The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  "Your dad never lets up, does he?"

  Joel laughed.

  "I'd think less of him if he did. What about you? Do you have any glorious plans before the Farm gets its hooks into you?"

  "My parents want to take me to France in August. It's my graduation present. I'll probably go. OK. Duh! Of course, I'll go." Jana laughed. "Who turns up Paris, right? But I'm mostly looking forward to a quiet summer at the lake – and more time with you."

  Joel offered a slight smile. She was not making this easy.

  Jana extended a hand across the table in their booth and touched his wrist.

  "I've missed that."

  "What?"

  "Your smile. I haven't seen it for a while. I thought you left it in Wyoming."

  "It's that obvious, huh?"

  "Joel, you haven't smiled in weeks. You haven't been the same since you got back, and you've been particularly quiet lately. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

  Do you want all six months or Adam's condensed version?

  "I've just been stressed about finals and the interview."

  Joel kicked himself. His pathetic explanation was technically true, but it was about as complete as the face of the Great Sphinx. Would he fib his way through the twenty-first century too? Fortunately, Jana did not care.

  "Well, maybe we can do something about that."

  Joel topped off his glass and looked at Jana's earnest face. He could see wheels spinning behind her playful eyes and knew she had brought her own agenda to the pub.

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "I was thinking of a nice, long hike in the Olympics. Rachel and Adam are going backpacking this weekend at Sol Duc and want us to come along. It will just be for three days, but I think it would do you some good. It would do us some good."

  Joel considered the message and the messenger. She had correctly sensed the drift in their relationship and wanted to right the ship. But he had asked her to the pub to increase the distance between them, not lessen it. As much as he wanted to go hiking and maintain some kind of continuity, he wanted to be fair to her.

  Even so, he did not want to needlessly burn any bridges. Joel laughed to himself. Just the thought of that metaphor took him to a sunny meadow on Mount Rainier and a rainy doorstep only seventeen days and a stone's throw away.

  Joel looked at his smart, lovely, considerate girlfriend and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. What kind of man dumped Miss Mercer Island? The problem, he concluded, was not Jana Lamoreaux or stress or unreasonable requests or an aversion to hiking in national parks. The problem was poor timing. He had not gotten over Grace.

  Joel also had other plans for the weekend. Even before learning he would not get the oil company position, he had decided to take one last journey to purge his mind of unhelpful memories of a time and place to which he could never return. Unlike decisions about his future with Jana, that was a matter that could not wait.

  "It sounds like fun and, like you said, it's probably exactly what I need. I could use a nature fix. But I think I'll take a rain check this time."

  Jana slumped into the cushioned bench and pushed her half-empty glass to the side as an infectious smile gave way to an uncommon frown. She looked away for a moment and then turned to the man who had called this meeting.

  "We're not going to make it, are we?"

  Joel hated himself for putting her through this. He hated seeing the moisture in the corners of her eyes. He seriously wondered if anyone kept track of world records for broken hearts by assholes in the span of three weeks. If so, he planned to nominate himself. Jana deserved better and would no doubt find it in Palo Alto.

  "I don't know. Believe me when I say that. I just know that I have a lot of thinking to do and need some time alone. I'm still looking for answers."

  "OK."

  Jana smiled sadly and put both of her hands on his.

  "I hope you find them."

  CHAPTER 68

  Portland and Seaside, Oregon – Saturday, June 17, 2000

  The journey started with a last-second detour. Joel had not planned to visit Katie Kobayashi Saito on his way to the coast. He had not planned to visit her on his way back. He instead had planned to clear his mind of complications and clutter and then write a letter easing his way in. Time travelers did not surprise eighty-year-old women by suddenly showing up on their doorstep.

  But as he caught U.S. Highway 26 and slogged through traffic on the west end of Portland, he succumbed to temptation. Why come all this way, he thought, just to put off the inevitable for another day? When he approached the exit at Cornelius Pass Road, he threw caution to the wind and turned north.

  A few minutes later Joel drove his RAV4 up a crooked access road to a small collection of pricey properties overlooking the lush Tualatin Valley. He checked a few mailbox numbers and finally pulled into the brick U-shaped driveway of a Tudor estate.

  Japanese maple, black pine, azalea, and interconnected stone fountains and ponds in the spacious front yard gave the place an unmistakable tea garden feel, as did ruler-straight rows of weeping cherry trees on two sides of the property. Joel checked the mailbox again to confirm that he had not entered one of Portland's botanical parks.

  Katie Kobayashi, your ship has come in.

  Joel walked past a Mercedes in the driveway to a short wrought-iron fence, opened the gate, and proceeded up a stone path to a tiered brick porch and an imposing oak door. A mat under his feet read: "Welcome to the Saitos."

  He rapped on the door, but no one came. No one answered his second knock either – or a doorbell that sounded more like a wind chime than a ding-dong. Joel peered through a large window, saw nothing of interest, and proceeded to the side of the house, where he peeked over a six-foot cedar fence and scanned an empty lawn. Still convinced that someone was home, he moved to unlatch a gate and give the premises a more thorough inspection. But when he heard a menacing growl, he stopped and withdrew. Even the most enlightening meeting with Katie was not worth an unpleasant encounter with a Rottweiler.

  "They're not home."

  Joel turned and saw a thirtyish woman wearing pink sweats and a ponytail stride up the driveway. She had the friendly but guarded demeanor of a soccer mom. He returned to the path and met her at the gate.

  "They're not home and they won't be back until Monday," she said. "I'm their neighbor. The Saitos asked me to watch their place this weekend. Can I help you?"

  "I'm here to see Mrs. Saito. She was a good friend of my grandmother's. I have some personal matters I need to discuss with her."

  The woman put an index finger to her chin and stared at Joel, as if trying to decide whether young men who looked like underwear models were the kind who cased houses. She smiled and extended a hand.

  "I'm Jennifer Swingley."

  "Joel Smith."

  "Do you know the Saitos?"

  "I met Mrs. Saito a long time ago, but I've never met her husband. Like I said, she knew my grandmother. She died in 1995. Have the Saitos lived here long?"

  "I think so. I've been here only three years, but I know that their house is the oldest on this street. I don't think anyone else has lived in it."

  "You say they'll be back on Monday?"

  "Katherine said noon at the latest."

  Joel pondered his options. He had planned to be back in Seattle on Sunday but decided he might have to delay his return by a day.

  "Would it be all right if I left a note with you?"

  "Sure. Do you need a pen and paper?"

  "No. I have both in my car. Hold on a moment."

  Joel returned shortly with a note bearing his name, address, and two phone numbers. He handed it to the woman, who quickly examined the contents.

  "You live in Seattle, huh?"

  "That's right."

  "Are you sure Katherine will remember you?"

  "She'll remember me," Joel said. "You can be sure of that."

  * * * * *

  Ninety minutes later Joel checked into a
downtown Seaside motel and unloaded a small suitcase, a laptop computer, and a toiletry bag in a room he had reserved on Monday. The joint fell four stars shy of optimal. The carpet was stained, the curtains were torn, and the toilet ran slightly better than the bulky, dust-covered television. The only gym he could see was the one attached to a grade school across the street. But that was OK. Joel had come to exorcise ghosts, not exercise his body.

  The town had added just three thousand residents since his last visit, in 1941, but looked much different. Many of the hotels and establishments he remembered had been torn down, remodeled, or reused for other purposes. Only the aquarium and a few businesses on Broadway had remained largely unchanged.

  After grabbing a quick lunch at a seafood grill two blocks from the beach, he took a cab to Tillamook Head and a house that still stood in his memory, if nowhere else. The lot near the towering bluff now sported a condominium complex and a craft shop, not the magnificent vacation home that had remained in Gillette family hands through the 1960s. But Joel could feel the vibes. He had been here before and did not need a deed or a key or a photograph to prove it.

  Joel felt foolish snooping around the premises. No matter how hard he looked, he would not find Ginny tossing a salad in a kitchen or Tom barbecuing steaks on a deck in back. But he continued to check the place out, until a groundskeeper gave him a curious look and started pressing buttons on a cell phone.

  Rather than wait to be told to leave, Joel wandered to a path near the parking lot and followed it down two flights of cedar steps to the sand and the surf. He did not need permission to walk on this sacred ground. Thanks to a tenacious and enlightened governor named Tom McCall, Oregon's beaches belonged to the public.

  The temperature was a bit cooler than the last time he had explored this shore, prompting a long-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans. But Joel was more than comfortable. When he hit the sand, he kicked off his flip-flops, threw them in his pack, and walked barefoot the rest of the way to the south end of the Promenade. Once on the concrete boardwalk, he began a slow trek toward town and let the serious reminiscing begin.

  There was a lot to think about. This was, after all, the place where Joel and Grace had gone from silly to serious and from friends to something much more. It was the place where he rediscovered someone he thought he knew and where their friends made a commitment that would change how all of them looked at a perilous world.

  As Joel drew closer to the center of town, he thought of his long Promenade walks with Grace and the things they talked about. He thought of her disappointment with Ginny, her enthusiasm for the carnival rides, and the poignant descriptions of her parents. Most of all, he thought about how incredibly stupid he had been to throw it all away and not take her to a future where they both belonged.

  When he reached the Turnaround, he dodged two inline skaters and walked out of traffic to the edge of the Prom. He could almost see Grace sitting on the railing telling him why her mother would have loved him and why her father might have liked him. But almost was not close enough. He could not touch the face of a daydream. When he leaned on the barrier and looked out at the sea, he saw the sea and only the sea – that vast, timeless, perfect symbol of constancy and emptiness.

  Moments later he looked at the moving sky and noticed change. The sun had emerged from a large bank of clouds, bringing welcome warmth to those in swimsuits, T-shirts, and shorts. Finding some stairs, Joel accessed the beach and once again put his bare feet to soft sand. He began another walk. Only this time he headed west, not north, and moved at a slower pace.

  Ten minutes and two hundred yards later Joel reached the waves at ebb tide and the end of his journey. He had hoped the water would be like this, counted on it even. There was nothing like this kind of surf to bring about the finality he needed. Rolling up his jeans, he slowly waded into the Pacific. The foot-high water was cold, colder even than in Puget Sound, but tolerable. Then again, he had not come to swim.

  Turning northward, he followed the water's edge to a spot where a beach-ball-sized rock emerged from the sand. He stopped in front of the rock and let the salt water invigorate his feet before pulling a snapshot from his back pocket.

  Slightly torn on one edge and badly faded, the photograph represented everything he had gained and lost in a year that still defied explanation. It was the sole surviving evidence that Joel had ever known and loved a daughter of missionaries; a girl who rode elephants in Africa, splashed mud in the Yangtze, and threw snowballs in July; a woman who loved movies, books, bumper cars, and jazz; a kind, brave, principled soul who had overcome the worst kind of adversity to inspire others and make an indelible impression on a frequently thoughtless, cavalier, and superficial young man.

  Joel placed the photo in the water and let the surf do the rest. The picture bobbed, twisted, and curled before finally sinking from sight. He gave the image one last thought before turning his back on the ocean and starting for town. He had made his peace with God and the girl. It was time to move on.

  CHAPTER 69

  Joel wanted to go home. After symbolically burying six months that would never be recorded in the Smith family history, he did not want to hang around a town that reminded him of that time. He did not want to see the amusements or the restaurants or even the beach. He just wanted to climb into his Toyota, race back to Seattle, and resume his wonderful life as a mixed-up, unemployed, and hopelessly broken-hearted college graduate. But he had already paid for his motel room and figured that that was reason enough not to run from his problems, so he stayed.

  When he returned to the motel at three, he asked the clerk for a recommendation for dinner. The rough-looking woman named Bette gave him three – four if you count the biker bar on the edge of Seaside that served "killer bacon burgers" but could get "a little raucous at times." Joel figured the bar was his kind of place and wrote down its address before heading off to his room.

  He watched television for more than an hour, flipping between the third round of the U.S. Open, the Mariners-Twins game, and Sci-Trek: Dinosaur Attack! When he became bored with all three, he walked to his second-floor window and glanced at the streets below. No matter where he looked, he saw people – people eating, shopping, driving, walking to the beach, even sitting on a bench playing chess. Most probably did not know each other. Most probably did not care. But all no doubt had one thing in common: They were having more fun than Joel Smith.

  When Joel saw a young couple walk by holding hands and laughing, he threw the TV remote across the room and said the hell with it. He was going to pack his bags right then and drive home as fast as reasonably inattentive state patrolmen would allow.

  He was going to call Jana, apologize profusely, take her out on the town, and make crazy love to her – and then plan the next day. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He looked at the digital alarm clock, saw four thirty, and started grabbing toiletries and clothes. With any luck he would be back in Seattle by nine. Then he glanced at the room phone and saw a blinking light.

  * * * * *

  A few minutes later Joel examined a scrap of paper in the motel office. It bore a message that was as clear as it was mysterious: "Be at the Turnaround at five." There was no name, no return phone number, and no clue as to who might be stalking him on his weekend getaway.

  Bette wasn't much help either. After apologizing for not informing him of the message when he had returned from the beach, she told him that another clerk had taken the information and was presently unavailable. Joel did not know whether the caller was male or female, young or old, or even sincere. For all he knew, Adam was paying him back for skipping the hiking trip. But it did not matter. He had an appointment to keep. He slipped the note into his wallet, walked to where Broadway met the sea, and waited.

  For twenty minutes Joel watched hundreds of people come and go down the Prom. The walkway was unusually busy, even for a late Saturday afternoon, which made his guessing game all the more difficult. He had no idea who he was looking for, o
r what, so he just leaned against the railing and continued his vigil.

  Then, at ten after five, he looked north along the boardwalk and saw a woman move slowly along the barrier. He could not recognize the figure at first, but there was no doubt she was headed his way. When she drew near, he looked at her and smiled. It had been a long time since he had seen her still beautiful face but not so long that he had forgotten its distinctive features. Joel pushed himself away from the railing and addressed his stalker.

  "Hello, Katie."

  "I want more than that, young man."

  Joel grinned, stepped forward, and offered a warm embrace.

  Katie appeared smaller than the perky coed from the past. She had a slight hunch and walked with a cane. But she seemed otherwise fit and mentally sharp. It was clear from her greeting that her wit had not dulled since the Roosevelt Administration.

  "You've grown. But you are just as handsome as the last time I saw you."

  "You mean at the Mad Dog in forty-one?"

  "No. I mean at your grandmother's funeral. I gave you a hug in the receiving line. But I was just another of Ginny's many friends that day."

  "I wish I could tell you I remember that, but I can't."

  "That's all right. You had more important things on your mind."

  Joel stepped back and took another look at his long-lost friend.

  "How on earth did you know I was here?"

  "I called your mother. I told her I wanted to send you a graduation present and needed an address. During our conversation she said you were planning to drive to Seaside this weekend. When I asked if I could give you the gift in person, she gave me the name of your motel."

  Joel laughed.

  "That's my mom, the protector of my privacy."

  "I also got a call from my neighbor. It seems you visited my house this morning."