Derrolyn Anderson - [Marinas Tales #1] - Between The Land And The Sea

by Derrolyn Anderson

  “Let’s get moving,” Cruz muttered under his breath, his body tense, “Just don’t look at them.”

  They had taken notice of us and were openly staring and talking excitedly as we neared. I heard the muttered words “Rolls Royce” and knew that at least one of the surfer girls I’d seen today was in their number. I looked up directly into faces both curious and guarded. The boys were posing with their chests thrust out, trying to seem tough. The girls looked openly hostile. I followed Cruz’s lead and started to walk faster, giving the group a wide berth.

  “Hey Cruzie boy,” a girl’s voice called called out as we passed by, “Who’s the new hag?” I spun around, uncharacteristically confrontational. Startled, most of them looked away or down. One tall blonde met my gaze with hard eyes and a defiant jut of her chin.

  “Let’s just go Marina,” pleaded Cruz.

  I held my tongue and turned away. We continued down the street in silence until we were on our own little lane.

  “Sorry about that,” Cruz sighed. “Those guys are total jerks.”

  “Were those the stoners or the surfers?” I asked.

  “Those were the stoned surfers,” Cruz replied. We burst into laughter and joked about them the rest of the way home.

  I fell into bed that night, drained from the events of the day. I could hear the surf pounding away on the beach like a distant war being waged between the land and the sea, and I had the strangest feeling that my life would never be the same. My father and I were no longer a pair of intrepid adventurers, charging out to save the world side by side. Destiny was taking us on separate paths, and it felt frightening and liberating at the same time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EYES

  I opened my eyes and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. I had the sensation of floating in a warm sea, buoyant and weightless. A scratching sound brought me fully awake and I looked up to see Charlie sitting by the door, staring at me with golden eyes.

  “You want out buddy?” I swung my feet onto the cool bare floor. Charlie had demanded to be let in late last night and refused to leave my room; I finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, listening to his rumbling purr drown out the sound of the surf. I cracked the door open and smiled, watching the orange fur-ball slither out.

  I felt rested, and was eager to explore my new neighborhood. A little shiver of happiness ran down my spine for no particular reason. I quickly dressed for the cool gray day I saw dawning outside and made for the kitchen. A note left on the table explained that Abby had left early to drive Cruz to work and run a few errands. There was a set of house keys for me and instructions to make myself at home. I opened the pantry doors and found a shelf stocked full of assorted breakfast cereals. I chuckled to myself when I remembered poor Cruz and his dietary woes.

  The kitchen opened up to a small living room with a picture window facing out on a riot of flowers in the front garden. There was a comfortable looking denim couch and a small television set perched on a stack of old leather suitcases. A couple of rolled up yoga mats were leaning in the corner, along with several brightly colored bean bag chairs. A rag rug scattered with cat toys softened the hardwood floor. One whole wall was devoted to a brick and board bookshelf, sagging with the weight of hundreds of books. The room had the kind of homey, lived-in feeling that my San Francisco apartment lacked.

  I took my new keys, packed a tote bag with some art supplies and set out for a walk on the beach. This time I found the stairway easily and made my way down quickly. As I descended, I scanned the empty stretch of sand.

  “Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh no...”

  I looked around for the source of the distressed voice. A very small, extremely old woman seemed to be having a panic attack at the bottom of the stairs. She was pacing back and forth at the base of the bluff, looking up into some large clumps of pampas grass that clung precariously to the cliff-side.

  “Are you alright?” I asked her as I neared the sand, “Can I help?” She looked up at me with panicked eyes, “I can’t find my Freddy...”

  “Freddy?” I asked, thinking she must have lost a dog, “What does he look like?”

  “Oh dear...” she drifted off. She was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes that looked like they might have been selected randomly in the dark. Yellow rubber rain boots were topped off with what looked like a square-dancing skirt and a thick knobby sweater. She wore an odd crocheted hat that had panels of what looked like aluminum cans knitted into it. I would have taken her for a homeless person if she were anywhere near a shopping cart.

  A little tabby cat poked his head out from under the landing midway up the stairs.

  “Is that him?” I asked, pointing up at the cat. Her wide relieved smile told me it was.

  “Oh, thank you sweetie,” she said as she extended her hand, “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” When I shook her hand she leaned closer to peer at me, “I’m Stella... I take care of the little wild ones.”

  “I’m Marina,” I replied, and looked up to see Freddy slink out and pick his way towards us tentatively. His ears were tattered and his ratty tail was bent at an unnatural angle. Movement in the grass caught my eye and I spotted a couple more small thin cats watching us intently as they inched closer.

  Stella pulled out a bag of cat food and poured out several piles onto the grass, motioning for me to back up with her. The fearful little cats edged over to the food, keeping their eyes on us and gulping it down as fast as they could.

  She looked up at me again, “I know you... Where have you been?”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” I said gently, “I just moved here yesterday.” Stella’s eyes clouded over as slipped away into a distant memory, “We used to dance on the ship... the music– oh, the music was so wonderful,” she looked out towards the decrepit cement boat.

  “On that ship?” I asked skeptically.

  “Oh, yesiree my dear!” she said emphatically.

  The fog behind her eyes seemed to lift as she described how the S.S. Palo Alto was towed to Aptos to become an amusement destination during prohibition. It had a dance pavilion where big bands used to play, and the pier leading up to it once housed restaurants and arcade games. There was even a heated swimming pool on one of the lower decks. Looking at the battered carcass of the old tanker it was hard to imagine, but I couldn’t doubt her as she spoke nostalgically of the glorious times she had enjoyed.

  “It only lasted a couple of years before they went bust. Us young girls used to sneak in...

  We’d dance and dance with all the swells that came down from the city.” She heaved a sigh, “It was the cat’s pajamas.”

  Remembering the scruffy little cats, I turned to see that they had melted back into the brush.

  “It was nice meeting you Stella,” I said, shaking her hand again before walking towards the beach.

  “Goodbye Dollface,” she called after me, “Don’t be a stranger.” I slipped off my shoes, savoring the feeling of cool sand between my toes as I picked my way through a jumble of driftwood down to the water line. The tide seemed to be going out and I dodged the surf, darting in and out to pick up blue and green beach glass. I liked the quiet and solitude of the early morning beach. The dense fog blurred everything at a distance, and I had the sensation I was walking along in a bubble created by my own little field of vision.

  Climbing up the stairs onto the pier, I walked along the wooden planks, looking down into the turbulent ocean a good twenty feet below. Dark murky waters under the wharf churned like witches brew in a cauldron, opaque and sinister looking. As I got further down the pier, a small figure looming along the railing came into focus. I drew closer to see an ancient looking Asian man fishing off the side.

  We both nodded hello and I peeked over into the plastic bucket at his side. I was surprised that it was full of fish, and I glanced up to see the old man smiling at me.

  I returned his smile, “Good fishing today,” I commented.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling
wider, “You have water in your eyes.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I said, not sure if his observation was meant to be a compliment.

  My eyes are probably my best feature, colored somewhere between blue, green and gray depending on the light. At least that’s what strangers always compliment me on, and that’s what Dad calls “empirical evidence”.

  I wished the fisherman continued luck and advanced further down the pier, glancing back to see the fog swallow up the funny little man.

  Arriving at the cement ship, I ventured down a small set of stairs leading to the deserted deck. The top of the ship had been coated with a layer of asphalt to level the walkways, and there were several holes covered with metal grates. Looking down through the bars into the guts of the ship you could see black water swirling around jagged openings with surf pouring in and out.

  I continued on until I was stopped by a chain-link fence blocking off the very front of the ship. A sign explained that a violent storm had wrenched it apart several years earlier. I peered down through the wire and saw twisted metal bars sticking out of jumbled concrete blocks.

  Waves washed over the broken hull, splashing foamy brine on the barnacles and mussels that clung to every available surface. Beyond the wreckage the intact prow of the ship sat at a crooked angle.

  What initially looked like wet black asphalt caught my eye. It was moving, writhing like fish caught in a net. Closer inspection revealed a family of sea lions hauled up onto a flat slab of cement. A new member joined them, awkwardly flinging itself out of the water and competing for a foothold while the rest barked discontentedly and wriggled aside. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I sat down on the bench that faced out towards the wreck and pulled open my bag.

  Fishing out my sketchpad, I balanced it on my lap and surveyed the scene.

  Several of the sea lions craned their necks to study me. Concluding that I was no threat, they went back to their naps, occasionally jockeying for position amid flurries of grunts and barks. I started to draw the little group.

  As I sketched my scalp prickled with the eerie sensation of being watched. I turned to look, but no one else had joined me on the ship’s deck. Shrugging it off, I gripped my pencil and went back to drawing. With a start I glanced down into a woman’s face intently peering up at me from behind the jagged ruins. I gasped as our eyes locked and shock waves ran through my body.

  She had large wide set eyes and full lips that were as pale and ghostly white as her face. I had the strangest sensation of looking into a frosted mirror. Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head to one side as if to study me. I sprang to my feet and with a splash she was gone. I ran from one side of the ship to the other but could see no swimmer in the water. Confused, I gathered up my things. After one final search of the water I headed back towards the pier.

  As I made my way up the steps my mind was racing. What was that girl doing in the water?

  Where did she disappear to? And strangest of all, why did she look so familiar? As I passed the lone fisherman our eyes met and he smiled knowingly at me. Taken aback, I hurried off the pier and down to the beach, scanning the horizon for any sign of a swimmer or boat.

  When I reached the top of the secret stairs the fog was swirling around, dissipating into a thin veil of silvery mist. The sun finally broke through, and brightest blue took over the sky.

  Now the thought of the strange girl at the ship seemed much less disturbing. Maybe she was scuba diving. Could I have imagined those eyes?

  By the time I got home I’d convinced myself that it was nothing at all. I let myself in and went to the kitchen, splashing some cold water on my face and neck; when I looked up from the sink my reflection in the window was the face in the water.

  I snatched a piece of fruit from the counter and wandered to my bedroom, picking a promising book from Abby’s shelf along the way. I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the bed to read but had a hard time focusing. Looking over at the shopping bags reminded me to call Evie.

  “Marina!” she cried, picking up on the first ring. “I was just thinking of you! I’ve been to see Madame Fatima and she’s had a vision. You are going to have an extraordinary adventure this year– you must be prepared!”

  “Exactly what kind of adventure?” I asked skeptically. I had no doubt that Evie had let it slip to Fatima that I would be going away for the school year.

  “You know the spirits cannot be specific,” sniffed Evie.

  “Then how can I possibly prepare?” I asked teasingly.

  “This is serious Marina– I absolutely believe her. Madame Fatima is the real deal.” For as long as I could remember Evie had been indulging her weakness for psychics and spiritualists. Madame Fatima was the latest in a long line of what I considered to be charlatans.

  They came sniffing around wealthy widows, offering them a chance to communicate with the departed. I humored Evie, knowing that her late husband’s financial advisers worked hard to keep the bulk of her fortune safe.

  Evie went on to explain that at her last reading Fatima had been seized by a vision concerning me. I was to embark on a great romance and adventure in the coming weeks.

  Something that would mark me for life. It was just the sort of nebulous prediction I had come to expect from someone like her. I could stub my toe in the cafeteria and she would pronounce it realized.

  “When are you going to get your driver’s license?” Evie asked, changing the subject. Since my dad had been engrossed in his latest research he’d been putting off teaching me to drive.

  “I don’t know,” I said glumly, “I’m kind of stranded here.”

  “Enough with the pity party,” Evie said briskly, “Just don’t forget our plans.” I hadn’t forgotten about getting my license, far from it. Cruz already had his and offered to take me out to practice. As soon as I passed my driver’s test Evie promised me the use of one of her cars. When I could drive I’d be set free, able to come and go as I pleased. I couldn’t wait.

  “We have many road trips ahead of us,” Evie reminded me. Her late husband’s collection of luxury cars stored away in our building’s underground garage beckoned. Evie didn’t drive, and we had hatched some elaborate plans for the getaways the two of us would take when I could be her chauffeur. I felt badly about all the times we had made poor Boris wait around for us while we shopped and explored the city.

  “I’ll get it as soon as I can,” I promised.

  I told Evie about Aptos, and thanked her for all the beautiful outfits she had sent me away with. The bags had been crammed with sundresses, swimsuits and sunglasses. There were multiple boxes of elegant strappy sandals in various colors. Apparently Evie thought living by the beach called for an enormous amount of resort wear. She had gone a bit overboard as usual.

  “When do you start school?” she asked.

  “I have a couple of weeks,” I replied.

  “You know, I met my very first love in high school,” she reminisced, “His name was Bill Masters and he took me out to the Stork Club, which was simply the swankiest spot in all of New York! Oh my! You should have seen all the ladies in their fancy dresses! I even saw Jackie Kennedy there!”

  She launched into an elaborate description of the clothes, food and nightlife of the era. Evie was an expert on everything you could possibly imagine, and she considered it her life’s work to impart all of her knowledge to me.

  “I wonder whatever happened to Billy...” her voice trailed off. “That night I was spotted by a talent scout from the William Morris agency who got me started out in the business. I was exactly your age now.”

  “Too bad I won’t be attending high school in New York City,” I said dryly.

  “Fatima tells me that you’re exactly where you need to be. An incredible stroke of luck, but then, you’ve always been lucky.”

  I sighed, “That’s convenient.”

  “Take my advice,” she said knowingly, “Use this time in high school to gain some experience handling boys– when you’re
older, men of fortune will be no match for you.”

  “Why Aunt Evie!” I said in mock horror, “How ruthless! Are you suggesting I marry for money?” I knew that was precisely what she had in mind.

  “You are accustomed to the finer things...” she said teasingly.

  “Which I could just as soon do without,” I added defiantly.

  “We’ll see,” she said smugly, “We’ll see.”

  We said our goodbyes and I settled back down to read. I had plenty of time to myself before school started and lots of light reading to keep me occupied. It was my idea of perfect happiness.

  I was just getting into a new mystery novel when something moved in the mirror on the wall, catching my eye. I looked up to see the reflection of a man in the backyard. I bolted upright and crept over to the side of the window where I peeked out, taking care not to be seen.

  He was younger than I had first thought, probably around my age. He was tanned, with sandy blonde hair that was streaked by the sun in a way no salon could replicate. I watched, fascinated, as he used a clipper on the flowering jasmine vines that were trained on a small gazebo in the corner of the backyard. His profile reminded me of the marble carvings of Greek gods I had seen at the art museum in the city. He was the handsomest boy I had ever laid eyes on. He turned toward me and I ducked down below the window sill.

  My face flushed bright red at the thought of getting caught peeping, but I couldn’t resist another look at him. I stealthily crept back up to peer over the sill but he was gone. He appeared abruptly from the opposite side of the yard pushing a wheelbarrow. Wheeling over to the jasmine clippings, he bent down and started to gather them.

  I watched as he stretched his arms over his head and reached down to peel off his shirt, leaving him in worn faded jeans and work boots. He mopped his brow with the shirt and draped it over a chair under the gazebo. His body was as tanned as his strong arms, and he had the broad shoulders of a swimmer. His muscular torso was more than the equal of the male underwear models in my fashion magazines– only this fellow didn’t need any airbrushing.