Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  “Oh Ricky,” I said. “I had no idea.”

  “Every night, I’d look up at the stars and dream of running away to join the circus. I’d seen the circus once in Mexico City, and the tightrope walkers and tigers mesmerized me. But when I saw the trapeze artists, I felt something inside me light up. That was exactly what I wanted to do—I wanted to fly.”

  “Did you tell your parents about your dream?”

  Ricky nodded. “They thought it was nonsense and told me to get my head out of the clouds. Instead, I found an old rope, strung it up between two tree branches, and practiced swinging back and forth.”

  I smiled, picturing little Ricky, tired after hours of relentless work on the farm, refusing to let exhaustion crush his spirit.

  “What happened?”

  Ricky got a faraway look in his eyes. “When I was fourteen, I couldn’t take it anymore. I hitched a ride to Salinas, where other farmers went looking for work. Then from there, I hitchhiked to Monterey, then Santa Cruz, where I’d heard of the Beach Boardwalk and the performers who worked here.”

  “Have you spoken to your parents since then?”

  Ricky shook his head. “I hide money inside a bag of corn flour with a note saying it’s for my ma’s tortillas and mail it to the farm. I hope that Mama is getting it.” He smiled wistfully. “I sent her a postcard with me performing the ‘Slide for Life’ so she’d know how far I’ve come.”

  I’d seen the photo of Ricky and Donny dangling from the trapeze. It was one of the most popular postcards sold at the souvenir shop.

  “It must have been terribly hard to leave,” I said softly. “But I’m sure your mother is proud of you.”

  His eyes were sad. “I got my own box at the post office in case my ma ever writes me back. Number seven-seven-seven.”

  I smiled. “Lucky number.”

  “Look,” Ricky said, lowering his voice as Harry emerged from the men’s room. “If you’re in trouble, I can help. And if you want to go to Hollywood, I’ll get you there.” His eyes narrowed. “Violet, if your husband ever lays a finger on you . . .”

  Charles would kill Ricky if he found out we were in cahoots.

  My voice dropped to a whisper. “I have enough money for a ticket to San Jose on the Suntan Special. I can take a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles from there. But I’m frightened someone will recognize me at the station.”

  Ricky looked at me. “Ask Harry to drive you. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”

  I bit my lip. I hadn’t thought my escape plan through beyond getting on the midnight train. But in my heart, I’d hoped Harry Goodman would be my salvation.

  “Please don’t tell Harry the truth about Charles. He’ll never agree to take me to Hollywood unless he thinks my husband has allowed me to go.”

  “My dear friends,” Harry said, slapping a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “It’s time for me to hit the hay. That was one hell of a party.”

  “Harry,” I said, gathering my courage. “Could I hitch a ride with you to Hollywood? I’ve only brought a small bag, and I won’t be a bother, I promise.”

  “Ha!” Harry said. “Good one, Violet.”

  “I’m serious. You said you know a casting director? It’d mean the world to me if you could introduce me.”

  Harry stroked his cleft chin with a meaty hand. “What about your fella? Surely he doesn’t want you traveling all the way to Los Angeles with a grumpy old fart like me.”

  “He trusts you,” I lied. “Everyone who’s ever met you knows you’re decent to the core. Besides, with business booming at the Oceano, Charles doesn’t have time to drive to Hollywood. You’d be doing us both such a large favor.”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Something doesn’t feel right about this. Why don’t you sleep on it, and your fella can talk to me in the morning?”

  My shoulders sank. I couldn’t go back to my old life—I couldn’t.

  “Charles sent Violet over here,” Ricky said, giving Harry a winning smile. “Didn’t I tell ya? He’s proud as can be of Violet. Said to me he can’t wait to see his wife take on Hollywood. She’s going to be a star.”

  I held my breath. Was Harry drunk enough to believe Ricky?

  “All righty, then,” Harry said, a puzzled look on his face. “The more the merrier! Should I pick you up tomorrow ’round noon? My car’s already packed to the brim, but I suppose I’ve got room for another bag.”

  “We leave tonight,” I said, surprised at the firmness in my voice.

  Harry laughed. “Honey, I’m in no state to drive.”

  “I can drive.” In truth, it had been over a year since I’d driven. Charles forbade it, like he controlled every other aspect of my life.

  “Why the rush?” Harry asked. “It’s nearly midnight, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Think of how we’ll beat the awful Los Angeles traffic. Aren’t you as eager to get to Hollywood as I am?”

  Ricky slapped a palm on Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, Harry. Listen to the gal!”

  “Okay,” Harry said, waving his hands in surrender. “To hell with it! I hope you’re an excellent driver, Miss Violet, because if you so much as scratch my Oldsmobile . . .”

  I batted my eyelashes. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Ricky placed a comforting hand on my back as he guided me out of the bowling alley, through the parking lot and into the driver’s seat of Harry’s car. I stuck the keys in the ignition, my nerves rattled as I looked around the empty lot. Fog hung thick over the street lamps, and the ocean waves crashed against the shore.

  Harry mumbled something, then tilted back his seat and dozed off.

  “You do know how to drive, don’t you?” Ricky asked.

  I pushed in the clutch and shifted into first. “It’s been a while.”

  “That’s it,” Ricky said. “Now let the clutch out slowly so you don’t rev the engine too much.”

  I did as I was told. The car sputtered to life.

  “Ricky,” I whispered. “I’m scared. Look at this fog.”

  “Trust yourself,” Ricky said. “Even if you can only see as far as your headlights, you can make it the whole way like that. Keep your eyes on the road in front of you. And shift into second gear before you stop.”

  “Thank you,” I said, fighting the knot of fear in my stomach. “I’ll send you a postcard as soon as I arrive, so you know that I’m safe.”

  Ricky rapped the window with his knuckle. “You’re braver than you think.”

  He held my eyes for a meaningful second, as if he sensed my resolve wavering. His voice softened. “I’m sorry about Charles. I really am. If there’s anything you need, I’m always here for you. You promise you’ll come to me if you’re in trouble?”

  “I promise.”

  With both hands clutching the steering wheel, I navigated Harry’s Oldsmobile out of the parking lot and onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Slowly, I wound along the coastline in the dark, the cliffs to one side and the ocean roaring beneath me. My heart pounded with exhilaration and fear. For the first time, I was in charge of my destiny.

  Chapter 8

  Marisol Cruz

  2007

  Mari stood next to Carol, a thought nagging persistently at the back of her mind. Mayor Harcourt came from a line of rich and powerful men—a prominent Santa Cruz family. So why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the name Violet Harcourt? If the young beauty queen was in fact related to the mayor, her death should have been town gossip. Mari and her friends had told plenty of ghost stories as children, but Violet Harcourt’s name had never been mentioned as part of the local folklore.

  “What do you know about Violet Harcourt?”

  The rush of the Giant Dipper sounded overhead, and shrieks carried on the breeze. Mari waited for the rickety wooden roller-coaster cars to pass so that Carol could give her an answer.

  Carol frowned. “It’s a sad story. She was Miss California 1940 and had a promising life ahead of her. She tried to make it as an actress i
n Hollywood, but she returned to Santa Cruz a few months later, then jumped off a cliff.”

  “Is she of any relation to Mayor Harcourt?”

  “She was his father’s first wife. Charles Harcourt remarried a few years after her death. Most people only know of his second wife, Grace.”

  Mari nodded, figuring the mayor would rather not focus on this sad aspect of his family history.

  Carol sighed, her eyes settling on the gazebo. “I shouldn’t say this, but it really is such a shame what the mayor is doing. All of us at the museum feel that it’s wrong to tear down a historic structure.”

  Mari furrowed her brow. “Then let’s do something about it. What if we filed the paperwork to get the gazebo listed on the National Register of Historic Places? That would prevent the building from being torn down, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose we could try. The property must be at least fifty years old, which it is—and we’d have to prove its historic significance.”

  Mari smiled. “I might have photos of my grandparents attending community dances there. I’m sure other locals have photos too. We could submit them with the application.”

  “It feels icky to oppose the mayor. His son certainly seems like a determined young man. I’m sure he wants what’s best for the town. Maybe the new construction will include affordable housing for families?”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  Carol turned to Mari. “I admire you for showing such passion toward preserving a piece of our town’s history. Perhaps we should put up a fight.”

  “Let’s do it,” Mari said.

  Carol nodded. “I can print the forms for us to send to the state historic preservation office. Of course, there’s no guarantee our request will be approved. They could reject the property, or ask for more information. Oh wait—here comes someone.”

  She beamed at the young man approaching. “Welcome to the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History exhibit. Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?”

  “I’d love to,” Jason said.

  Crap. Mari couldn’t find her voice, her hands hanging uselessly at her sides as she met his warm brown eyes. Carol nudged her in the ribs.

  “Raffle tickets are ten dollars each,” Mari replied. “Our prizes include dinner for two at Trabocco, Beach Boardwalk season passes, a beach cruiser bicycle—”

  “I’ll buy ten of them.”

  Carol’s eyes widened. “Wonderful!”

  “That’ll be one hundred dollars . . .”

  “Great job,” Carol whispered, as Jason handed Mari five twenties. “I’m heading out, but I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Have a great evening.”

  After Carol left the booth, Mari smirked. “How did you find me?”

  “Wanda was eager to tell me about your weekend job. You work for the museum. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Look,” Mari said. “I don’t mean to be rude. But it’s complicated. I’m not looking to date anyone right now.”

  “Okay. But I think you’re smart and cool. Is there a reason we can’t be friends?”

  Mari smiled. “Well, you did spend a hundred dollars on raffle tickets . . .”

  STROLLING ALONG THE wooden slats of the boardwalk with a cotton candy in hand, Mari paused in front of the historic Looff Carousel.

  “I used to ride this carousel with my grandpa,” she said, smiling wistfully. “I loved the jewels on the horses. Did you know each animal is hand-carved? This carousel is from 1911. And the organ is a rare Wurlitzer.”

  Jason’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s so cool that your family has lived here for generations. My grandparents moved to Chicago in 1945, but my grandmother never talks much about her childhood, or her life before the war.”

  “Really?” Mari took a bite of the sugary confection. “My abuelo always told me about how he immigrated here from Mexico, worked in horrible conditions on a strawberry farm until he became a stunt performer. He liked to talk about the past.”

  Turning to the neglected gazebo, Mari sighed. “He met my grandma at a dance there. It’s such a shame the structure is being torn down. I want to get it listed on the register of historic places, like this carousel.”

  Jason smiled. “You have a bit of cotton candy on your chin.”

  “Oh,” Mari said, bringing her hand to her face.

  Jason laughed. “I love how passionate you are about saving historic structures. But it’s hard to take you seriously when you have a pink beard.”

  “Very funny,” Mari said, glaring.

  Jason held up his hands. “Hey, I think it’s wonderful that your grandparents met at a gazebo dance. But the bureaucracy of getting a structure listed on the register of historic places can take a while to work through. Have you thought of other ways to generate public interest in saving the gazebo?”

  “I could post some of my grandpa’s pictures on Facebook. Lots of girls enjoy doing retro-style photo shoots here at the boardwalk. It could be a great wedding backdrop if it were restored.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows. “That’s definitely one way. Have you thought about applying for a Swanson Grant? I saw a flyer up in the English department on campus.”

  Mari shook her head. “I don’t know anything about the Swanson Grant.”

  “Oh. The James Swanson Memorial Fund accepts proposals that promote understanding of the history of Santa Cruz. Like, intellectual research.” He snapped his fingers. “How about writing a story, or making an art piece, or filming a documentary about the gazebo?”

  Mari scrunched her brow. “So I could publish an article on the gazebo’s history that would get people interested in the gazebo?”

  He smiled. “You’re the historian. You tell me.”

  She smirked. “Do you work in the English department? Sorry, I’ve been talking so much, I haven’t even asked you what you do at UC Santa Cruz.”

  “I’m an IT specialist,” Jason said. “I help professors in the English department.”

  “And you noticed a grant flyer which in no way relates to working with computers?”

  Jason grinned. “I thought somebody might be interested.”

  “How much is the grant award?”

  “Twelve hundred bucks.”

  Mari thought about what she could do with that money. She could construct a replica of the gazebo as it was in its heyday, maybe even an entire diorama with people dancing, and have it on display at the museum’s booth at the boardwalk. She’d have to hire artists, but it was more than enough money. And Carol would give her permission to show it off. That would get people interested, wouldn’t it?

  Mari smiled. “I like that idea. Thanks.”

  Jason punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Any time, buddy.”

  Mari glanced at her phone. “Shoot, I better get going.”

  “Hot date tonight?”

  Mari turned her phone outward so Jason could see the screensaver.

  “This is my date. Her name is Lily.”

  “You’re a mom?”

  “Yep. My most important job of all.”

  “Wow, she’s beautiful.” Jason paused a beat. “And Lily’s dad is . . .”

  “Not in the picture.”

  Jason’s eyes filled with understanding. “My sister’s a single mom. I love my niece and nephew to the moon and back, but I see how hard it is for her.”

  Mari was taken aback by the directness of his statement. But he was right. It was hard. She found his openness refreshing.

  “Hey, I really do have to go,” she said. “But thanks for the cotton candy.”

  “I had a great time,” Jason said. He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Here’s my number. No pressure. Call me if you want to hang out.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Mari said, slipping his card into the back pocket of her jeans. Before she lost her nerve, she pulled a pen from her purse and scribbled her phone number on an old receipt. “Here’s mine.”

  Jason’s face lit up when she handed him the paper. “Cool.”


  He gave a friendly wave, and her shoulders relaxed. Since becoming a mom, she’d isolated herself. She was too young to connect with the other moms at the preschool, many of whom were in their late thirties. They had careers, book clubs and wine nights, which she was never invited to. Maybe once she had been, but she’d declined too many times. Today it felt possible to open her heart to friendship.

  WHILE LILY SLEPT nearby, Mari’s laptop screen illuminated the dark room. She typed “Swanson Grant” into the search engine and waited for the results to load.

  Apply for a Local History Grant

  Are you working on a local history project? Want to receive some funding and support for your passion for Santa Cruz’s past and future? The History Forum, a group of Santa Cruz community members with a particular interest in local history, supports the annual Swanson Award competition for local history research. The award comes with public recognition and a grant of $1,200 to support original projects that promote the understanding of the history of the Santa Cruz/Monterey Bay area. These projects can be documentaries, studies, performances, art installations or publications. We care about the content, and we look forward to receiving applications that reflect innovative approaches to preserving local history. You don’t have to be a professional historian to be an effective champion for local history.

  Mari smiled. It was as if the grant had been written for her. The language was friendly and inviting—the site even stated she didn’t have to be a professional historian. And building a diorama of the gazebo would certainly be innovative, right?

  Maybe in addition to hiring artists, she could interview elderly members of the community about their gazebo memories, record those memories and then play them along with the diorama installation. It would be like a guided museum tour.

  Clicking the link to the application, Mari waited for the file to open. Her narrative couldn’t exceed five hundred words, but she had additional pages to upload her proposal material. Abuelo’s photos would be perfect. She had to list who was participating, the location of the project, how it would be implemented and its timeline, and she had to explain its connection to Santa Cruz County history.