Love, Albert

by Simmons, Lynda

  “Love you,” she added, and Reid glanced over when she hung up. “Pearl was still there. Did you notice?”

  “No, I missed it,” she said lightly, facing forward as they headed out of town. “We shouldn’t be long now.”

  The highway veered to the east, taking them inland, away from the cliffs. They rode in silence along a road dotted with farms and lined with towering redwoods; Reid watching the road while Vicky stared out the side window, wondering if her mother had spoken to Kira yet.

  “We’re here,” Reid said, and Vicky glanced up in time to see the words FOLEY PARK with an arrow pointing west. Beneath it, on the same post, a smaller sign read, SEAPORT.

  Vicky smiled at Albert in the backseat and reached into the manila envelope beside her seat. “We made it, “ she said, and even the fish looked relieved.

  Vicky pulled out the map just in case, and the card labeled, Open in Seaport. Then she felt for the silver key in her pocket, hoping they found Willy as easily.

  The road was narrow and heavily shaded, winding back through the forest toward the coast. There were no farms, no houses along the way and it was almost a shock when they burst into the open a quarter mile back from a long sweep of headland that overlooked the sea and disappeared into forest on both sides.

  There was no sign of a town, no streets or cars. Just a parking lot directly ahead with a directory to hiking trails, and a log cabin with a small porch and a low, sloping roof. Camping costs, fishing regulations, and day-pass prices were listed by the front door with a line above advising them to stop at the Visitors’ Center before going farther.

  Reid came to a stop in front of the building. “You want to hand me that map? We must have made a wrong turn.”

  He saw the flash of impatience as she opened the map. “That’s impossible. The sign clearly said Seaport.” She sat back, looking from the cabin to the bluffs. “So where is it?

  “I have a feeling we’re sitting on it.” Reid shut off the engine and opened the door. “Let’s go.”

  He went up the porch stairs to the Visitors’ Center, Vicky following close behind. A uniformed ranger looked up when they came through the door. “Welcome to Foley Park. You here for the day or are you doing some camping?”

  “We’re looking for Seaport,” Reid said, taking in the wall of brochures behind the ranger, the pictures on the wall, and an open door at the far end of the cabin.

  “You found it.” The ranger pulled a pamphlet from the shelf behind him. “The town of Seaport sat right here until 1980. All that’s left now is what you see in these two rooms.”

  Reid’s eyes moved to the pictures on the wall. Grainy black and white photographs of dour-faced men, felled trees, and wild-west storefronts.

  “Seaport was quite the boom town at one time,” the ranger continued. “Ten hotels, three saloons, and five bordellos, the true measure of a town’s success.”

  Reid rolled Albert’s map in to a tube, tapping it against his leg as he walked along the row of pictures. Searching for something newer, something of the Seaport that Albert would have known in 1962, but seeing only more of the same.

  “There’s a write-up here that will give you a brief history of the area,” the ranger was saying, “as well as a complete list of our facilities. We’re not big, but we’re proud of what we’ve done here. Camping, nature walks. There’s a great one that takes you down what used to be the loggers’ Haul Road. Of course, the hiking can be muddy this time of year, but—”

  Vicky stepped forward. “We’re really more interested in what happened to the town.”

  The ranger looked confused for a moment; then shrugged and slid the pamphlet toward her. “It pretty much died along with the logging boom. Most families were gone by the thirties, but a few hung on, hoping the town might turn itself around. In the fifties there was some talk of Seaport becoming another Mendocino, but a fire in ’68 wiped out most of what was left. Then in ’80 a fellow named Foley bought the whole thing, bulldozed it, and donated the land to the state. Hence, Foley Park. I’m not an expert on the history, but there are some books in the other room, as well as a layout of the town, some memorabilia and souvenirs, if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Reid glanced out the window. “Do you know a spot called Jackson’s Point?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe there’s anything by that name in this park.” He pulled the pamphlet back and reached for a magic marker. “But Heron Point isn’t far. Just follow the signs to the Haul Road and keep going about half a mile.” He marked an X on the guide. “As I said, the hiking is a little muddy, but if you’ve got boots …”

  “That’s fine,” Reid said absently, and turned to the door at the other end of the cabin. “You said there was a layout of the town in there?”

  The ranger looked up, confused. “Some great pictures, too. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Just a memory,” Reid said, and crossed to the door.

  The room was smaller than the first with display cabinets, dressmakers’ forms, and furniture laid out to reflect the growth and changes in Seaport. Logging saws, a spittoon, a child’s desk. A WWI soldier’s uniform, a day dress from the 1940’s and a collection of photographs, albums, and books displayed on tables and easels throughout the room. But what drew Reid was the blueprint of the town. A neat rendering of the streets of Seaport in 1905 hanging next to framed portraits of men Reid assumed were the town fathers.

  Water Street, Market Street, Junction, James and sure enough, Highland Avenue, where Willy had lived in the sixties.

  Vicky laid a hand on his arm, her eyes on the map, her touch light, unconscious. “So now we know the street existed,” she said. “Where do we go from here?”

  Reid unrolled Albert’s map. “We start by finding Jackson’s Point.”

  He smoothed the page on the glass cabinet beside him, holding it flat while he compared it to the blueprint. But where Albert’s hand drawing had seemed sufficient before, Reid saw now that the street locations were off. Market was really Thomas. Junction was in fact Caroline. And Jackson’s Point was only a vague mark on a wavering coastline—an old man’s foggy recollection of a spot he hadn’t seen in nearly fifty years.

  Reid let the map roll up again. “Let’s go outside. Have a look around.”

  “Wait a minute.” Vicky pointed to one of the portraits on the wall then opened the pamphlet the ranger had given them. “That’s James Randolf, owner of the lumber mill. It says here that his family owned most of the land in the area.” She walked closer to a framed document on the wall. “And this is an abstract of land sold or deeded in 1905.”

  She read aloud. “One hundred acres deeded from James Randolf to Michael Kerr. Another fifty from James Randolf to Charles Wolfe.” She tapped a finger on the glass. “And here, twenty acres deeded from James Randolf to Mary Jones, spinster.”

  “Now that was an interesting woman,” the ranger said as he came through the doorway. “She owned one of the bordellos, the most successful one if I remember correctly.” He strolled over to one of the cabinets and picked up a book. “The story goes that James Randolf was completely smitten with her, but she refused to marry him. Even after she had three children, she wouldn’t change her mind. He did everything to try and convince her, including sign over the land where her bordello sat. It took the earthquake in 1906 to convince her that the time was right, but even then it was on condition that they pass her maiden name along to the children.”

  “Randolf-Jones,” Vicky said, and the ranger nodded. “They were quite a force in Seaport. Very wealthy. Went on to have three more kids.” He flipped through the pages of the book, then opened it fully and passed it to Vicky. “That’s a picture of the family around 1914.”

  Reid peered over her shoulder. The portrait was small, another fading black and white. But the gazes were strong and clear, with the names of the family spelled out beneath. Ellen, Mary, Elizabeth, Jane, Arthur, and Edward. Not a Will
iam among them.

  Reid turned back to the ranger. “Where are they now?”

  “Most of them moved on, but I’m sure one of the granddaughters is still in Fort Bragg.” He pointed to a framed picture of a couple on the wall. “In fact, it was her husband who donated the land to the state.”

  While the clothes and cars in the picture were 1980, the shot had been done in black and white, in keeping with the others in the room. A couple stood on the porch of the cabin, each with a pair of scissors, about to cut the ribbon and officially open the park. The brass plaque beside the frame identified them as Mr. & Mrs. George Foley. He was older, fortyish, gray-haired and smiling.

  The woman was younger, in her thirties, tall and regal, and bearing a strong resemblance to Mary Jones.

  Reid took a step closer. “Do you know if she has a brother William?”

  “Not offhand, but some of the grandchildren are pictured here.” He flipped a few pages of the book in Vicky’s hand, stopping at two photographs, one a group of boys, the other a group of girls, all ranging in age from infants to teenagers.

  Vicky quickly listed off the boys’ names. “Gordon, Herbert, Steven, Timothy, Christopher, Michael.” She looked over at Reid and shook her head. “Nothing.”

  The ranger shrugged. “The only one even close is Willy but—”

  Vicky looked up. “Which one is Willy?”

  He pointed to the picture of the little girls. “Third from the right. That’s Wilhelmina Randolf-Jones. Of course she’s been Wilhelmina Foley for years now.”

  Reid watched Vicky’s eyes grow round. “Willy’s a woman.”

  “Lyle must have assumed he meant William.” Reid turned back to the ranger. “I have to tell you, you have just saved us a lot of work.”

  “Glad to help. But can I ask why you’re looking for her?”

  “My uncle was in Seaport in the sixties. When he passed away, he asked that we scatter his ashes here and deliver a remembrance to Willy Randolf-Jones.” He held out a hand. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Certainly.” The ranger drew a pen from his pocket and held it out to Reid. “Well, there are a lot of nice spots around here for scattering ashes.”

  “I’m sure there are.” Reid flattened Albert’s map on the top of the display case again and looked back at the blueprint.

  The ranger wandered closer while Reid made a few adjustments to Albert’s coast, his streets; hoping to relate what was there to what he found outside.

  The young man watched Reid sketch a moment, then took the book from Vicky. “Yes indeed, ashes are fine. As long as you stay five hundred yards back from the cliffs, you won’t have any problems.”

  The pen in Reid’s hand stilled. “What was that?”

  The ranger strolled over to the map. “We’d like you to stay roughly a quarter of a mile back from the cliffs. As you can see, the beach is very narrow here. At high tide, there’s hardly any at all. So that would put you back, say …” He reached out and drew an imaginary line across the map with his finger, a line that was well back from the shore. “About the distance of our Mill Creek hiking trail. It’s a real nice walk, too. A little longer than the one to Heron Point, but worth it.”

  “I’m sure it is, but we have to be out in the open.” Reid went back to the map, sketching details again.

  Vicky watched the ranger’s eyes narrow and his jaw tighten. When it was obvious Reid wasn’t going to offer him further details, she flashed him a smile and stepped forward. “You see, it’s not as simple as it sounds,” she said. “His last request was that we scatter the ashes to the wind. Make them fly. In order to do that, we have to be in the open, up high.” She made throwing movements with her hand, but the young man just shook his head, clearly not getting it. Vicky sighed and held out a hand. “The thing is, if we’re back in the forest, they’ll fall on the ground, people will walk on them. He won’t fly.”

  The ranger gave her a patient smile. “I understand your situation ma’am, but we have rules. Now if you want, there are companies out there who will take you up in a plane so you can drop the ashes over the water. You can watch them fly clear up to Medford if you like. They’ll even give you a video to take home, and you’ll be well outside the quarter-mile zone.”

  “We don’t need a video or a plane.” Reid folded Albert’s map and held the ranger’s pen out to him, his expression neutral, his tone mild. “We just need to find Jackson’s Point.”

  The ranger took the pen, stabbed it into his pocket. “There is no Jackson’s Point here,” he said evenly. “And even if there were, it wouldn’t make any difference.” He held the book up. “Our goal at Foley Park is to limit visitor impact and maintain proper wilderness management. That is why we restrict camping to designated areas, monitor trail use, and ask you to go through the mud, not around it.” His shoulders squared and he seemed to grow taller. “As far as ashes are concerned, the law is clear. And with the backing of the EPA and the NFA, LNT, and LAC, we will enforce it. Are we clear on this?”

  “Perfectly.” Reid pointed to the book in the ranger’s hand. “Is that for sale?”

  “Ten dollars,” the ranger said, but his jaw was starting to tighten again, and Vicky asked the question she knew Reid never would.

  “What happens if we do it anyway?”

  “I’ll have you arrested.”

  Only by conscious effort did she keep her mouth from falling open. “Arrested?”

  “And fined,” he added. “Last time I checked it was five thousand dollars for a first offense.”

  “I had no idea.” She glanced over at Reid. “This changes everything.”

  “I guess it does,” he said casually, and slid the book from the ranger’s hand. “We’ll take this.”

  “Wise choice.” The ranger led them out to the main room, rang up the sale and took the money from Reid. “You folks have a nice day,” he said with a chilly smile. “And if you change your mind about camping, come on back. There’s a ranger here to serve you, twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Reid saluted him with the book and looked over at Vicky. “Ready to go?”

  She followed him down the stairs, across the parking lot to the mini. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’m telling you now, I will not go to jail on an ash-scattering charge.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” He opened the door and tossed the book on top of Albert. “Did you want to stay longer or are you getting in?”

  Vicky folded her arms, planted her feet. “You’re going to do it alone, aren’t you.”

  He fished the keys from his pocket. “Did I say that?”

  He didn’t have to say anything. She knew that look. It was the same one she’d seen in the hotel and on the ferris wheel. And she could already picture a ranger swat team, EPA helicopters, a disembodied voice over a megaphone. “Drop the ashes. You’re under arrest.”

  She shook her head. “There are hundreds of miles of coast out there, Reid. I cannot see Albert objecting if we send him off somewhere else.”

  “You’re probably right. I don’t hear him complaining anyway.” He leaned a hand on the car and looked over at the cliffs. “Just seems a shame when I’m sure Jackson’s Point is just over that way, before the slope down to the creek.”

  “You found it?” She turned, tying to follow his gaze across the headlands. “Where?”

  He moved around the car to stand behind her. “That way,” he said, taking hold of her shoulders, turning her slightly. His voice was soft beside her ear. “See that break in the trees? That’s the creek in Albert’s drawing. Jackson’s Point has to be just before that break.”

  “I can’t see any break,” she said, and he raised a hand, directing her gaze and pulling her in closer, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Through there,” he said and she turned her head, seeing nothing beyond a blur of green and blue. Aware only of the strength of his hand, the warmth of his cheek, and his mouth so close to hers.

  “Now can you
see it?” he asked, and she nodded and swallowed, knowing that all she’d have to do was turn her head a little more, and their lips would touch. Another time, another place, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Would have simply turned, seeking him out while the draw was strong and the need building slowly, steadily.

  He drew his hand down her arm to her wrist, his fingertips skimming the side of her breast. That brief touch enough to make her nipples tighten and tingle, sending out a ripple of heat that caught and pooled low in her belly.

  “We could take a walk,” he whispered, bringing his other hand back to cup her face, turning her to meet him. “Bring Albert with us. See what we find.”

  His words were soft, washing over her as he kissed her there in the parking lot, with Albert and the fish looking on, and the image of a spot that might not exist growing clearer in her mind.

  The cabin door swung open, the ranger stepped onto the porch. Vicky pulled away, but Reid’s eyes were still on her mouth, just as hungry and frustrated as she was. She kept her hands at her sides, afraid they might reach out, from habit, from need, and draw him back.

  The ranger walked to the railing. Lit a cigarette, and watched them. Vicky only wished he’d come out sooner.

  She backed away from Reid. “I’m not taking Albert out there. And if you’re smart, you won’t either.”

  He pushed his hair back from his face, glanced over at the cliffs. “You’re probably right,” he said and walked back around the car. “I think the fish is hungry.”

  “Then feed it.” She yanked open the door, dropped her purse on the floor, but still wouldn’t get in the car. “What are you planning to do?”

  He looked back at the cabin, waved to the ranger. “Feed the fish and find Willy. After that.” He met her gaze across the top of the mini. “Who knows?”

  ELEVEN

  Vicky checked the address then looked back at the sprawling Victorian mansion on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. “That’s it,” she said, as Reid pulled the mini into a spot next to the curb.

  George and Wilhelmina Foley hadn’t been hard to find. They were listed in the local Foley directory in fact. When Vicky asked the woman at the donut shop if she knew the street, the clerk had smiled and grabbed a pen. “Honey, everybody knows where that street is.”