She spotted hummingbird sage thriving in bunches along the trail. The fragrant smell reminded her that Thanksgiving was just two weeks away.
She did her best to focus on the approaching holiday instead of having to break in a new boss. She wasn’t thrilled with Dr. Blackwood and didn’t fully trust that he could do the job. She’d know soon enough. Doc had called her last night to give her a heads-up about the upcoming week. Quentin would be hanging around the office first thing on Monday to get up to speed on patient charts and office procedures. She supposed she was obligated to help him.
Familiarizing himself with the locals didn’t mean squat to her, though. She knew about his medical history and was pretty sure he couldn’t even hold a scalpel yet—which brought the question full circle. Why had Doc given him this kind of opportunity? It truly mystified Sydney.
As she walked deeper into the woods, she couldn’t help but feel anxious about the next couple of months. If she and Dr. Blackwood couldn’t get along, she’d need a backup plan. After all, she refused to spend her days working for a jerk. But her life would come crashing down around her if she had to find a new job. The thought of that made her stomach hurt.
She stopped to admire the sandstone cliffs and decided she wouldn’t spend her day off worrying about her future with Dr. Blackwood. He probably wouldn’t last long in the job anyway. Feeling better, she started up the trailhead, heading further into the canyon. With every step, it felt like she’d left her troubles behind—at least for now.
Quentin and Beckham found Reclaimed Treasures bustling with people who were milling up and down the aisles hunting for bargains. During the few times Quentin had stopped in, the secondhand shop seemed to display a fresh inventory each week.
Ryder’s wife might’ve owned the resale shop, but since Julianne had her hands full as the elementary school principal, she’d turned the day-to-day management over to Greg Prather. Greg was a single father with a little boy named Bobby, who today seemed set on trailing Beckham throughout the store.
“What’s his deal?” Beckham whispered to Quentin. “Get him to quit bugging me.”
“Bobby’s just trying to be friendly,” Quentin stressed in a low voice. “He’s younger than you are. It wouldn’t hurt you to try being a tad less rude.”
“Sure, but he’s a pest.”
“So are you,” Quentin fired back. “And see how I’m putting up with you. It shows maturity when you’re nice to a younger kid.”
Beckham rolled his eyes, but quit complaining. “What are we looking for anyway?”
Quentin scanned the rows of furniture. “I came in here for a headboard, but I don’t see it anywhere.” He held up a hand toward Greg, motioned him over. “Did you sell the sapele headboard? It was just here two days ago.”
Greg sauntered over. “You must be Blackwood. Zach called about an hour ago and told me to hold it for you. Ryder and I put it in the back.”
“Thanks for that.” He spotted a long gray couch that would fit nicely in his targeted décor. “I could use a sofa. It’d be a nice place to stretch out and read.”
“I’ll help you lift it but that won’t fit in the back of your station wagon,” Beckham pointed out.
“You’re right,” Quentin said, turning back to Greg. “Any chance I could get you to deliver the couch and the headboard for me?”
“No problem. Ryder has a pickup. He can make two trips.”
A floor lamp caught his eye made from surveyor’s equipment. “Is that reclaimed parts put together on an old tripod?”
“You have a good eye. Julianne made that from salvaged wood and other stuff she found inside some guy’s old barn.”
“The industrial look of it is exactly what I want. I’ll take it”
After Quentin settled his tab with his credit card, Beckham carried the lamp outside, stowing it in the back of the Woodie. “You must have a lot of money.”
“I thought we covered this already. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to talk money or politics or religion, for that matter.” Quentin noted the chastised look on the boy’s face. He pointed down the street. “How about that pizza? Pepperoni for me. How about you?”
It’d been so long since Beckham had tasted pepperoni he could only vaguely remember what it looked like. He tamped down his enthusiasm. “Sure.”
The two walked down to Longboard Pizza with its walls decked out in photographs of New York landmarks, hand-drawn maps of the best surfing spots up and down the California coastline, and lots of personal pictures of the owner, Thane Delacourt, who’d once played for the New York Giants.
A sunny blonde he knew as Madison Colter took their order, and they found a seat next to the patio to wait for their pie.
“How come a doctor changes jobs?” Beckham wanted to know. “Is it because you got fired at your other place?”
Quentin tilted his head. “How do I explain the last two years? I’ve spent that time in recovery, going three times a week to PT. That’s physical therapy.”
“You got hurt on the job?”
“I got shot.”
Beckham’s mouth dropped open. “You got shot…like your dad, like mine—and survived? Wow, you didn’t say anything about that earlier. You could’ve died.”
“Tell me about it. I was a surgeon, just getting off shift. All I wanted to do was get home and sleep. When you work so hard for something and then have it ripped away in an instant because a guy with a gun had to prove a point, it’s a life-altering event.”
“What happened to the guy who shot you?”
“It’s a brutal world out there.”
“What kind of answer it that?”
“It was my attempt at restraint.” When he noticed that Beckham wanted more details, he went on, “The nutcase thought I was dead so he turned the gun on himself, right there in the parking lot. Shot himself in the head.”
“Is that why you moved here, to get away from that kind of bad memory?”
“That and the fact that I had a lot of friends who fell into two categories. They either felt sorry for me or they couldn’t handle the fact that I was no longer a highly skilled, highly paid surgeon.”
“Your woman left you?”
Quentin stared into the kid’s eyes. “You’re fairly insightful for a thirteen-year-old. My girlfriend, Melanie, just couldn’t handle me losing my position at the hospital. She kept pushing me to take a high-paying desk job for one of the insurance companies. I had about a dozen offers to sit on my ass all day and muddle through claim forms, approving or disapproving procedures. I couldn’t see myself doing it, so I decided to chuck it all back home and take a chance on coming here.”
“There’s one big difference. You survived getting shot,” Beckham insisted. “That’s more than what happened to my dad.”
Quentin sighed. “A tough thing to figure out, I imagine. Truth is, I’ve asked myself more than a few times why I survived that night. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve had to alter my way of thinking.”
“About what?”
“About everything.”
“Do you think moving here and starting over will work?”
“Only time will tell. I’m pretty sure I thought putting distance between me and that awful night might help me finally put some closure to it.”
“And has it?”
Quentin shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Ask me again in a couple of months after I’ve been on the job and interacting with the people who become my patients.”
Madison brought over a huge pan of steaming pizza, slid it onto the table. “Here you guys go. Enjoy.”
“That’s enough for five people,” Beckham proclaimed.
“You can take the leftovers home,” Quentin offered.
“Really? Okay, cool,” Beckham said as he dived into the cheesy pie.
Quentin watched the kid pig out.
Fischer Robbins came over to their table and stuck out his hand. “I recognize the new doctor in town. On the cross-country trip
here I stopped to take pictures of the summit made famous by the Donner Party. Beautiful part of California. Got a peek at the state park and the lake.”
“A little out of your way,” Quentin noted with amusement. “Aren’t you from Brooklyn?”
“Born and raised.” Fischer took out his phone to show off his photos of his trip. “See? When I went through there, dozens of tourists were lined up snapping pictures of the countryside. Stayed at a place called Linder’s Lodge. Didn’t meet a stranger while I was there. Everyone was that friendly.”
“That’s the Lake Tahoe area I know. They get lots of tourists like you stopping in from all over. This is great New York pizza, by the way. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was sitting in Di Fara’s. It’s that good.”
Fischer slapped him on the back. “You know Di Fara’s?”
“I’ve spent some time in New York.”
“I guess you have. That’s the best compliment I’ve had all day, maybe even all week. What do you know about Di Fara’s anyway?”
“I’ve left California a time or two, got away to the Big Apple once or twice during a long weekend riding the train from Baltimore. I guess you could say I saw the sights while I was there.”
Fischer laid a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Well, we’re both in Pelican Pointe now, probably a slower pace for both of us. You come in here any time and we’ll talk about what you did, what you saw while you were in New York. It’ll give me a chance to reminisce.” He turned to level a finger at Beckham. “You see to it you come back, too. Growing boys need pizza.” With that, he strolled away to get back to his kitchen.
“How’s the pie?” Quentin asked, handing the kid another napkin. “Or do I have to ask?”
Beckham let down his guard. “I don’t even splurge on frozen pizza when I go to the store. Never been in here before today, smelled the Italian sauces cooking though from my house.”
Quentin’s soft spot opened up. “Beckham, how bad are things at home? Tell me the truth now. I’ve lived with no money before. I know what it’s like.”
“No, you don’t,” Beckham insisted.
“Yes, I do. Trust me. There were times Nonnie and I were strapped for cash. Memories I don’t like to bring to mind, they’re just there. You need to know you aren’t alone.”
“That’s BS. Since Pelican Pointe only has an elementary school, I have to ride the bus clear over to San Sebastian. When you go to school with no breakfast and your stomach growls in class where everyone can hear it, the kids make fun of you.”
Ah, Quentin thought, there’s the crux of why he hates school and hates to read. Before he could comment, Beckham had gone on. “Sometimes Faye DeMarco brings me toast she sneaks out of her house and I get to eat it on the way. But sometimes Faye’s not there. I think she’s nice to me because the kids make fun of her, too. I wish I didn’t even have to go to stupid school. What good is it anyway? What good is algebra? I’m never gonna use it for anything anyway.”
Quentin wanted to tell him everything would be okay. But looking at the kid’s face, it’d be hard to convince him that times would ever get any better. “You like to fish?”
The question took Beckham by surprise. “Couldn’t say, never been.”
“Then we should give it a try. I haven’t gone fishing in more than fifteen years but I think I still know how it works. What do you say bright and early tomorrow we try our hand at catching our suppers?”
Quentin could see Beckham’s eyes spark with interest. But it was a good minute before Beckham agreed.
“Okay. What time?”
“How about nine o’clock?”
“Sure. Where should we meet?”
“My place. And don’t forget to tell your grandmother where you’ll be.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” Beckham tossed back. “Tell me something. Did they ever find out who shot your daddy?”
The question surprised Quentin. “No. What about yours?”
Beckham shook his head. “Nope. It’s one of them cold cases. I don’t think they’ll ever solve it. Hell, they probably ain’t even workin’ on it. What do you have to say about yours?”
Quentin chewed the inside of his jaw. “Same thing. It’s been twenty-five years, a quarter of a century has gone by. That’s a long time. I doubt the sheriff’s department up there even kept any of the evidence.”
“You never checked?”
“Not since the summer before I went off to college.”
“If I were old enough I’d go down to L.A. and ask questions in person. Sometimes I spend hours at night just staring at the ceiling, thinking that when I turn eighteen, I’ll try to solve it on my own.”
“I remember a time when I thought that same way, that it might be possible,” Quentin confessed. “But then I grew up, life intervened, and I got sidetracked.”
“Not me. Maybe it’s not too late for you,” Beckham said hopefully. “Maybe you could call the cops back where it happened.”
Later, those words kept swirling around in Quentin’s head the whole time he and Beckham set up the furniture Ryder delivered. They put the bed frame together, even though the mattress was still days away from getting there.
“I’m not sure I’d have the patience to try and fill up this empty old place,” Beckham admitted. “You don’t mind starting from nothing?”
Quentin tilted his head, considered the daunting task. “I think I have to at least try.”
Four
That evening Quentin became restless. He went for a walk around town despite the heavy fog he’d watched roll in off the bay. The haze was like a scene out of a 1940s Bogart mystery. He half expected to see a young, dazzling Lauren Bacall step out of the shadows and ask him for a light.
He laughed off his nostalgic mood and chalked it up to missing his familiar surroundings. He never thought he’d miss the early snowfalls, slick roads, the ski season, and the bad weather that came with living in the Sierra Nevada. But the eerie fog seemed to make him long for home. He’d have to remember to call Nonnie and check up on her. He reached for his cell phone to do just that before realizing he’d left it hanging on its cord to charge back at the loft.
With nothing else to do, he continued to amble along the streets like a sightseer, adrift in the gauzy mist. When hunger hit, he grabbed a turkey club and fries and a chocolate shake at the Hilltop Diner. Its 1950s décor only added to his longing for home.
Afterward, he ended up standing in front of an art deco movie house called The Driftwood. Emblazoned on the marquee in red and blue neon was a film he’d heard about but never taken the time to watch, We’re No Angels, starring Humphrey Bogart. The classic was billed as a Christmas film. He wasn’t much into watching smarmy Christmas-themed movies, usually avoided them like a viral plague, but since this one had a list of tough-guy actors in it, he decided to give it a chance. How Christmassy could it be with Basil Rathbone as one of the characters?
As he walked up to the ticket booth, it occurred to him that he’d just been thinking about Bogart earlier and now here was one of the actor’s films he’d never seen before. What were the chances of that? Before he could change his mind, he paid for his ticket and ducked into the lobby.
He headed straight for the retro concession stand and bought a bucket of popcorn and a Coke from the red-headed teenage boy manning the counter. There was something about the boy that caused him to think about Beckham. What smartass remarks would Beckham bring to the film? And then he realized the kid probably would have bitched about having to sit through such an ancient movie with actors that had long since died.
Yeah, that was Beckham.
Once Quentin entered the massive auditorium, he found thirty or so other people who must’ve had the same idea as he’d had. Most of the crowd was about his age, too.
Most were seated on the main floor, parked in front of the giant forty-foot screen waiting for the feature to begin. Another ten or so had chosen to sit in the balcony, older teenagers mostly, Quentin surmised, probab
ly looking for a place to make out.
There were no laptops or tiny digital devices here where you’d have to squint to see the action. Not in this place. The stage was meant to project a presence, something equivalent to taking you back to another time. The 1940s maybe? Organ music filled the theater, floating from the rafters in a buildup to the feature. He tried to pinpoint where the sound originated and decided it had been piped in from the area where the projectionist sat.
He found a spot in the middle of a row and plopped down, taking the time to marvel at the ornate scarlet and gold decorating scheme. Someone had taken great pains to restore the place from top to bottom. A blaze of red drapes hung from the ceiling in a heavy brocade fabric that matched the reclining chairs. He wasn’t quite sure there were enough residents living in town to fill up the rows of seating. But it was impressive nonetheless.
As a few stragglers wandered in, the screen popped to life. To his right and down in front, he spotted Sydney Reed drop into a seat and immediately start munching on her own bag of popcorn. He watched a little longer until she unwrapped a Snickers—not the mini variety either but a giant log of a candy bar—and began shoveling it into her mouth.
Good to know Miss Perfect wasn’t so prim and proper, he mused, even if it was a mundane passion for chocolate. He couldn’t imagine the meticulous woman mussed up, let alone having the gooey stuff on her mouth for very long.
He focused on the coming attractions—a list of Christmas movies that would light up the screen for the next six weeks leading up to Santa’s arrival. Some of the choices had been around for five decades or more—like the one he was about to see now. The lights dimmed, the credits rolled and the feature film, made in 1955, kicked off in vibrant color.
He sat back, determined to enjoy the comedy about three escaped convicts, career criminals on the lam, who hide out with a family and decide to help them out of their financial distress during Christmastime.
Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 9) Page 6
