Show No Fear

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  “Stop!” called Bob from the backseat. He had awakened. Nina pulled over. They were parked on the road beside Asilomar Beach. Behind them stretched half a mile of sand dunes and ice plant. In front they could just make out the white golf carts of Spanish Bay. To their far right, across more than twenty miles of blue bay, floated the purple shoreline of Santa Cruz. And before them, buffed clean in the breeze, were the sandy beach, dogs and hikers, surf and the eternal sea.

  They walked down the path, Bob skittering ahead. A speedboat left a white wake like a jet trail. The water, turquoise blue toward the shore, turned emerald as it approached the sandbars and translucent brown where the otters plied the kelp in search of abalone.

  Bob jumped into an abandoned sand hole and began to dig. They sat down on the sand and watched him get dirty. Nina produced a bottle of cheap wine from her bag, deftly opened it with a bamboo corkscrew, and tilted it to her mouth. “Sorry, no delicate glassware, but then, we’re talking four bucks.” She handed him the bottle. “You were telling me about your wife.”

  He drank and wiped his mouth. “Like I said, I didn’t want kids.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four. So someone else came along with a different agenda and we got involved. She didn’t care that I was married. I cared, but not enough to resist.” He paused. “I thought I treated my wife just the same, but one night I came home and most of the furniture was gone. The good stuff,” he added with a wry smile, swallowing the thing stuck in his craw.

  “Did you try to—you know, fix things?”

  He twisted his mouth. “Neither of us missed a day of work over it. The one time she talked to me about it, she said it was the first time she ever felt like pulling her weapon down in cold blood. She had this strong urge to go kill this girl. Then she said she had stopped loving me and didn’t care about the other girl anymore. Would you have pulled something like that?”

  “What?”

  “Killing your rival in love? Shooting the other woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They watched a pale-skinned man in a bikini Speedo wade out chest-high in the freezing surf.

  “He must be from Latvia,” Paul observed. “Or maybe Antarctica?”

  “You know Robinson Jeffers? The poet? He was local. Jack quotes him all up and down the halls of justice. Anyway, he used to swim up and down Carmel Beach every day, winter and summer,” Nina said, piling some sand behind her for a backrest. “I went in last May without my wet suit. The water was so cold it didn’t feel like water. It felt like knives. Fifty-one, fifty-two degrees.”

  “But you surf here?”

  “Over by Lovers Point. Not in the fog and hardly ever in the winter anymore. I do it for pleasure, not to prove something.”

  “What might you have to prove, if you had something to prove?” Paul took off his shoes and socks.

  “I don’t know.” She moved closer and took another drink out of the bottle, then stretched out her legs and tickled Bob, now damp from the sand, with her toes. Leaning back so that the sun could shine on her face, she let Paul assess her.

  CHAPTER 18

  “SO THIS IS THE LIFE YOU WANT?” PAUL SAID SLOWLY. “HAVE you got it all figured out?”

  “My life’s a wreck, Paul.”

  “How so?”

  “Never mind. Anyway, I’m living for the future, really. I want to finish law school, get established.”

  “Why be a lawyer?”

  She closed her eyes. “Because knowledge is power.”

  “So power is your thing?”

  “So interrogation is your thing?”

  Paul ignored her. “What about the macho posturing in court? The slam-dancing? You enjoy theatrics?”

  “Most lawyers never go to court. Some, like Jack, are naturals but don’t like doing it anyway. Some, like Remy, are terrific at it, but work at it way harder than I want to. I do like going to court and watching the lawyers. I did well on our moot court at school. I kind of like slam-dancing. But, you know, mostly in court you’re just trying to be sincere, your manner is kind of formal and respectful.”

  “What kind of law do you want to practice?”

  “Maybe corporate law?”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of options, some intriguing gray areas. Or maybe I’ll do that impossible thing—go into a general practice in a small place. People in trouble will sniff me out.”

  “You do smell good, like the sun is releasing pheromones.”

  “Like water bugs do. Like roaches.”

  “Your hair.” Paul lifted it out of the sand. “Don’t want a mess.” He stroked it. “I like long hair.”

  “Hey! Look what I found!” Bob cried. He had wandered toward the surf and picked up a huge brown bubble of seaweed, its long sea tail dragging behind him.

  “Pop it,” Paul offered, “or lay it down and jump as hard as you can.”

  Bob chose to jump, making popping sounds, and ran down toward the shore to find more. Nina took off after him, then Paul ran, too, leaving his shoes behind. At the edge of the ocean the seaweed bubbles lay tangled where the tide had dropped them, and the three jumped and stomped on the piles, laughing and yelling. Nina ran out into the shining water up to her knees. Paul stood still, holding on to Bob, as the outgoing waves pulled the sand from around their feet and the new waves buried them up to their ankles.

  After a while, they rinsed off as well as they could and clambered back up to the car. “Where to?” Nina asked, aware of her wet clothing, sobering up.

  “How about if you drive us to Carmel and I buy you lunch at the tourist trap of your choice?”

  “Mickey D’s,” the little voice trapped in the backseat said. “Best fries on the planet.”

  They drove along Holman Highway in the wind and sun. They took the Carpenter Street turnoff and passed through the shady streets of upper Carmel. The overall effect was of a pricey English village mocked up for some movie set, each house uniquely charming. Carmel had been a den of bohemianism in the twenties and thirties. Jack London had spent a lot of time here. Clean, safe, and quaint, the police log must be a laugh. “The rest of the world should be so lucky,” Paul said. “Where do these people work?”

  “Often they don’t. They made their money someplace else, in San Jose or San Francisco, lived in the nicer burbs, and saved for a romantic retirement. Now they paint, draw, write, sculpt. Throw pots. Have lunch. Play golf. Shop.”

  They parked in the Pohlmann office parking lot since there was no place else to park on Saturday, walked a block, sat down in the dark pub called the Bully III, and ordered stew and garlic bread for Paul and Bob and a chicken sandwich for Nina. Bob said politely to Paul that he was having a nice time and proceeded to spill his stew all over himself, muttering about the missing but hotly anticipated fast-food fries. Paul, looking at Nina, said he was having a nice time, too.

  Back in the car after lunch, they all felt drowsy. They turned back onto Ocean before Paul first noticed the BMW in his rearview mirror. The glossy car stuck close behind.

  “Look behind you,” he said to Nina. “Check out that Beemer a couple of cars back.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “I guess I do. He’s—harassing me.” She felt scared, and she felt Paul sense her fear.

  “That’s the man,” said Bob. “Mommy hit him.”

  “Please, let’s ignore him,” Nina said, wishing she could.

  But Richard was not giving up.

  “I’m going to stop the car,” said Paul.

  “What?”

  “Let me deliver your message.”

  “No.” Nina touched Paul’s arm, alarmed. He drove up and down a few streets but the BMW stayed right behind them. Richard Filsen was smiling below his sunglasses.

  “He’s following us,” Paul noted.

  “He’s waving at me!” Bob said.

  “Okay, pull over,” Nina said, just before they reached Highway 1. “S
orry, I’m going to handle this.” She opened the door and marched toward Filsen, who had pulled up behind them.

  He got out of his car and leaned on it.

  “Time for you to get the hell out of my life, Richard.”

  “Just a reminder. Don’t conveniently forget the DNA test appointment next week.”

  “You thought enough of me to love me once, Richard. You have to stop following us, okay? You’re scaring Bob. You’re scaring me.”

  “Your problem. I’m taking care of my problem.”

  Nina walked back to Paul’s car wondering what his problem was, other than a sudden maniacal interest in a child who was a stranger to him.

  Paul waited until Nina returned to the front passenger seat.

  He got out, walked a bit, and put his face into Filsen’s face. “I don’t like you.”

  “Fair enough,” Filsen said. Up close, Paul didn’t smell alcohol, and a look around the car failed to establish any plain-sight weapons, bottles, or hypodermics. Filsen wore a fatuous smile on his face. Californians smile too much, Paul thought, not for the first time.

  He looked toward his car, where Nina was moving her hands in frantic signals. He blocked her view of the driver’s window with his body and took a handful of Filsen’s hair, squeezing until Filsen emitted a pathetic little scream. Paul let go and Filsen raised his hand to his head. He didn’t move.

  Paul turned and walked back to his car.

  Nobody spoke. Paul pulled out. Filsen dropped back and disappeared. Paul was thinking that lawyers are so used to carrying on their wars of words that they forget how to fight. He was also feeling as if he had overreacted, perhaps, slightly.

  Finally he said, “I fixed it for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have touched him.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re in the middle of a custody—um—issue.”

  Paul looked at Bob. “Oh,” he said again, although this time much more softly.

  “Even threatening him without touching him can be an assault.”

  “I know what a fucking assault is,” Paul whispered so that Bob wouldn’t hear. “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “Big help. Great. You don’t understand, Paul. Richard enjoys the attention. Like a neglected kid? He craves it.”

  “Not the kind of attention I give.”

  Paul drove silently back to her house.

  “I’d like to stay this afternoon,” Paul said. “You could work for a couple of hours. I could arrange for supper.”

  Nina thought, I should send him away. He’s impulsive and rough. Then she remembered socking Richard in the preschool parking lot. “Supper would be great.”

  He lowered his hands to his legs while she climbed out of the car, helping Bob and all his gear get free. “Thai, Indian, Italian, strange?”

  “Hot dogs,” Bob said. “With spicy mustard.”

  “And garlic fries,” Nina added.

  “No garlic,” Paul said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’ll bring the hot dog, Bob, plus—something strange to please your mama.”

  He left for a while, then returned with food after Nina and Bob had time to clean up, settle in, and start Bob’s preschool art project.

  After Bob ate his hot dog with relish and finished his project, Nina carted him upstairs, singing his favorite Burl Ives song, “Little White Duck.”

  “You’re a good mother,” Paul said.

  “What delectable food did you bring me?” she asked, plopping down on the couch beside him.

  “Escargot. Snails to the American.”

  She pulled her legs into a triangle on the couch, trying to figure out how to respond.

  “Kidding. I brought homemade slow-cooked pork tacos with green sauce from Maria’s.”

  Nina turned down the lights, lit candles, and found plates for the food. Both of them ate heartily.

  Wiping sauce from her cheek, Nina said, “About the cottage…”

  “When can I move in?”

  Nina uncrossed her legs and crossed her arms. “The thing is—”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re nervous. Is that good?”

  She smiled. “Maybe it is.” She liked him too much. He scared her. She was not ready.

  “That’s a really soft bed you’ve got in there.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, buster. C’mon, it’s the old wood floors. The lack of a dishwasher. The lack of electrical sockets, cheap rent and a landlady who can’t afford repairs. I’m having second thoughts about taking advantage of you.”

  “So you don’t want me.”

  “I never said that.”

  Paul put his hands around her neck, so gently it felt soft as the breeze. “You don’t want such close proximity, just in case? In case—”

  “I have issues but I can’t expect you to fix them. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. However, I think this means you owe me another date at the very least.”

  At this point, concentrating entirely on his touch loitering so suggestively on her skin, she couldn’t speak, so she nodded.

  He kissed her good night on her aunt Helen’s porch, her feeling heat that began in her heels and moved up, him trying to hold on much longer than was polite.

  “Night,” he said, walking down the few stairs toward the sidewalk.

  While he walked to his car, she waited for the tingling to subside, which took several minutes.

  At three in the morning, when she habitually woke up perturbed about her mother, Bob, Matt, or Richard, she found herself, eyes open, imagining explicit and raunchy activities with Paul instead. She fell back against her pillows into the best night’s sleep ever.

  CHAPTER 19

  REMY DRANK BLACK COFFEE IN HER IMMACULATE WHITE LIVING room, looking out at the strollers on Scenic Drive. Tourists cruised slowly past searching for parking or gaping at the ocean. Just across the street, a concrete stairway led down to the wide, white beach and a cold, seaweed-heavy Pacific. The morning overcast had not deterred a steady stream of families, leashed dogs, and power walkers.

  She loved Sunday mornings. Her house was her refuge, and she spent a lot of money maintaining the place. Sipping the scalding-hot liquid, she thought about how to continue her lifestyle should she get the judgeship—judges didn’t make big money, but there were opportunities there.

  She had worked all her life toward this goal, she decided, not for the prestige, but for respect and admiration. In preparation, she kept herself fit, clean, and presentably dressed. Today she had already ridden the exercise bike, done fifty sit-ups, completed her yoga exercises, and soaked in a hot bath, then cloaked herself in a flowered satin kimono.

  But right now, her most pressing, urgent question involved food. She was insistently, gnawingly hungry. However, she had noticed she was starting to put on water weight. Her stomach felt bloated. She feared that today’s brew of hunger plus PMS would make her overeat. She decided to have another cup of coffee with nonfat milk and four strawberries. Klaus and Elise expected her for tea this afternoon. Tea, luckily, had no calories, no issues.

  The phone rang. Her machine was off. She debated answering. She hadn’t talked with Jack since the Bar dinner and she still wasn’t ready, but it could be Klaus. She answered.

  “This is the governor’s office for Miss Sorensen,” a woman said formally. “Will you hold for Mr. Alex Antioch?”

  The governor’s assistant for judicial affairs came on the line. “Remy. Sorry to call on a Sunday.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to talk to you, Alex,” Remy said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. I wonder if you know why I am calling?”

  “You’re such a tease, Alex. C’mon. What’s up?”

  “The governor wants me to get you up here to Sacramento for a breakfast meeting tomorrow. Is that possible?”

  “Certainly,” Remy said, murmuring to herself, keep the breath even, that’s it, you’re composed, you e
xpected this—

  Alex’s voice lowered. “He’s down to two candidates for the judgeship. You’re made for the position. I noticed that when you came up.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” She allowed only a small drop of the ebullience she felt to leak into her voice. “What time?”

  “Seven thirty. The governor’s mansion.” He paused. “I’ll be there, too.”

  “I look forward to seeing him. And you, Alex.”

  “Ditto,” he breathed.

  Breakfast. Well, she would have all day to decide how much food she would have to choke down. Meanwhile, what should she wear? Even now, at the end of October, it could be warm in the Central Valley. She needed a new suit—maybe she could nab a Calvin Klein or even another Armani at Nordstrom at the Stanford Mall on the way. She needed to cancel Klaus, get a hair appointment, and call Jack and ask him to take over her cases just for a day.

  And bring along a couple of condoms just in case something developed. She had an idea about that and it had nothing to do with blubbery Alex Antioch.

  “I changed my mind,” said Bob, crunching on his Lucky Charms. “I don’t want to be a ghost tonight. Jason’s going to be a ghost, and I hate Jason.”

  Nina’s heart sank. Coming on the last day of the month, a day she needed to file important papers and study for a quiz, Halloween had galloped up and gobbled them whole. “We don’t hate people, honey,” she said automatically. Bob had missed school the day before, and she had missed half a workday, taking him over to a county-approved lab to have samples taken for a paternity test. Richard had received his court order. She hadn’t been able to do anything about it but seethe.

  “I want to be Captain Hook. Here. Look at this picture.” He studied a big picture book he had laid out on the breakfast counter. “I already have a sword and hat.”

  He did, she realized with relief.

  “What I don’t have is the hook.” She took the book from him. Not only did he not have the hook, he didn’t have the red jacket, the lace necklet, or the black boots with the silver buckles, and tonight was Halloween. Her son ran out of the room, returning with items he felt might be relevant, including a nasty-looking plastic sword in a scabbard. “I don’t need to wear it this morning. The parade is this afternoon,” he announced.