Evening Tide Charity Dance
800 Old Cannery Row
Monterey
8 p.m. Saturday
There it was, in black and white, the name of Henry’s boat. I hurriedly scribbled a note of the time and address. Excited, I took the microfiche out of the slot, handed it back to the librarian, and thanked her again. Then I hurried out of the library and crossed the green expanse of Jewell Park, eager to get back home to sort it all out and try to piece the clues together.
In the solitude of my bedroom, I contemplated what I had found. What connection does that dance have with Henry and the boat? It was Saturday, a couple of hours before eight and twilight had already fallen. Outside my window, I could see the sea turning a deep shade of crimson.
Something compelled me to go out that night. I wanted to check the address on Cannery Row, as it was the only lead I had to find Henry. I had to make up an excuse so that Dad wouldn’t get suspicious.
“Going out again, honey?” Dad asked, surprised. He was reading a story to Sophie on the sofa.
“Um, Emily and I are going to a movie, if that’s okay?”
“Okay, just don’t be out too late. Remember, we have church tomorrow. And don’t you have schoolwork?”
“My homework’s all done, Dad. I won’t be late.” They might have had church, but I hadn’t set foot inside one since Mom died. I knew there was no reason to bring that up, though, so I just waved goodbye and headed out.
I took the coastal walk to the Old Cannery. It was one of my favorite strolls; meandering along a path lined with colorful flowers and bushes. When I arrived at the edge of Cannery Row, the first building I saw was the Monterey Aquarium. The row was dark, with the exception of a few lights on the far corner. The address in the article, 800 Cannery Row, was just past the aquarium. I continued on to the old canneries, their wooden doors exposed to the street.
Finally, I reached 800. I had to step into a shadowy alcove to find the old wooden door. There didn’t seem to be a bell or a knocker, so I turned the brass knob. To my surprise, it opened with an audible click to a long, dark corridor.
Soft music played behind a closed door at the end of the hallway, flickering light seeped from a crack underneath. Quietly, I walked along the damp, musty passageway to the source. I paused at the end then pushed the door open. The music enveloped me, and for a moment I stood in awe of what lay before me.
They converted the large cannery, with its high wooden ceilings, into an impromptu dance hall filled with elegantly dressed dancers. The women wore ball gowns with elaborate braids in their hair, and the men dressed in button-down suits and bowties. They didn’t seem to notice me as I moved through the crowd, but I certainly noticed them—and wondered who they could be.
As I made my way around the edge of the room, a woman in a lacy black dress grabbed me by the elbow. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “We have been expecting you.”
“You have?” I asked in surprise, as I had never seen the woman before. I frowned. How could they have been waiting for me? Who are they? And why are they even here?
“Of course. Do you have a dance card?”
I shook my head, what is a dance card?
“Here you are,” she quipped, thrusting a card into my hand.
As I looked into her eyes, I saw they were dark and hollow. It was then I noticed everyone’s eyes were cast in shadow. They seemed to look right through me. As they danced, they were careful not to bump into me or each other, floating around as if moving on casters.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar face. Henry was standing against the wall with his arms folded, watching the dancers and looking bored. He moved his head slowly back and forth, surveying the room, until he caught my eye. Instantly, he unfolded his arms and walked toward me.
I froze. He wore no smile as he stalked toward me like a predator closing in on its prey. I had nowhere to run or hide, so I could only brace myself for the verbal onslaught.
To my surprise, though, when he got within a couple feet of me, his solemn face broke into a smile. “Welcome,” he said. “I am pleased you could come.”
I frowned. “You are?” Only yesterday evening, at the boat dock, he looked as if he hated me, like mortal enemies. What could have possibly changed, quite literally, overnight?
“Of course,” he replied lightly. “We have been expecting you,” he said, parroting what the woman had already said.
I frowned, confused, with a million thoughts racing through my head. How could I have been expected when I wasn’t even invited?
“Would you care to dance?” he said, offering his large masculine hand.
I nodded, feeling my adrenalin rush when I touched his fingers.
He gently led me through the dancers, onto the middle of the dance floor. The tune that was playing was a minuet. He put one arm around my waist in a cordial fashion like a gentleman, then raised my right palm with the other, his thumb rubbing against my fingers. His touch was electrifying, the same sensation I’d experienced when he had saved me from drowning.
Lifting my chin, I gazed into his intense blue eyes. Never let go, I thought to myself. In a trance, I glided with him around the dance floor. Somehow my feet obeyed and danced, though my knees were trembling.
“You’re a good dancer,” I complimented. He had such exquisite manners, so unlike the boys at Monterey High or my old school in Chicago.
“Thank you. I practiced at the old dance school in San Francisco.”
That piqued my curiosity. “Oh? Do you spend a lot of time in the city?”
He nodded. “Yes. I was a fisherman, working at the docks off Pier 39.”
“So how did you end up in Monterey?”
He hesitated before answering. “I took a job delivering a consignment. That was what brought me down here.”
I digested it for a moment. Henry’s eyes were so blue they reminded me of sapphires sparkling in the light, my favorite of all gems.
“You dance rather well yourself,” he said, returning the compliment.
I smiled a little in acknowledgment. “I did ballet a lot when I was kid.”
“But no longer?”
I shook my head. The truth is, I haven’t really danced since Mom died. I hadn’t felt like it. My legs were listless and didn’t feel like dancing, no matter how many times Dad tried to coax rhythm into me. In the end, he always let my stubbornness win out. But being with Henry, I felt animated again. It felt good to be alive and in his arms.
“Who are all these people?” I asked. “Why are they here?”
“It’s a sort of—society.”
“A society? A society of what?”
“We meet up for charity,” Henry replied. “We get together once in a while.”
The music changed to something a little more upbeat, and a smile crossed his face.
“Have you ever danced contra?”
I shook my head.
“There is nothing to it,” he said. “Let me be your guide.”
Suddenly, I sensed that we were the only couple still dancing, and when I looked around, I saw everyone staring at us. We glided around in the center, and even after the lively music stopped, we carried on dancing.
I could feel myself falling for him. “I’d like to see you again. Will you meet with me tomorrow afternoon for coffee?”
He hesitated, bowed his head, and inhaled deeply. Then to my elation, he nodded. “Okay. Meet me by Lovers Point, at a quarter past three tomorrow.”
I nodded, and a surge of adrenalin rose inside me.
I didn’t remember leaving the party, walking home in the darkness, entering the house, or climbing into bed. All I could think of was my first date with Henry.
The next morning I woke up and wondered where I was. At first, I thought I was back in Chicago, and when I saw the pale blue shutters, I knew I was in Pacific Grove. Then I remembered the dance! The memory was so vivid, but for a moment, I wondered if it was real or if it was all a dream?
I looked for signs of evidence of the night before, but since I have the habit of putting my clothes away before I go to bed, not even the dress I was wearing could persuade me I hadn’t imagined everything.
“How was the movie?” asked Dad when I came down to the kitchen for breakfast, his bleary eyes slightly puffy with sleep. He and Sophie sat at the table enjoying a plate of scrambled eggs.
I had to think quickly. “Er, Emily and I decided to hang in after all,” I said, reaching for the cereal box on the top shelf.
Dad looked at me for a moment and then nodded before returning to his Sunday newspaper. Again I thought of the music and the dance, the brush of Henry’s fingers against my waist, and I wondered if it really happened or if I was going crazy?
If it did happen, I remember we arranged to meet at Lovers Point, the headline that jutted out from Pacific Grove between Monterey and Asilomar. It’s a popular place for trysts, even though two lovers had drowned themselves in the bay.
I arrived eagerly at three o’clock after being preoccupied all day with the thought of meeting Henry. Sunday brunch had been only a mere distraction as I waited for the afternoon to come around. I sat on the rocks overlooking the park watching a couple of kids playing on the sandy beach below and seeing families picnicking in the small crescent of green.
I glanced at my cell phone’s clock, worried over whether Henry would stand me up, or worse, I had dreamt the whole thing. Maybe I’d put him on the spot. Maybe not showing up is his gentle way of letting me go, I thought with a sigh.
“Hello.”
I looked up, startled, and saw that he had appeared from behind the rocks. “Oh! Hi,” I said, almost in relief, that I really wasn’t losing my mind. “I’m glad you came.”
“I really should not have.” His words made our meeting sound forbidden, which made it even more exciting for me, even though we were just going for coffee.
“There’s a place near here called Magnolia Bakery. They have the most amazing carrot cake. Does that sound okay to you?” I asked. “It’s my small way of thanking you, and how can anybody refuse coffee and carrot cake?”
He paused for a moment, thinking deeply. Then slowly he nodded. Elation swelled inside me when he agreed.
We walked a couple blocks, past the park, and made a left on Fountain, then onto Lighthouse Avenue. I had the sense that Henry knew where he was going, like he knew the layout of the town. I was still getting used to my bearings; he practically led me right to the café.
Together, we sat in a shady corner in the back yard of Magnolia Bakery. The boughs of a large sycamore tree seemed to weep over us, providing us with welcome shade, partly obscuring us from the bakery itself. It was already my favorite place in Pacific Grove, calm and tranquil, one of the few places where I couldn’t see any sign of the ocean.
“I just love this place,” I said. “You know, it’s mentioned in one of John Steinbeck’s novels. Cannery Row, I think.”
Henry nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“What would you like?” I asked. “We have to go up to place our orders here.”
“A coffee,” Henry said.
I nodded and went to the counter and ordered a coffee for Henry and a vanilla latte for myself. “And some of that carrot cake, please. It looks so good.”
“Comin’ right up, hon” said Candy, the friendly blonde waitress. By now, the staff was getting to know me, as I had been there twice already.
I brought it all back to the table and took a couple nervous sips from my latte, but Henry hadn’t bothered with his. The untouched carrot cake stood between us like unspoken territory.
Henry sat across the table, his gaze lowered, ever so often glancing up at me under his thick eyebrows. He was achingly handsome—with the crease of his brow, tan skin, straight and perfect nose, and piercing eyes. An aura of mystery and magnetism surrounded him.
I punctuated the awkward silence with another sip.
Henry continued to study me with watchful eyes, still not touching his beverage. After a time, he spoke. “How long have you been in Pacific Grove?” he asked.
“Almost a month now,” I replied, then paused to think about it. It’s really been a month already? Wow! I couldn’t believe how quickly time passed, so convinced our first few weeks in a new place would drag on. So far, my time in Monterey had been very eventful.
“What about your family?” he asked.
“My dad works at the aquarium, and I have a kid sister. Her name’s Sophie. She’s twelve and adorable.”
“What about your mother?”
I paused and took another sip of latte. Sometimes when talking to new friends, I skipped the part about Mom dying because I didn’t want their pity. No one at school knew, not even Emily. I just hadn’t found the right time to tell her yet; I didn’t want it to alter her behavior toward me. Since I didn’t feel that way with Henry, I answered honestly, “She died six months ago. Cancer.”
“My condolences,” he said.
I thanked him. “What about you? Where are your parents?”
“They died a long time ago,” he said, then paused.
I waited for him to continue, when he didn’t I didn’t press him knowing firsthand how private grief needed to be. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, studying him for a moment, thinking about how his parents died, and realized he must have been very young when it happened. He didn’t look any older than eighteen. The reality of losing one parent was tough enough, but the thought of losing two was too much to bear.
We sat in silence, sharing our grief. It seemed a bit strange, but ever since my Mom died, I’d felt a kinship with those who experienced losing a loved one. We formed kind of a club, exclusively open to the heartbroken.
“Are you from around here? I mean, is Pacific Grove your home?” I inquired, trying to play it cool but secretly wanting to know everything about him; where he comes from, what his favorite food is, his favorite music, and what movies he watched.
He shook his head. “I’m from San Francisco originally, North Beach.”
“Really? It’s a beautiful city.” In reality, I had only been there once, when we moved from Chicago. “And you said work brought you here?”
“I was employed on one of the squid-catching boats and have stayed here ever since.”
“Oh,” I said, digesting it for a moment. “Didn’t you go to high school?”
Henry shook his head. “My family was poor, and we needed the money. Besides, what good are books if all you do is haul in fish all day?”
“True,” I said, though honestly, I couldn’t live without my books. Where would I be without Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, and all the Brontë sisters? I thought with a shudder.
“Your family…Were you close to them?” I asked.
“I was, until they died.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Raphael.”
Henry Raphael. There was something very old-school, almost biblical about the name. It was unlike any other I had heard before except for the archangel Raphael in Milton’s Paradise Lost who warned Adam and Eve about the dangers of temptation. I liked it and repeated the name in my head. Henry . . .
Taking another sip of my latte, I looked into his blue, unfathomable eyes. It was like diving into the ocean—deep, mysterious, and full of hidden danger. I was only too eager to plunge in.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“About an old woman named Mrs. Prescott, my neighbor. She said something strange to me the other day.”
“What?” he asked, clearly curious now.
“She told me to stay away from the bay, that it isn’t safe.”
“She is right. You should listen to her.”
I shook my head. “But if I had stayed away from there, I wouldn’t have met you.”
Henry was silent and fiddled with his untouched mocha. He seemed to be absorbed in thought and took a deep breath before speaking. “Did you see anything else when you were out in the bay?” he asked, looking at
me intently.
I paused for a moment. Part of me wanted to tell him about the island, but something prevented me from saying anything. Not that I didn’t trust him. It was, just as it had been with Captain Pickard, that I felt it would be like betraying a secret. “No, nothing—only you, when you rescued me,” I fibbed.
He continued to gaze at me with his impenetrable stare, making me uncomfortable.
I shifted in my seat, sensing he didn’t believe me.
“Alice. . .”
I liked how he spoke my name. It was the first time he had done so, and it sounded so sweet rolling off his lips. “Yes, Henry?” I said.
“You must believe me when I tell you the bay is not safe. Your neighbor is right. It is full of danger. You must stay away from it. I implore you.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said with conviction forgetting, for once, my terrible fear of water. I was even prepared to swim at the deep end if that was what it would take to be with him, even if my aquaphobia was lurking underneath like some terrible sea monster waiting to pounce.
“What are you afraid of, then?” he asked.
I swallowed. I was afraid of a lot of things: never seeing Mom again, us being alone, Dad being so sad, and Sophie growing up without her mom. All those things preyed on my mind every day, gnawing away like hungry demons.
“I’m afraid this carrot cake will go stale unless we eat it,” I quipped, changing the subject. I took a bite. It was delicious. I savored the taste of the butter cream icing melting in my mouth, then offered my fork to his mouth. “Try it? It’s good.”
He opened up and took a bite. I watched as the cake passed his lips and he swallowed slowly. I thought of the kiss he’d given me and wondered if I would ever share another moment like that with him again.
“The cake here hasn’t been so good since the last baker passed away,” Henry said, chewing casually. “Dropped dead in the kitchen of a heart attack. It was a real pity. He was a good guy.”
I frowned, pausing mid-chew—he knew the previous baker? How long has he been here?
Later, after coffee, we stood outside the bakery.
“Take care of yourself, Alice,” he said to me evenly, with an unspoken finality dripping from his words.
Ghost Maven Page 4
