I popped it in my mouth. “Thanks.”
Even as I chewed, the sugary sweetness couldn’t erase the bitterness on my tongue. We’d gone to Marini’s soda fountain on the boardwalk after our visit to Mr. Warner’s office, but it hadn’t cheered my mood in the least.
The zip line whirred overhead. Donny Pierson hung from a trapeze by his knees, dangling Ricardo Cruz by one ankle and one wrist. I gasped as the muscular stuntman and the lean teenager launched from the balcony of the Boardwalk Casino, hurtling toward the ocean. The zip line was 750 feet long, spanning the length of the beach and pier.
I didn’t dare breathe as Donny and Ricky sped over the spectators on the sand, in the direction of Pleasure Pier. Seconds before the trolley slammed into the wooden pilings, both men let go of the trapeze, diving headfirst into the choppy waves. The beachgoers erupted into applause. The “Slide for Life,” Donny and Ricky’s stunt act, was one of the boardwalk’s most popular attractions and had been immortalized on a postcard.
“Those two could kill themselves,” Evie said, as the crowd went wild.
I shook my head. “I don’t know how Ricky does it.”
Ricky emerged from the water, his brown skin shining in the sun. He waved at the women, men and children who’d gathered to watch the stunt. Donny followed behind him, strutting the beach in his tight swim trunks. He smiled at two pretty girls, and they dissolved into giggles. Ricky waved at me, and then began to approach.
“Here comes the Mexican,” Evie whispered.
I elbowed her in the ribs. “Evie. He’s my friend.”
“Hi, Violet,” Ricky said, stopping in front of me and toweling off his wet hair. “Did you see my drop? Pretty bonkers, huh?”
“It sure was,” I answered. “You’re going to give me a heart attack. Say, don’t you think that stunt’s far too dangerous?”
He waved his hand. “I’ve practiced it loads. Besides, I’m a strong swimmer. Did ya know I can hold my breath underwater for two minutes?”
“Hot diggity dog,” Evie said. “That’s impressive.”
“Thanks.” Ricky smiled, his brown eyes squinting behind his freckled cheeks. “I gotta run, but we’re having a party tonight at the bowling alley if you gals wanna come. It’s a goodbye shindig for Harry Goodman. He’s moving to Hollywood.”
“Hollywood,” I said, unable to hide my shock.
“Yep. Doing stand-up at the Cocoanut Grove ain’t enough for him anymore. He wants to try his hand at making it big, going to the movie studios and all that. He says he knows some director. He’s leaving in the morning.”
“Well, I’ll say.” There was that bitter taste in my mouth again.
“Eight o’clock,” Ricky said, winking at me. “There’ll be rum punch and plenty of dancing. It’ll be a gas! I hope you’ll join us.”
“No thanks,” Evie replied. “Vi and I have a prior engagement.”
“That’s too bad,” Ricky said. “Another time, then.”
I watched Ricky’s slender build shrink into the distance, then I turned to Evie. “You didn’t have to turn the fella down so quickly.”
She shook her head. “Violet, I’m only looking out for you. What would Charles do if he saw you socializing with Ricardo Cruz? You know how he feels about Mexican immigrants. And going to a party with entertainers and service workers? It’s not proper . . . even if we would have one hell of a time.”
“You’re right,” I said, curling my toes in the sand. “But I don’t always agree with Charles. Besides, I was a service worker . . . remember? I used to wait tables at Mary’s Chicken Shack, right here on the boardwalk.”
I held my breath, fearing I’d said too much. Part of me longed to tell Evie the truth. What would she say if she knew?
“Vi,” Evie said, her expression suddenly serious. “Is everything all right? I don’t want to compete in the Miss America pageant if it’s still your dream. That’d be a crummy thing to do. Why did you tell Mr. Warner you were married?”
My throat tightened. I couldn’t let Evie suspect a thing, or heaven knows what Charles might do.
“I’m not sure the limelight is for me after all,” I said, giving her what I hoped appeared to be a genuine smile. “Especially when my leading man is right here at home.”
She grinned. “You’re ready for a bun in the oven.”
A twinge of discomfort worked its way down my spine, then a spike of dread. I’d wanted children with Charles. Yet he’d become so unpredictable lately . . .
I forced a laugh. “I’m a rotten liar. Thinking about keeping up the charade for the judges made me woozy. You, my dear, have the best poker face I’ve ever seen.”
Evie nudged me in the ribs. “A little white lie never hurt anybody.”
My eyes settled in the distance on the green and white awning of Mary’s Chicken Shack and my heart sank. How I missed the fun I used to have with my waitress pals, Stella and Dot, and listening to the jukebox at the soda fountain after work, laughing and joking with Ricky. I didn’t have much, but I had my freedom. Then Charles asked me to leave my job. And of course I did.
The white lie I’d been telling myself, that everything would be all right, wasn’t working anymore. My marriage was a sham. I touched Evie’s hand.
“I ought to visit Mother for lunch. Sorry, I’ve got to skedaddle. Give me a ring tomorrow, will you?”
“Will do,” she said, blowing me a kiss. “Take care, honey.”
IN THE OLD-FASHIONED kitchen of the farmhouse where I’d grown up, I patted the last of Mother’s porcelain plates dry, running the dishcloth along the chipped edges.
“You’ve made the right choice,” Mother said.
Her suit-dress hung around her narrow frame. Neither one of us had been lucky enough to inherit Grandma’s curves. But at least I had some, whereas Mother’s legs were twigs and her breasts mosquito bites. My belted dress gave me the illusion of a waist, though my figure was too boyish for my liking.
“Yes,” I said, staring out the window at the sagging porch. The blue paint had faded, giving the old Victorian a sad and neglected look. And the damp, salty air had been harsh on the aging wood. Father didn’t have the money to fix it.
“You’re lucky to have him,” Mother said, her gray eyes weary. “The rest of us have to be frugal. You’ve got a man who can provide.”
Like a figurine inside a snow globe, I was enclosed in a bubble of comfort. Mother constantly reminded me that I had married up. If only she knew the true cost of my shiny life. Mother, with her pale lips and cropped curls, rarely spoke about feelings. Yet, right now, I could desperately use some motherly advice.
“Did you ever sacrifice your dreams for Father?” I asked.
Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Dreams are for fools. We live in an unfair world, Violet. You’re fortunate to have a man to protect you.”
Lucky. Fortunate. I should be so grateful.
I stepped into the sitting room and trailed my fingers along the keys of Grandma’s piano. The notes made a ghostly sound. Our antique grandfather clock ticked dutifully in the corner. It had served as a metronome when Grandma sat next to me on the piano bench, teaching me to play scales.
I touched a framed photo of my grandmother, which sat atop the piano. Her deep blue eyes twinkled, the same shade as my own.
“Your eyes are bewitching,” Charles used to say. “I never want to look at anything else.”
Sadness hit me all at once, and I longed for my grandmother’s soft embrace. She had to die, as elderly people do. But that didn’t make her passing any easier. Suddenly, the dark old house felt suffocating.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I said, walking through the kitchen. “Thank you for lunch.”
“Violet, where are you—”
Before she could stop me, I hurried down the porch steps and ran around the side of the house. Beneath the ramshackle awning, my old blue beach cruiser leaned against the clapboard siding. I brushed off the cobwebs and hopped on my Schwinn.
Pedaling toward the ocean, my legs pumped as I climbed the hill. Sweat beaded on my brow and the wind tangled my hair. I rolled downward, toward the endless Pacific, shimmering blue. Exhilaration filled me at the freedom of it.
Charles wasn’t here to admonish me or to control my every move. Tears stung my eyes. White-hot panic blossomed in my chest.
What if the next time was worse?
My breath came in deep gulps. I turned onto a path, my bicycle hurtling down it. Then I squeezed the brakes, coming to a screeching halt. Letting go of the handlebars, I swung my leg over the seat. My Schwinn clattered against the ground.
I let out a sob. My perfect life was a lie. Leaving my bicycle on the ocean path, I walked toward the cliff’s edge, my saddle shoes crunching the ice plant, which burst with purple flowers. The tide rushed in violently, and the ocean spray touched my face, inviting me to come closer.
I took a hesitant step forward. Loose pebbles toppled over the brink and fell into the choppy water below. I swallowed. The slippery rocks at the mouth of the cove jutted out of the ocean with slick, sharp edges.
My heart pumped harder. If I didn’t break free I’d lose my mind, or die at the hands of my husband. I shut my eyes. I needed to be fearless.
Chapter 6
Marisol Cruz
2007
Mari sold raffle tickets with a smile, but inside she seethed with anger. The locals who lived in this town deserved to enjoy waterfront views. Instead those would belong to rich vacationers who’d stay in their million-dollar luxury condos for only half the year. And the historic gazebo was beloved by so many people.
Did Mayor Harcourt really want to take away the integrity of the boardwalk, trading it for a homogenized and sterile look? Santa Cruz’s funky Victorians and Art Deco structures lent the town its character.
After the hours of her shift passed, Mari put away the last of the museum brochures. Other vendors had already shut down their booths. She surveyed the artifacts, which she’d packed and organized.
Her fingers trailed along the edge of the framed magazine article. Curiosity compelled her to lift the frame from the box. There was something about that beautiful girl, her hair done up in pin curls, smiling with a sad, far-off look in her eyes. Mari read the text.
A BEAUTIFUL SUICIDE: LOOKING BACK AT THE TROUBLED LIFE OF MISS CALIFORNIA
September 25, 1940
On Friday, September 24, around 7:30 in the evening, 20-year-old Violet Harcourt walked to the edge of the bluff on West Cliff Drive overlooking Natural Bridges. Through the mist she gazed at the ocean, 30 feet below.
In her desperate determination, she leapt, hitting a ledge before plunging into the choppy waters. Several eyewitnesses recount watching her red dress billow in the breeze, and her slender frame disappear beneath the waves.
Police immediately sent a search party to the scene, but Harcourt’s body never resurfaced. The authorities have determined her death a suicide, and the cause of death, drowning. However, Harcourt left no suicide note behind.
Harcourt (née Sweeting) is survived by her husband, Charles Harcourt, and her parents, Mary and William Sweeting. Why would a young woman with so much potential take her own life? This is the question that Harcourt’s grieving friends and family are struggling to answer.
Two months prior to her death, Harcourt, recently crowned Miss California, withdrew from the Miss America pageant, admitting her marital status rendered her ineligible to compete. Runner-up Evelyn Hastings took her place, inheriting the title of Miss California.
Harcourt, an auburn-haired beauty, had sought the silver screen of Hollywood, according to Hastings. She had landed a minor role as “the vixen at the bar” in a John Huston film. Harcourt was a gifted soprano, and a graduate of Mills College in Oakland, where she majored in music.
Her lead role as Belle Stark in the Santa Cruz stage production of Rocket to the Moon will be remembered fondly as a moving performance. The beautiful young woman with the voice of an angel now rests among the clouds.
As Mari looked at the photograph of Violet, it felt as if Violet were trying to tell her something—but what? The name Harcourt wasn’t very common in Santa Cruz. Could she be related to the mayor? Mari mused. Sliding the framed article back inside the box, Mari felt sad for the aspiring starlet who’d taken her own life.
She turned to look at the gazebo. It leaned slightly to the left, empty and forgotten. But what if its wood floors were sanded and waxed until they shone, and globe lights strung across its rafters? A muralist could touch up the faded image of a starry night sky painted on the ceiling and bring its magic back to life.
This gazebo had once been a gathering place where shy young men and women made eyes at each other from across the dance floor. Mari swallowed the sour taste in her mouth and turned away. Soon the gazebo would be nothing but dust.
“ORDER UP FOR table seven!”
Mari wiped the perspiration from her brow as she picked up a hot plate of huevos rancheros. Her mouth watered looking at the fresh slices of avocado and the big dollops of salsa and sour cream. Rumbling loudly, her stomach reminded her that once again, she’d forgotten to eat breakfast. But that was being a mom, right?
Last night, Lily had climbed into Mari’s bed, tearful and afraid. She’d had another nightmare about a faceless man. Mari stroked her daughter’s hair until her tears dried, and Lily fell asleep. But Mari lay awake, her mind spinning. Could these dreams of the man with no face be Lily’s interpretation of not knowing who her father was?
Mari was willing to talk with Lily about her father, but not right before bed. She didn’t turn off the TV when Dora the Explorer talked to her daddy, but Mari usually tried not to place a deliberate emphasis on “dad” in Lily’s life. She’d changed every reference of “Daddy” to “Mommy” in Lily’s favorite bedtime story, Mr. Pickles Says Goodnight.
She’d brought up her concerns with Lily’s pediatrician. Dr. Marlow assured her it was okay not to overly expose Lily to “daddy” movies or books. She said to answer Lily’s questions about her father kindly and simply. Mari tried her best. She reminded Lily there were all types of families, and what really mattered was love: Abuelo, Abuela and I love you more than the moon and stars, you know that.
Covering her yawn with her hand, Mari approached table seven, hoping she could change Lily’s bedtime routine, maybe add in an extra story, anything to prevent the nightmares. She looked up expecting an elderly citizen eating alone on a Monday morning. But instead she found a guy her age, his thick brown hair tousled as he hunched over a copy of The Kite Runner. His eyes met hers, chocolate brown and warm.
“Huevos rancheros,” she said, setting the plate down in front of him. “Is there anything else I can get you? Coffee, tea?”
He smiled, his grin disarming. “I’d love some coffee. Do you have a dark roast?”
“We have Java. It’s from—”
Without warning, Wanda swooped down upon them. She smiled from behind her cat’s-eye glasses. “The Java is from Latin America, just like Marisol here. You’ll love it. Enjoy your breakfast, handsome.”
Mari’s cheeks pricked with heat. Thankfully, Wanda bustled over to the next table, to flirt with other unsuspecting patrons.
“It’s from Indonesia,” Mari said, voice lowered. “And I’m from California, born and raised in Santa Cruz.”
The young guy chuckled, extending his hand. “I’m Jason, nice to meet you.”
“Mari,” she said, startled by the warmth of his palm. It had been a long time since someone cute had touched her.
“This is a silly question,” Jason said. “And I don’t want to sound like a coffee snob, but do you know if the coffee is fair trade?”
Mari smiled. “It’s not a silly question at all. Offering better trading conditions to coffee bean farmers is important.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Unfortunately, Wanda is in the habit of replacing our fair trade coffee with regular. It’s cheaper.”
“Ah,” Jason
whispered back. “Thanks for the tip.”
“That’s a great book, by the way,” Mari said, glancing down at his worn copy. “I love the complicated friendship between the wealthy boy and the son of his father’s servant, and the intimate look at the history of Afghanistan. It’s beautiful, and sad.”
“Do you enjoy history?”
“Absolutely. History was my major, back in college.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like you graduated a long time ago. But that can’t be possible . . . unless maybe you were a child prodigy?”
Mari laughed. “I’m twenty-six and not a wunderkind of any sort. Though I did graduate with honors.”
“Nice,” Jason said. His brows drew together. “Is this, like, a part-time job while you write the next great historical novel?”
Mari clenched her jaw. Why had she even bothered to tell him about herself?
“No, it’s my everyday job.”
“Oh,” Jason replied. “That’s cool. Everyone’s got to make a living. In fact, I took a new job at UC Santa Cruz only a week ago. I moved here from Chicago, so I don’t know anyone yet.” He smiled again, his brown eyes sparkling. “I could really use someone, like an impressively knowledgeable local, to show me around. Would you like to get lunch together sometime?”
Mari’s stomach tensed. It was hard enough to explain to Lily why she didn’t have a father—that some daddies weren’t ready to be daddies yet. She remembered Lily as a newborn, her chubby little face with a Cupid’s-bow mouth, alert eyes and rosy cheeks. Who couldn’t love such a perfect baby? But Lily’s father chose not to share those heart-melting gummy smiles. And she still resented him for it.
The last thing Mari needed was to confuse Lily. It was pointless to start a relationship. Why get her daughter’s hopes up just to smash them?
“Sorry,” Mari stammered. “I can’t—I better get to my other tables. Enjoy your breakfast.”
She turned her back to Jason and her shoes squeaked against the linoleum as she walked away. It was safer to keep things as they were. No one would get hurt that way.
Boardwalk Summer Page 4
