Where Dreams Are Born (Angelo's Hearth)

by Buchman, M. L.

  Russell’s phone was at the third ring before she realized what door she was opening. She should hang up. He answered before she could take action. His deep-voiced hello was even mellower on the phone.

  “Hi, Russell?”

  “Cassidy? Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  She didn’t either, but here she was. And he’d recognized her voice. That unnerved her so she spoke quickly before she could give up.

  “I was wondering if you would meet with me. I have a business proposition for you.”

  “I’m not in business.” His voice was gruff, even harsh.

  “I saw Angelo’s ads. They were… I saw your old ones, too. Armani, BMW, they were… are breathtaking.” She was babbling. What had been such a simple thought a moment before was becoming muddled.

  She shut up and tried looking at something that would relax her. Five lighthouse pictures, four with sailboats. She moved to the sliding glass door and out onto the deck. No blue-hulled sailboats in Seattle’s harbor.

  The silence was getting long. Too long.

  “Hello, Russell. Are you still there?”

  Another pause, long enough for her to look at the phone’s screen, it said it was still connected.

  “I’m here.” It was quiet.

  “Look, I don’t know if you need the money, but I’ve got a friend whose business needs help.”

  “One of those college friends?”

  “Yes. You remembered.”

  “I’m not an idiot.” The words were abrupt, then he burst out with a laugh. “Okay, except around you.”

  “So, do you want to meet? Are you interested?”

  Another of those pauses. She’d give a pretty penny to know what he was thinking.

  “You know where the Chittendon Locks are?”

  # # #

  Cassidy parked her Jetta, no sign of his little brown sports car. She took her time wandering through the gardens and over to the boat locks. It was a busy day. A whole flock of boats were jostling for position above and below the locks. The connection from Lake Washington and all of its multimillion-dollar homes to the ocean. Boats jostled about waiting their turns to be raised or lowered from one to the other. Tourists wandered up and down the concrete walls on either side as the Army Corps of Engineers did their best to escort the boats in and tie them up. Cassidy leaned on one of the steel rails to watch.

  An eighty-foot fishing boat dominated the group, but the fisherman made the easiest work of it. Little speed boats got in the way of sailboats. Sailboats bumped against the big cruisers. The big cruisers couldn’t muster enough sober hands to catch and throw lines and they drifted about the lock as if bobbing in a giant bathtub.

  “Idiots.”

  Russell leaned against the railing beside her. Even as he said it, one of the big cruisers turned completely sideways, scraping the bow along one concrete wall and the stern across the other and getting stuck that way. The lock attendants started swearing to themselves as they hurried over to help. The guys on the fishing boat, covered in clothes that had seen far more fish guts than laundry soap, were all lined up at their railing to watch the show. Not one of them lifted a finger.

  “Shouldn’t they be helping?”

  “No. They know enough to keep out of the attendants’ way. To let them do their job.”

  She inspected the man beside her. Dark jeans, practically new, a polo shirt tucked in tightly at the waistband that hugged his shape. Was it knowing that he was a New York professional that changed how he looked? She couldn’t be sure.

  “What?” He caught her inspection.

  “You clean up nice.”

  His smile lit up and she felt a warmth that might have been a February frost just moments before.

  “So Angelo keeps telling me.”

  “You two are close.” Not a question. She knew it as fact. Long-term, can-screw-up-and-still-get-help kind of friend. Those are few and far between.

  “He’s the best. Closer than blood.”

  “I’ve got a friend—”

  “The lawyer or the clothes designer?”

  He was right, he wasn’t an idiot. She’d mentioned them once at their dinner nearly two months ago and he had that information right on tap.

  “The lawyer doesn’t need that kind of help, she’s already at the top of her field.”

  He nodded and stared out at the boats. They’d gotten the front end tied off though the steel railing was pretty chewed up. Now they were trying to lever the stern free.

  “Fashion. I know a bit about that.”

  “Perrin’s really brilliant, but she has no direction. She won’t accept help from her friends, but she might from you.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?” Perrin really was struggling and she and Jo hadn’t found a way to help her.

  “How is it going to work?” He turned to face her and his dark eyes weren’t distant or closed, but looking right at her from an arm’s-length away. “I waltz in and announce that you sent me, that’s sure not going to go over big. No bigger than you doing it yourself.”

  She hadn’t really thought that part through.

  “Perhaps you could ‘waltz in’ and, hell, I don’t know. This is your specialty.” She was at a loss. It had sounded good when she thought it up, but, he was right, there was no way for it to work.

  “You trying to set me up with her?”

  “No! I—” She wasn’t. Hadn’t even thought of that. But what about it? Russell and Perrin, she liked macho and he might be just the stable influence… But Cassidy didn’t want to see them together. She didn’t know why. Couldn’t go there, not with him so close that she could smell the ocean and sky on him. So close she could move against that wonderful chest with just the smallest step forward.

  “No.” She shook her head to clear it. “No. I wasn’t going there.”

  He kept looking at her for a long moment with an intensity that was almost scary. Maybe Jo was right and she wasn’t wholly safe this close to him. But was that his doing or hers? She shook her head and he eased back without moving away.

  “Okay,” he slouched back against the rail. “As long as we have that clear. I assume you’ve told her all about me.” There was a touch of chagrin in his voice.

  He clearly had a very good idea of exactly what she’d said.

  “So, she’ll know my name. You’ll need to introduce me, and I’ll need to make her pay.”

  “But she—”

  He held up a hand to stop her.

  “It’ll be something she can afford. Maybe even barter, though I don’t have much need for women’s clothes. You can pay my real fees.”

  Cassidy swallowed hard. She was well off, but how much was a New York professional worth? Especially one of Russell’s caliber?

  “I’m not sure what it will be, but money has little value to me. Deal?” He smiled for a moment, but didn’t do the expected rake of his eyes down her body. So, sex wasn’t the deal either. Something else. Something he wouldn’t want to do. Certainly not judging a wine contest.

  “I think I’d rather pay.”

  He stayed serious a moment longer then burst out laughing. So hard that she started to smile despite herself. He turned back to watch the boats still chuckling under his breath.

  They’d finally straightened out the big cruiser, much the worse for the wear, and were filling in the lock with sailboats.

  “You’re a tough lady, it’s hard to make you squirm. Don’t even know why I enjoy doing that to you, but I seem to. Hell, your friend, I’d probably help her out just for the fun of it. But I just thought up something better.”

  “Better?” her voice cracked, her throat was so dry.

  This time he did look her up and down. His grin was wicked.

  “You’re going to hate it.”

  New Dungeness Lighthouse

  Dungeness Spit

  First lit: 1857

  Automated: 1994

  48.18174 -123.10962

  The New
Dungeness Lighthouse was one of the first built in Puget Sound. It stands at the very end of a sand spit that sticks five miles out into the treacherous Straits of San Juan de Fuca.

  Also known as Shipwreck Spit, the narrow bit of land had a long history as a battle ground between the various local tribes. Once established, the light often guided warring tribes to its base for their bloody battles. Though the lightkeepers were never harmed, they were often living in a lighthouse surrounded by corpses.

  JUNE 1

  It was a five-mile walk out Dungeness Spit to the lighthouse. There wasn’t much of a view, a chilly fog limited Cassidy’s view to a few hundred feet, but thousands of birds joined her for her walk along the nature sanctuary. Sandpipers raced up and down the beach following the leading edge of the lazy waves. She couldn’t see what they caught, but they intently followed each wave down the long sandy stretch and raced madly back to keep their feet dry.

  Cormorants nested back in the grasses. Seagulls flocked and screamed and settled back to the beach in vast crowds. Grebes floated offshore, riding the waves up and down, only ducking below the surface when she walked too close and then popping up a dozen yards away. Even a couple of seals followed her, looking like dogs paddling happily through the waves until the moment they dove in a sinuous roll.

  The GPS showed her making steady progress toward the lighthouse despite being in the dense, unrevealing fog. An endless loop of land rolled through the bubble of visibility around her. She moved her feet, but it felt as if she and the fog never moved. The land slid into her fog bubble from some unknowable place ahead and disappeared behind taking its wildlife with it. Her hair was soaked by the cool moisture, she’d let it down to keep her neck warm. If not for the parka and the red watchcap she’d be freezing despite the calendar insisting it was June.

  The GPS claimed the lighthouse was only two hundred and fifty-four feet away when the fog ended like a curtain. The sunlight glittered off the white lighthouse so that it shone incandescent against the blue sky. The little outbuildings were clustered about its base. An oversized Cape Cod cottage in the now-predictable U.S. Coast Guard paint job of white with a red roof. The actual lighthouse jumped out of the cottage’s midsection like a giant spear shot down from the heavens. The seagulls, who had stayed low and flew little in the fog, were soaring about the sunlit sky.

  The old Indian battleground was now a pleasant park surrounded on all sides by the ocean and populated by thousands of birds. A bald eagle swooped low out of the fog, pulled up sharply, and cried in surprise at finding a human in its hunting ground. It passed barely a dozen feet away and she ducked. She’d forgotten how huge they were up close.

  Cassidy checked quickly before the fog moved in, no sailboat. At least not yet. She had a feeling it would be back this month, not that she could possibly know. Whether it showed up or not, she was going to enjoy the day.

  The volunteer keepers at the lighthouse were thrilled to have a guest, the fog had kept away the usual June crowds. But she’d had a date to keep with her father and, like him, possessed a bit more stubbornness than common sense. They showed her all upstairs and down of the lighthouse and the cozy buildings. The Coast Guard had stopped staffing it in 1994. A local group had taken over management of the buildings and rented it out to people willing to spend a week at the far end of a five-mile spit of land. It sounded like heaven to her; a stack of books, a few interesting wines, and no city craziness. She could go for runs on the beach. She promised to keep it in mind. Maybe in the winter months when few would venture out here and she’d truly have it to herself.

  She turned down the keepers’ invitation to join them for lunch. It was awkward, but she’d wanted a little picnic by herself at one of the scattered picnic tables. She set up a meal of a small container of Asian noodle salad, half a roast beef sandwich smeared with fat-free mayonnaise and just a touch of Dijon mustard, a small bottle of Pellegrino Limonata, and a humungous chocolate chip cookie. Perfect.

  The air was still cool, especially now that she’d stopped moving about and the ocean lay only a few hundred feet away all around her. She kept her parka on, though unzipped, as she ate. Several large ships moved along the Straits, slipping quickly and silently along the sparkling water.

  As she nibbled on the cookie, she pulled out her father’s letter and spread it before her.

  Dearest Cass,

  I’m sure now that I will never walk to any lighthouses with you. I probably won’t live to hear your adventure to the first one. For that, I am truly sorry.

  Regret is a funny thing. I’m lying here dying and I regret having so few years with your mother. I regret how little you knew her or her parents, truly kind people who welcomed me in when I had nothing. Yet I do not regret selling my vineyard to Mondavi.

  Cassidy closed her eyes. Pretty much the most respected vintner of the Napa and Sonoma valleys. She’d walked their vineyards on the wine tours. Admired the rolling hills, the dry smell of grass and oak. The richness of earth built up in layers so deep that even the oldest and hardiest of vines could not plumb their depths.

  She’d been allowed to walk more of their fields than the average tourist because of her background. She’d even spent a long leisurely afternoon with their horticulturist.

  Oh god. She gazed out at the water but saw the rolling hills. She might have walked across her father’s own soil, strolled where he had poured so much blood and sweat and dreams. And never known.

  My future lay in the rugged soils of the Kitsap Peninsula, tending vines that grew so slowly and a daughter who grew so fast. I missed my chance with the wine, which I don’t regret. I am thankful every day that I didn’t miss with my daughter. Adrianne taught me what was important, and watching you launch yourself against the world was definitely the best part of that.

  I loved you then, Ice Sweet, the best I knew how. So, don’t you waste time on regrets, for I take too many to my grave.

  Love you,

  Vic

  She lay her head down on her arms and tried to picture Victor Knowles. Not as the dying man with tubes running into his body, his eyes blurry with morphine. Nor as the bent man, old before his time with hard work. The father she remembered was sitting in his armchair, a book in his hand, his half-glasses sliding bit by bit toward the end of his nose, only to be pushed back at the last second before escape. A cup of tea, long since cold with forgetfulness on the small table at his elbow.

  She tried to picture Vic Knowles as the young-old man he’d once been. Young, new to his Napa vineyard, but old from Vietnam. Standing where he belonged among the California hills while filled with the hopes of a new season wrapped up in the vines. The first of June thirty years ago. Then the grapes would be small, tight, and dusty green, an entire cluster would fit easily in his cupped palm. His nerves, shattered from war, now soothed by the new growth reaching down into the deep earth and seeking upward into the sky.

  To lose all that. She could hear in his letter the regret that he claimed to not have. It had been one of the greatest loses in his life. Last month he had described the heart-wrenching decision to stay or go. It would have been easy to be angry at her mother for forcing the choice upon him. Angry at herself for bringing hardship to her mother. Angry at herself that the poor man had given up so much. But he had done none of those.

  Cassidy looked at the lighthouse built on the old Indian battleground. The temporary keepers had told her of one particularly horrid slaughter where one tribe had slain every member of another. A single pregnant woman had crawled to the keeper’s residence riddled with twenty stab wounds. They had saved her from the return of the marauding band.

  What had she herself sacrificed?

  What had Russell said? She thought back to their one date for the hundredth time.

  “Always the critic. Always a step back. A step away. You know all of these wines, but do you really know the true heart of any of them?”

  The words were burned into her memory and that couldn’t have happened
if there wasn’t some truth there. Her father had known every square foot of his land, how the light lay upon it at every time of day. She could imagine the way each vine was a cherished member of his family.

  Russell had been right. Damn him! She didn’t know the true heart of any one wine. Never mind a whole vineyard.

  She raised her head to prop her chin on her forearms and opened her eyes.

  And there it was.

  Her sailboat!

  Sliding up from Puget Sound, her burgundy sails magnificent triangles against the crystalline waters and the far off Canadian shore.

  Letter shoved into pocket, lunch trash crammed into her daypack. Cassidy sprinted to the far side of the lighthouse, near the fog’s edge, to get the boat and lighthouse in the same picture. It took forever to emerge from the other side. She was about to go back, see if she was mistaken, when the boat slid clear of the lighthouse just a few hundred yards out.

  A couple of quick shots, then she exchanged the camera for the binoculars she’d purchased for just for this moment. “Compact,” “high-power,” “light-weight,” and “weather-resistant” had combined properly at the REI counter. She quickly slid them free and focused on the sailboat.

  The boat’s bow slipped through the low waves as if they were clouds and air, just sliding along as if it were a special effect. It was unreal how smoothly it moved, how neat it looked.

  The rich blue of the hull, the dark red of the sails and the cheerful yellow and white of the decking and the cabin. She tracked the view toward the back until she saw the skipper.

  One man. Bent down and pulling on a line. Then he stood and faced the shore.

  She dropped the binoculars. Only the salesman’s insistence that she put the strap over her head every time saved them from the rocks and sand beneath her feet.

  Russell Morgan.

  He hadn’t mentioned he was a sailor. He certainly hadn’t mentioned he went to lighthouses regularly.

  But where had he been last month at Cape Flattery?