lights many fires. Legal, not legal, I’m thinking this doesn’t matter much to him. Only what he can get away with.”
Connor felt the renewed sense of electric tension building at gut level. “I need evidence. I need it now.”
* * *
When Connor returned inside, he found Rick and Carol and Celia and the Castaways kitchen crew had arrived and were busy supervising a new contingent of worker bees in preparing dips and whatever finger food could be left in the refrigerator overnight. Someone set up a portable grill on his back deck. Others began passing around plates of hors d’oeuvres, while the kitchen crew complained bitterly over their food being stuffed down the throats of every lazy Joe who invaded Connor’s new home.
A silent auction was basically a reason to hold a giant party, or so it seemed to Connor. Each item would have a bidding sheet attached. People were expected to mill about, eating and drinking and bidding against one another. According to Marcela, the only way to keep a silent auction even barely civil was to assign each person a secret number and to ban all guns.
By the time people started leaving around late afternoon, every flat space in Connor’s home was decked out in donated prizes and platters of the goodies that couldn’t be crammed into his oversized fridge. His front walk was lined with crates of soda and beer. As Marcela and Rick left for work, they warned him not to drink more than twenty of either. That was not a problem, since he hated both. The wine delivery was late and would now be taken straight to the town hall, along with washtubs of ice. Connor wandered through the rooms, bemused by the absence of people. The air still vibrated slightly from all the noise that had vanished.
Then he spotted Estelle weeping.
She had drawn one of the deck chairs over to the veranda’s far corner, beyond a pair of waist-high stone planters that marked his bedroom windows. Connor hesitated over whether he should disturb her. Estelle managed to give sorrow an elegant air. Something about the way she held herself left him fairly certain she knew he was there, so he asked, “Do you need something?”
To her credit, Estelle saw no reason to apologize for her tears. “I am positively overwhelmed with joy.”
Connor settled himself on the planter’s edge. He was so moved he needed a moment to try and find a response that suited, at least a little. “My life in LA was pretty much defined by solitude. Even when I was surrounded by people, I was alone.”
Estelle used both hands to clear her face. “And now?”
Connor sat and watched lights illuminate the streets of his new hometown, and thought of a painting in a restaurant he would probably never visit again. “This is the first housewarming party I’ve ever had. The fact that it’s all been done for someone else makes it even better.”
Estelle gave that a moment, then asked, “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” he replied, and meant it.
“I need to warn you up front, I’ll probably bawl my eyes out.”
Connor nodded. “I’ve had some experience at making good women cry. At least this time it’ll be because they asked.”
Another swipe of the face, then, “When Sylvie was still tiny, her father sang her to sleep almost every night with the same tune. It became the first song she ever sang to me.” Estelle took a very hard breath. “I don’t think I can even say the name.”
“Just tell me the artist,” Connor said.
Her chin quivered, but she managed, “Dean Martin.”
He knew the one she meant. The song had remained forlorn and forgotten for almost twenty years. Then Dean Martin was fooling around in the studio with the song’s author, Ken Lane. They had just one hour of recording time left, and Martin was a song short o
n his new album, Dream with Dean.
Martin had always loved this tune, and suggested they wing it. No arranging, no discussion. Lane was on the piano, with three pals who’d been hanging around the studio on guitar, bass and drums. They finished in one take. They had forty-seven minutes still on the clock, but neither felt like playing it through again.
Listeners loved it so much, Martin took the unheard-of step of recording the same song again on his next album. Only this time, he did so with full orchestration and chorus. His label, Reprise Records, was so excited by the result, they renamed the album after the song. When released as a single, it knocked the Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night off the number one position in the Billboard 100. Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime remained there for eight weeks and went on to become Dean Martin’s defining sound.
Connor rose to his feet and held out his hand. “It will be my pleasure.”
CHAPTER 52
Sylvie somehow managed to navigate her way through the busiest Sunday her restaurant had ever known. Almost every table shared the suppressed excitement of people about to burst from holding on to the news of a surprise party. And though she knew about tomorrow’s silent auction, Sylvie continued to be surprised. Dumbfounded, in fact.
To outsiders, Californians could seem a superficial, even dismissive people and culture. The reason for this was simple: California was constantly being inundated by newcomers. Its larger cities were filled with people who came from somewhere else. The vast majority still classified that “somewhere else” as home. The only way small-town California remained even partially intact was by being insular. They weren’t unfriendly. They weren’t closed. It just took time and effort to become accepted as a true member of the local community.
As a result, it was hard to put down roots in this western land, and harder still to be accepted. Nowhere was this more true than along the central coast. The locals nicknamed their region the Middle Kingdom, as in halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It was a world unto itself and beholden to neither.
Sylvie had never felt so bonded to the region or its people than that Sunday. Castaways was jammed with locals. The bar was three deep. Everyone was there, in his or her loudest casual fashion, to show that she was one of Miramar’s own.
And there on the wall was her father’s painting of Miramar Bay. Right where it belonged . . .
Because of these raucous, pushy, opinionated locals who knew all her secrets and loved her just the same.
And because of a mother who had abandoned her, and had given Sylvie every reason to never forgive or forget. But who now was here, offering support in what would otherwise be a very dark hour indeed.
And because of a man Sylvie had every reason to mistrust.
But Sylvie held it together because that was what a gracious hostess did. To all the people who entered, Sylvie warmly welcomed them to Castaways.
Where they belonged.
CHAPTER 53
On Monday morning, Connor woke just as dawn painted its first strokes upon the sea. He was drawn from slumber by the sound of his own playing. Before he had moved to Los Angeles, such early-morning dreams had been frequent occurrences. As he made his coffee and carried his mug into the parlor, Connor tried to remember the last time he had dreamed about music. Years.
He sat down at the Baldwin baby grand. The handmade instrument was considered by some to be the world’s finest for small venues and homes. The sound was warmer and smoother than some professionals cared for. Both the Bösendorfer and Steinways had a cleaner, crisper finish to the keys, but the Baldwin created a more welcoming resonance. As Connor drank his coffee, he fashioned a one-handed melody from the dream’s lingering traces. Connor set his mug on the floor by his bench and began to play.
The song that woke him was “Something,” written by George Harrison and released on the Abbey Road album. It was the only song by Harrison to ever reach number one on the Billboard charts, and Lennon claimed it was the finest song the Beatles ever created. The song was subsequently covered, or rearranged and released, by over a hundred other artists. It reached the top ten another two dozen times. Arranging this song placed Connor in the company of Elvis, Ray Charles, James Brown, Shirley Bassey, Smokey Robinson, and Joe Cocker. Over the next two hours, Connor slowly restructured the song to fit his own voice.
By the time he was satisfied and played it through from beginning to end, he had the sense of taking a giant step toward fashioning his own style. Even so, when Connor rose from the piano a little after eleven, he knew none of this day’s accomplishments had really been about the melody.
He made a sandwich and carried it out to the veranda. He stood looking out over the town and the cove and the shimmering Pacific. Connor knew this was why he had come to Miramar. It had never been about the music. It was all about regaining the ability to dream.
As he returned inside, Connor wondered if there was any chance Sylvie would attend the silent auction. If not, Connor hoped that word of this song would get back to her, and she would understand the message behind the words. That Connor was sorry. That he was trying to do as she had said, and hold on to his dreams. That he would never be leaving Miramar. No matter how far his acting career might take him, Connor had found his home.
He was rinsing out the coffeepot when his cell phone rang. “This is Connor.”
“Jones here. Remember me?”
“My Alabama Russkie. Sure thing.”
“Russkie. Please. Such offensive talk. I am proud to be Ukrainian.”
“My sincere apologies. How are tricks?”
“Tricks is an excellent word. I have information. You decide about the tricks.”
“So tell.”
As he listened to Jones’s report, Connor felt the zinging skyrocket explosion of having gotten another something very right.
CHAPTER 54
Estelle found Monday to be an almost impossibly good day.
Even the simplest of acts carried an uncommon sparkle. The air was alive with an excitement no one bothered to hide any longer. She ate breakfast at the diner’s largest table, surrounded by eleven of her new best friends. From there, they went straight to the town hall, where they found another dozen people already busy with preparations.
People treated Estelle like a glorified manager. Like she knew what she was doing. Like she belonged. Trestle tables were carted in. Red and green felt coverings were tacked into place. Prizes were sorted, bidding sheets were stapled, lists arranged, jobs appointed, bars set up. There were signs, bunting, balloons....
Suddenly, at four, it was all done, or, at least, the core workers had shooed out all the others so they could pretend to work at last-minute details and, in truth, just take a moment to revel in a party that had not yet started. She and Marcela and Rick found a quiet corner by the stage. Marcela asked, “Where’s Connor?”
“Handling something with Porter,” Rick replied.
Marcela asked, “Does it have anything to do with our party?”
Rick wiggled his hand back and forth. “Yes and no.”
“In that case,” Marcela said, “it has to wait until tomorrow.”
“No way,” Rick replied. “This has to happen right now.”
“Why is that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Marcela said to Estelle, “Does that sound like a man or what?”
But Estelle was busy studying the hall’s decoration, the tables lining the room, the prizes, the signs. “Three days ago, this was just some vague idea.”
“Nothing brings people together around here better than a party for a good cause,” Marcela said.
Rick’s phone rang. He excused himself, and then walked away. Estelle said, “If only we could get Sylvie to come.”
“Oh, she’s coming,” Marcela assured her. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Sylvie might not agree.”
“Oh, she may think she has a reason to stay away,” Marcela said, “but she’s coming anyway.”
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Estelle resisted the urge to hug the lady. “You’re saying Sylvie’s feelings about it don’t matter?”
“They matter, all right,” Marcela replied. “They just don’t matter enough.”
Rick shut his phone, walked back over, and announced, “Bingo.”
“Nice idea, wrong night,” Marcela replied. “Whose canary did you swallow?”
“Our boy has come through again,” Rick said.
Estelle asked, “You’re speaking of Connor?”
“None other.” Rick’s phone chirped. He checked the readout. “Perfect. Sol is five minutes out.”
Estelle asked, “What’s going on?”
“This is Connor’s doing,” Rick replied. “I’ll let him tell you. Right now, we need to find us a very quiet corner.”
CHAPTER 55
Rick led Sol Feinnes down the rear corridor and into the mayor’s office. Sylvie’s attorney was taken aback to find himself confronted by Connor and Porter and Estelle and Marcela. Porter greeted him by saying, “You’re late.”
“I’ve spent twenty minutes crawling along the road into town. The traffic was unbelievable. Half the population of the entire central coast must be coming to this silent auction. Am I under arrest?”
Porter demanded, “Did you break any laws getting down here?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Then you’re okay in my book.”
Sol surveyed the five faces, all of whom appeared to be holding tightly to a barely suppressed mirth. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”
Porter used a thumb to direct attention at Connor. “This guy has something to tell you.”
“The guy in question being the star whose face is on the front page of my newspaper.”
“Right.”
“You look better without the scar, by the way.”
Porter nodded agreement, and said to Connor, “Tell him.”
“I hired a sort of detective,” Connor began.
“I’m not sure ‘sort of’ is a legally recognized term.”
