When the door shut behind him, I wept, picturing Charles driving the winding road to the Oceano in his gleaming black Cadillac. He had the freedom to soar through the verdant countryside, to his palace on the hill, away from our problems. A waiter in a crisp, white uniform would be waiting, handing him a Bloody Mary.
And I was left here, alone, to clean up this mess. My burn stung, and I rubbed the rag against the wall as hard as I could. But nothing would remove the stain from our marriage. It was stuck forever, a dark, dirty secret.
Chapter 4
Marisol Cruz
2007
Mari smoothed her blouse, pausing a moment before she knocked on the door to the offices above the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom. She looked down at her dark jeans, nervously wondering if they were appropriate for her first day on the job. At least they were clean. Last week, Lily had thought it was funny when she placed her paint-covered hands on Mari’s back, leaving two sticky palm prints on Mari’s favorite shirt.
With a deep breath, Mari rapped on the door. A grandmotherly woman pulled it open, her blue eyes sparkling from behind her glasses.
“You must be Marisol,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Carol.”
Mari shook it. “Nice to meet you, Carol. You can call me Mari.”
“Come on in.”
Mari entered a cramped office stacked with binders and boxes. Vintage posters, handbills and photographs papered the walls. Mari’s eyes were drawn to a black-and-white photograph of young women lined up in old-fashioned bathing suits, their wavy chin-length hair framing their faces, which hung above Carol’s desk.
“That’s the first-ever Miss California pageant,” Carol said. “It was held right here on the Santa Cruz boardwalk in 1924.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mari replied, though she was tempted to point out she was already well familiar with Santa Cruz’s history. The girls in the picture looked real, nothing like today’s beauty queens with their fake teeth and spray tans. Much better role models. Mari thought of TLC’s Toddlers & Tiaras, and the moms who entered their daughters, some younger than Lily, in cutthroat beauty pageants. It was horrible, but oddly fascinating. Why couldn’t they let their kids be kids?
Carol clapped her hands together. “Let me show you around. We have everything here ranging from nineteenth-century newspaper clippings to a nine-foot-long neon sign from the casino souvenir shop. Only a handful of people have access, and normally everything that leaves has to be signed out. But we’re displaying our most treasured artifacts for the Centennial Celebration.”
“That’s great,” Mari said, glimpsing a frayed white towel with the words “Property of Seaside Company” draped over the side of a cardboard box.
“This is a relic from the Saltwater Plunge,” Carol said. “It was a boardwalk attraction for fifty-five years. It closed in—”
“Nineteen sixty-two,” Mari said with a smile. “I happen to know a few things about the history of our town.”
“Of course,” Carol said, laughing. “I’m sorry for rambling on. I’ve been working alone here in the archives for so long, I fear I might be going a bit batty. Feel free to interrupt me anytime.”
Carol gestured to some larger boxes. “In there you’ll find a flügelhorn and bass drum from the Hastings Band. It was a popular beach-era attraction at the turn of the twentieth century. You can help me carry them downstairs.”
Mari reached into the box and removed a paper parasol.
“Do you know what that is?” Carol asked.
Mari nodded. “These were sold to hundreds of complexion-conscious beachgoers in the early nineteen hundreds. Unlike today, women did not want to be tan.”
“Correct, indeed.”
Mari smiled, though her heart sank, thinking about how little progress had been made in the last hundred years. Brown skin was still considered a setback in life. The racial taunts Mari endured as a child—beaner, spic and coconut—were harsh words she hoped Lily would never hear. Coconut had offended her the most. Just because she was articulate implied she was brown outside and white inside?
With her light skin and dazzling green eyes, Lily likely wouldn’t experience the same level of discrimination that Mari had. In fact, most kids at Lily’s preschool thought she was white. Your father is white, Mari had offered to Lily in explanation. Her whole body tensed whenever Lily asked about her dad.
Mari put the parasol back into the box, shaking the memory from her mind. Following Carol, she walked down the office corridors, where the items got larger: antique arcade games, a carousel horse, a wicker beach chair and a machine with escalating electrical shocks that said, “Electricity—The Silent Physician!”
“Ah,” Carol said, stopping in front of a box marked “1940.” “Here we are. Do you mind carrying this one downstairs? I’m afraid it’s a bit heavy for me.”
“Sure,” Mari said, lifting the box. “Where is the museum booth set up?”
“On the boardwalk, right across from the old gazebo. You’ll see the museum banner hanging over the tabletop. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. I have to find our reel of raffle tickets. I know they’re somewhere in this mess!”
WITH HER ARMS straining beneath the weight of the box, Mari’s stomach rumbled at the scent of garlic fries. Though she’d managed to eat half a sandwich before heading over to the beachside amusement park, the last time she’d sat down and enjoyed an uninterrupted meal had been before Lily was born.
A number of food stands dotted the boardwalk, their colorful awnings tempting Mari to buy something unhealthy: caramel apples, a hot dog on a stick, funnel cake, pepperoni pizza or a churro, her favorite Mexican pastry, rolled in cinnamon and sugar. It was a sad imitation of real churro, but smelled delicious nonetheless. Mari’s heart ached for her abuela, who made the best ones from scratch.
The memory of her grandmother rolling out the dough with her wrinkled, papery hands was punctured as Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” gave way to the sounds of hair metal. Passing the beach bandstand, Mari smiled, thinking of the musicians who had come to play in Santa Cruz during the jazz era—Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington. How romantic the boardwalk must have been, back when her grandparents danced beneath the fairy lights strung along the historic gazebo.
Sky glider chairs passed overhead, with tourists dangling their legs. Though its attractions had aged, the boardwalk still held a certain kind of magic. Beneath the faded paint of the buildings, Mari could imagine it exactly as it had been in its heyday—a lively place for dancing, carousel rides, bumper cars and kissing beneath the stars. Not that she would be kissing anyone. This wasn’t her grandparents’ era. Men today were boys, not gentlemen, completely unable to handle adult responsibility.
A few shirtless teenagers ambled past with their pants sagging over their boxer briefs. One wagged his tongue at her, then grabbed at his chest like he was feeling a large breast. What a little pendejo! And they only got worse as they got older.
The history museum’s green banner came into sight as Mari located the booth. She set down her heavy box, admiring the Victorian details of the old gazebo, which stood alone in the sand. The historic structure leaned slightly to one side and was badly in need of repair, but Mari pictured her grandmother in a fitted blue dress, Abuelo’s hands circling her waist as they danced salsa.
When her grandparents were alive, they would put on old records and dance sweetly around the living room. Mari loved knowing that even though they were gone, she could still picture them here in the gazebo, forever young.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Mari looked for Carol. People congregated around the main stage. Maintenance workers adjusted microphones and lights, getting ready for Mayor Harcourt to deliver his speech. A balloon arch bobbed against the bright blue sky, framing a banner that read 100 YEARS OF FAMILY FUN!
With Carol nowhere to be seen, Mari fanned out the museum pamphlets and tried to make herself useful. Reaching into the box, she lifted out a wooden frame. Behind the glass was a yello
wed Santa Cruz Magazine article, accompanying a photo of a beautiful young woman. Even though she smiled, her eyes held so much sadness.
“There you are. You found it.”
Mari set the framed article back inside the box. “I did.”
“Sorry about that,” Carol said, wiping perspiration from her brow. “I wasn’t kidding when I told you I’d misplaced the raffle tickets. It took me ages to find them.”
She plopped a wheel of purple tickets on the table. “Money goes in here,” Carol said, handing Mari a large plastic jar. “The tickets are ten dollars each. Our prizes range from a romantic dinner for two at Trabocco to a private tour of Santa Cruz’s historic homes. We have quite a few prizes. Do you think you’ll be able to memorize them all?”
Mari smiled. “I’m a waitress, of course I can.”
“Great! Now, let’s see here, we can get started with this box—”
Feedback from the speakers cut Carol off with a loud screech. Mari brought her fingers to her ears. A man in a black uniform rushed to the stage, adjusted the microphone, then disappeared into the shadows.
Cheers rose from the audience as Mayor Thomas Harcourt ascended the stairs. Mari clapped half-heartedly. For someone in his sixties, the mayor still had a handsome charm with a head of salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache.
“Good afternoon, Santa Cruz,” he said, waving at the crowd. The applause grew louder. “Welcome to the opening ceremony of our Beach Boardwalk Centennial Celebration. One hundred years of family fun!”
Taking the microphone in one hand, the mayor strolled across the stage. “While we treasure our town’s past, we are equally committed to its future, one that we can share with our children. We cherish our memories of riding the Giant Dipper and taking a spin on the Looff Carousel, but we’re also committed to progress and innovation.”
The mayor’s words faded into the background as Mari’s eyes drifted to the framed magazine article poking out of the box. She thought about the woman in the photograph. Who was she, and why did she look so sad?
The applause died down.
“. . . And with that, I am proud to introduce my son, Travis Harcourt. With my full endorsement, we’ll be building luxury condominiums right here on the beach.”
Mari’s eyes darted to the stage.
“Unfortunately, we will have to demolish the gazebo; however, the wood will be made available to local artisans. Here’s to building the future of Santa Cruz!”
Bracing herself against the table, Mari felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her. Her skin pricked with needlelike pain.
Travis Harcourt took the stage. He’d been in Mari’s graduating class at UCSC, a trust fund kid. His million-dollar smile beamed at the beachgoers, his thick brown hair perfectly coiffed. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he addressed the audience in his casual outfit of a button-down shirt and jeans.
“Hello to all the beautiful people of my hometown! How are you doing? I am so happy to see all of you here with your families today. Santa Cruz is where I grew up, and it will always be a place of strong family values.”
Mari balled her fists, her nails biting into the flesh of her palm.
“Today, I am proud to say that with my father’s support, we’re building luxury condos, right here overlooking the ocean. This is a passion project of mine, and I’m finally making it a reality. Santa Cruz is not only known for its beaches, but as a hub of innovation and discovery. We’re not that far from Silicon Valley. Let’s attract the best minds in the country to live here. Commerce is sure to follow!”
Carol narrowed her eyes. “The nerve of that young man. We don’t need luxury condos. The gazebo is a historic structure.”
Mari wanted to speak, but she couldn’t find her voice.
“Honey, are you all right?” Carol touched Mari’s arm with a soft hand. “You look nervous.”
“Do I?” Mari looked down at her hands, which she rubbed as though they were cold. “I’m sorry, it’s just—my grandparents, they loved that gazebo. They danced there all the time in the 1940s. It was where they held their wedding reception.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Sadness turned to anger as she clenched her jaw. Her first day working for the museum was supposed to be the beginning of a new chapter in her life—moving forward toward something better. Instead, she’d been dragged into the past . . . a painful reminder that men like Travis Harcourt could do what they wanted with no repercussions.
She imagined a shiny glass tower dominating the skyline, the bones of the gazebo buried in the sand beneath it. If the historic boardwalk disappeared piece by piece, what memories would she have left to share with her daughter?
Chapter 5
Violet Harcourt
1940
I’m withdrawing from the Miss America pageant.”
I felt numb as I uttered the words. But I couldn’t go to Atlantic City. Charles had made sure of that. He’d sent me a bouquet of roses after our incident, with a card that read, “I love you.” Now I was expected to play my part of the dutiful wife.
Evie stared at me openmouthed.
“Have you lost your mind?” she whispered. “You’ve dreamed of stardom as long as I’ve known you.”
The pageant organizer looked at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. The placard on his desk told me that he was Henry Warner. Two damp patches bloomed beneath his armpits.
“Miss Sweeting,” he said, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Are you certain you wish to withdraw from the pageant? Once you do, you can’t change your mind.”
“Yes, Mr. Warner. I’m awfully sorry to tell you this, but my name is Mrs. Harcourt. You see . . . I’m already married.”
Evie narrowed her eyes in a silent threat, though she ought to have known I’d never dare reveal her secret as well. Henry Warner’s face sagged, and then he shook his head. “That’s quite a shame. You lied on your application?”
My cheeks burned. “Yes, sir.”
I squeezed Evie’s hand. “Why don’t you go in my place? You’re a far better dancer than I am, and with your jitterbug routine, you’ll blow the judges away.”
Henry Warner fixed his gaze on Evie. “And you’re not married?”
I held my breath, the air seeming to vanish from the room. But Evie, without missing a beat, gave him a dazzling smile. “Of course not! Single as a gal can be.”
Bless her heart. This had been Evie’s harebrained idea in the first place. Let her go to Atlantic City instead.
“All right, then,” Mr. Warner said. “Miss Hastings, as the runner-up, you’re our new winner. Can you travel to New Jersey to compete for the crown?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Yes, sir.”
In spite of the fact that I ought to have been relieved, my stomach felt sour. How I wanted to impress Artie Schmekel, the judge with ties to Broadway, to show him I had what it took to become a star. And now I would never get the chance.
Evie grabbed my hands, smiling like she would burst from happiness. “Oh Violet, thank you!”
I flinched as she gripped my wrist where the ugly blister had formed, but I grinned through the pain. “You better knock their socks off.”
When Mr. Warner bent his head, reaching into his drawer with his eyes downcast, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “What’s the matter with you? I thought we agreed not to utter a peep. We pinky swore!”
“Not now,” I hissed.
“Ain’t that swell?” Evie said, releasing her grip as Mr. Warner sat upright in his chair. “I can’t wait to tell Frank. He’ll be over the moon!”
Mr. Warner lowered his glasses. “Frank?”
“My uh . . . uncle,” Evie said, giggling. I refrained from rolling my eyes. Evie’s husband, Frank, owned a car dealership. Despite Frank’s booming business, Charles didn’t like him. He found Frank’s jokes to be crass—a shame, because I thought Frank was a gas. Frank would be so happy for Evie, he’d likely pack their luggage for Atlantic City hims
elf. He’d laugh at how she pulled the wool over the eyes of the pageant organizers. And with a hat company agreeing to pay the pageant winner two thousand dollars to endorse its merchandise, he’d be thrilled.
I pictured Frank cheering, Atta, girl. That’s my girl up there!
Mr. Warner pushed a paper across his desk. “Miss Sweeting—or shall I say Mrs. Harcourt?—please sign here. This states that you’ve voluntarily withdrawn from the pageant, acknowledging yourself to be ineligible.”
Evie babbled to herself, something about needing a new wardrobe. She jitterbugged toward the open window. With a lump rising in my throat, I scrawled my name across the bottom of the page. As I did, the sleeve of my cardigan hiked up, revealing the nasty burn on my arm, and the purplish bruises from Charles.
Henry Warner’s eyes met mine. “Everything all right?”
I tugged my sleeve down. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. I’m a clumsy cook, that’s all. I had a little accident with some bacon grease.”
He clucked his tongue. “Cooking takes patience. You’ll get the hang of it.” His bushy brows pinched together as he studied my face. “You know, you’re a gifted soprano. But rules are rules, I’m afraid. Your friend sure is flipping her wig over there. I guess we won’t have a problem sending her to Jersey.”
“. . . and a ball gown!” Evie said, twirling in the corner. “I must have Uncle Frank buy me a new one for the pageant. A green one!”
“So everything’s settled, then?” I asked.
Mr. Warner beckoned Evie toward him with a hooked finger. “Almost. Come here, Cinderella. I need you to sign the papers too.”
I SUCKED MY strawberry milkshake through a red and white straw, while the waves crashed heavily against the shore. Children shrieked as they scampered about the beach. The wet sand sank beneath my bare feet, and the wind ruffled the hem of my calf-length dress. It was a beautiful, warm summer day, but there might as well have been thunderclouds overhead.
“Here,” Evie said, handing me the maraschino cherry from her vanilla shake. “I know you love these.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 3
