Ocean Waves

by Terri Thayer

  Lucy came up behind me, nudged me, and pointed to the man who was punching tickets. “That guy has been with Asilomar since the fifties.”

  “The 1950s?” I said. I knew it sounded dumb, but the man greeting us didn’t seem old enough to have worked here for nearly sixty years. He was white-haired, and had the wrinkled brown-paper-bag skin that attested to working in the sun, but his eyes were sparkling and he was warmly gracing each of us with a smile.

  “Carlos,” Lucy said. “Meet Dewey. A virgin.”

  I shot Lucy a look, but Carlos acted as though he’d heard it before.

  “My pleasure, young lady. Enjoy your breakfast. If you have any questions about the facility, please ask me.”

  “My brother, Tony, is just starting to work here as a Ranger,” I told him proudly.

  “Then you won’t be needing my personal tour. You’ve got your own guide,” he said, returning my meal ticket and reaching past me to the next person in line.

  “Carlos knows where all the bodies are buried,” Lucy said.

  Carlos frowned and waved his hand in a get-along motion. “No bodies, no secrets, no lies.”

  Carlos was finished with us, moving on to the people behind us, pushing us through the line. I got my plate filled with scrambled eggs, sausage, and biscuits and sat back at the table.

  Once we were all settled, everyone was careful not to talk quilt shops.

  “So, you’re all friends?” I asked.

  Sherry said, “We only see each other once a year, so we like to check in at mealtimes. We’re hardcore. Been coming since the beginning. Fourteen years.”

  “Are you all in the same class?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Sherry said. “I’m in Stars and Bars.”

  They spoke in turn around the table, naming the sessions they’d be attending. Portraits in Fabric, Piecing Precision, Printing on Fabric, and Legendary Quilts.

  “What about you?” Nan asked. “What class are you taking?”

  “I’m in Legendary Quilts,” I said.

  Lucy gave a little wave, acknowledging that we’d be in class together. “Me too,” she said. “And Harriet.”

  Harriet forced a smile.

  “It’s going to be a great week.” Sherry said. “Mercedes always has a few surprises in store for us. Special exhibits, speakers.”

  “Strippers?” An older woman in a lacy cardigan cupped her ear and leaned across the table. “Did you say strippers?”

  Nan said, horrified. “No, no, Rosie. No need to worry.”

  “Who’s worried? I just wanted to make sure I had dollar bills on me,” she said, her skinny fingers rifling through the fanny pack strapped around her waist.

  Sherry said, “Nan, you have an exhibit here, don’t you?”

  Nan nodded. “I brought some of my best sewing boxes. Mercedes is going to set them up in the chapel in time for the orientation meeting later.”

  “What meeting?” I asked.

  Sherry said, “Oh, you’ll be there. All Mercedes’ meetings are mandatory. According to Mercedes, there are only three places her students should be in the evenings.” She put up a finger for each item as she counted. “In a dorm sleeping, in a classroom sewing, or in the chapel at the scheduled event.”

  “Or on the phone. From seven to nine p.m.,” I recited.

  Lucy tilted her coffee cup in my direction. “Forget that. Bitsy Wong has that tied up. By the time she says good night to each of her eight kids, the time is up.”

  “Mercedes found me on the phone …” I started to tell them about my excursion last night until I realized I’d have to explain what I was doing out at three in the morning, and decided to drop my story. I wasn’t ready to tell these women I’d thought I’d heard someone screaming in the night.

  Still, I didn’t understand how they put up with Mercedes’ rules.

  “How do you reach home while you’re here?” I asked.

  “I’m thrilled to be without my phone,” Harriet said. “I’m on call all the time for my job, and this is the only time I can really relax.”

  “My kids bug their father for a change. Okay by me,” Sherry drawled.

  The redhead pointed her fork at Sherry, as if to start to say something, a piece of spinach from her omelet stuck on her front tooth. One of the others mimed scrubbing at her teeth until the redhead got the idea, and used her tongue to clear it before speaking.

  “Is the Ghost in your class?” she said, finally.

  “You mean she isn’t in my class, don’t you, Red?” Sherry said.

  “I didn’t see her at registration,” Nan said, checking around the table.

  My curiosity got the best of me. “Who’s the Ghost?”

  “She comes every year, from somewhere on the East Coast.”

  Lucy, the blonde, interrupted. “Vermont,” she said.

  At the same time, a round-faced woman broke in, “Indiana.” She shrugged. “That’s what I remember.”

  “We know what your memory is worth,” Lucy said. That got a laugh. Everyone at the table was middle-aged, at least. I knew from my customers that they were sure to suffer from an impossible-to-rely-on brain.

  “But who is the Ghost?” I asked.

  “No one knows,” Sherry said.

  The redhead waved her fork again, spraying the ones nearest to her with bits of egg. “The point is, she comes every year, but attends class only on the first day, for maybe three hours. Until the first lunch hour, and then she disappears for rest of the week.”

  But Sherry had a similar thought. “She might have met with foul play.”

  “She comes back every year,” Nan offered as proof that she was still alive.

  Red smirked and said, “I haven’t seen her lately.”

  I thought about the scream I’d heard last night. Could that have been her?

  I looked around the table. There were no signs of worry. I remembered that no one at the Administration building last night seemed concerned, either. I waited to see if anyone else brought it up. I was beginning to wonder if I’d dreamed the sound.

  “What if she’s a serial killer? ‘She prowls the Monterey peninsula,’” Sherry said, doing a spot-on imitation of a movie trailer. “‘Quilting by day, killing by night. See the Sewing-by-the-Sea Seminar Killer, playing now in selected theaters. Gives a whole new meaning to the words Open Air Dyeing.’”

  The women tittered, and Nan covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes were dancing with delight.

  “She’s probably just catching up on her sleep,” Lucy said. “One year Rachel Clark came and folded fabric the entire time. She said it was restorative.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s restorative …” Red offered, her voice, low and sexy. “A week holed up with a man.”

  “Sometimes she shows up for the last night show and tell,” Nan said, talking over Red. “Looking great. Well rested.”

  “Well screwed is more like it,” Red said.

  Two quilters recoiled. Several laughed. I scooped up the last of my egg using my toast, hiding a smile. The quilters I knew could be salty, unlike their image portrayed on bathroom tissue commercials. And a murderous bunch.

  “Seriously,” Red continued. “What do you think she does for a week? She’s shacked up somewhere with a guy.”

  “It’s like that movie, Same Time, Next Year,” another person put in. Her eyes got soft. “Alan Alda, isn’t he the sexiest man ever?”

  I was more a Clive Owen or Jonathan Rhys-Meyer fan myself. Alan Alda was older than my father. Cute, but wicked old. Almost as old as James Garner.

  Sherry said, “You know what they say: what happens in Asilomar stays in Asilomar.”

  “Nobody says that,” Red said.

  Conversation faded as the Ghost talk sputtered. No o
ne knew much about her. I looked around the large room, hoping to find a new conversation topic. The bones of the room were my favorite style of architecture, Arts and Crafts style. The muslin drapes with pine cone stencils and overhead beams gave the huge place a cozy feel.

  I knew my Arts and Crafts. “Julia Morgan was the architect here, wasn’t she?” I said. “Do you know who she is? She was an Arts and Crafts proponent, famous here in the Bay Area.”

  I was getting blank looks. We were sitting in one of the best examples of this kind of architecture around. I couldn’t believe no one cared.

  “She did Hearst Castle?” I prompted, breaking off a piece of toast.

  My unsuccessful attempt to change the subject was interrupted by a shrill, high-pitched noise. I clamped my hands over my ears.

  Mercedes stood on a chair in the middle of the room, her hand still on the whistle around her neck. There was no need to blow it again. The air seemed to reverberate from the last blast. The room grew quiet. Even the gulls outside stopped crying.

  Mercedes began. “By now, you should be getting settled at the fourteenth annual Sewing-by-the-Sea quilt symposium. I’m Mercedes Madsen, the one who will hear all of your complaints, large or small. I know you’ll have some, you always do.”

  I was taken aback by her tone, as though she was admonishing a bunch of four-year-olds who had spilled their milk on the carpet and refused to stop playing in it. It wasn’t just me she treated like a child. I bristled, but looking around, I saw only smiling faces. No one else seemed to mind.

  Mercedes said, “No questions? No complaints about your roommate’s snoring?” She looked around.

  The noise in the room flattened even more. Most of the women watched Mercedes with affection. I felt like the only one who found her abrasive.

  “In that case, I want to introduce Ranger Schmitt.”

  “Good morning,” the smiling ranger said. Her friendly demeanor was in high contrast to Mercedes. This was a woman who enjoyed her work. And people.

  I had a second reason for coming to this seminar. My brother, Tony, a California Park Ranger, had been assigned to Asilomar. This might be his boss up there.

  “I welcome you. My rangers are at your disposal. We want you to have the best experience possible,” she said warmly

  The ranger continued, “Here at Asilomar, we co-exist with the local wildlife. That’s why we ask you not to walk in the dunes, and to stick to the paths when you’re moving between buildings. Respect the ecosystem and we’ll all get along fine.”

  Ranger Schmitt stepped aside and Mercedes took over. “Good advice. Stick to the rules and we’ll have a great week.”

  She looked around meaningfully. Some quilters bowed their heads, afraid to look her in the eye.

  She continued, “For now, let me remind you of the parameters. Your classes are held from nine until four each day. Breakfast is at 7:30, lunch at noon, dinner at six. You can sew in the classrooms until midnight. Cell phones are banned as usual. I thank you in advance for cooperating,” she said, pausing for effect and letting her gaze fall on me.

  No one spoke. Mercedes continued, “One more thing. I’d planned to introduce you to my new assistant this morning, but she is feeling under the weather.”

  “Mini-Mer,” Sherry whispered.

  Mercedes said, “We’re housed in the Pirates’ Den. We have set up our office in the living room area. Feel free to stop by with your concerns.”

  She held her arms up, her voice rising like a preacher’s.

  “At Sewing-by-the-Sea, we believe that total immersion is the key to learning. This is why your linens are changed for you, your meals are provided, and your classrooms stocked with the latest technology. We will make every effort to make your lives trouble free.”

  She smiled, looking around the room. Her voice deepened.

  “To that end, please limit yourself to the Asilomar grounds. I know many of you don’t have your cars here, but those that do, I insist you abide by the rules. No trips off campus. I will collect car keys, if necessary.”

  I glanced at the others at my table, trying to gauge their reaction to this bombshell. The women were unconcerned.

  Was that orange juice in that pitcher or Kool-Aid? I felt like I’d been dropped into a cult. No one at the table would look me in the eye. I resisted the temptation to look under the table and see if they were all wearing new sneakers.

  “Back to class,” Mercedes said, clapping her hands like a frontier schoolmarm. “Remember, no forays off the grounds. No exceptions.”

  I hurried out of the dining hall, my scrambled egg a lump in my stomach. I hadn’t been without my keys since the day I’d turned sixteen and passed my driver’s test. My car was a part of me. There was no way I was giving her my keys.

  I didn’t get past the porch. My older brother, Tony, was standing on the step, in full California State Park Ranger gear. I resisted the urge to punch his shoulder, settling for a gentle nudge with my elbow.

  Tony had just been assigned to Asilomar. I wondered how he would handle mentoring a bunch of middle-aged women. He was used to rougher terrain in the eastern Sierras.

  He seemed to be doing okay, reassuring a pink-faced woman that she had not crushed an endangered wildflower by crossing on the dirt path through the circle of pines. She walked away, seemingly mollified.

  He pulled me in for a hug. “Hey, sis.”

  Quilters passed us as they hurried off to class.

  “Bro,” I said, our usual greetings. “Enjoying your new gig?”

  “It’s different,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Yeah, I know. You know your wildlife and nature, but what about the history of this place? Which buildings are the Julia Morgan ones? How about the YWCA? Do you even know what a Stuck-Up is?” I quizzed him. I’d read everything I could about the place before coming down.

  He had a blank look on his face. It wasn’t often I knew more than my big brother. It felt good. I laughed. “You’ve got some reading to do. I’ve got some books you can borrow.”

  A bell tolled, signaling that class would begin in five minutes. My classroom was a bit of a walk, at least a half mile away.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “Coffee later? I’m off at three,” he said.

  “Here? Not going to happen,” I said. “The espresso machine is broken in the store.” I knew the one thing Tony valued about civilization was good coffee.

  “All right. Meet me in town. Juice ’n’ Java.”

  The pink-faced woman laid a hand on Tony’s arm. She had another question. He bent down to answer her.

  “Make it four,” I said. Class would be over by then. I wasn’t supposed to go into town, but what could Mercedes do anyway? Kill me?

  Tony waved me off, and said to her, “If you’d like to know more, you’re welcome to join the nature walk at six tomorrow morning.”

  Six a.m. Yikes. Part of the ranger’s duties here were informative sessions with the guests. Tony, as the newest arrival, must have pulled the early duty.

  I hurried up the asphalt path leading through the pines. My head was down, deep in thought about Tony and what it would mean having him nearby for the first time in years. He’d been assigned all over the state, but never so close to home before.

  He’d left home for college when I was about fourteen. Fourteen and so engrossed in my own circle of friends, I’d barely noticed when he’d gone. But I hadn’t known then his choice of profession, or maybe his nature, would keep him far from the family for years. He and I had a lot of catching up to do.

  Asilomar was a state park, policed by California Park Rangers. I didn’t know if Tony had chosen this gig, or if it had been forced on him. His previous stints had been in wilderness areas.

  Asilomar was a serie
s of unconnected buildings, hidden among the pine trees and scrub oaks. It was bordered by the ocean, the town of Pacific Grove and the resorts at Pebble Beach. Built as a women’s retreat by the YWCA in the early part of the twentieth century, newer buildings had gone up fifty years later.

  According to the map I’d been given in my registration packet, my classroom, Evergreen, was on the opposite side of Asilomar Road, past the bog and the native-stone pillars built nearly a hundred years ago. The building was small, just the size of a classroom. The walls were wood with plenty of windows. A piano sat next to the door and a large fireplace dominated the opposite wall.

  Two six-foot tables sat in the middle of the room. The rest of the tables were positioned around them in a square so that when seated, the students would face the teacher in the middle and see each other. I found an empty space, and laid down my tote bag. Beaded, painted, decorated with found objects and fancy couched yarns, one of my favorite customers, Pearl, had made it for me. The pocket was embellished with a pithy question: “What is not art?”

  The perimeter of the room was ringed with colorful rolling carts and tote bags. Mercedes had collected our bags at registration. She or her assistant must have parked them in here since last night. I had to wonder what kind of woman her assistant was. Someone who didn’t mind being bossed around?

  Several students had the expensive Tutto bags. We’d just started carrying them at the store. Coming in bright colors, like lime green and hot pink, they were sturdy enough to go on an airplane. Even at cost, I couldn’t afford one right now. I retrieved my plain-Jane suitcase filled with fabric and supplies.

  The teacher was pinning small quilts to the wall, which was covered in burlap between the wood battens. She was dressed in many layers of earth-toned clothing. She was wearing scarves and what looked like more than one skirt, and several tank tops. A vest flapped open as she reached up, revealing the silk paisley lining. Her arm was covered in bracelets, and necklaces of all sizes coexisted on her neck.