Tonight, he was meeting with his lawyer at the Hotel Palomar in town. I’d overheard their phone conversation weeks ago, noting the date and time. This window of opportunity allowed me to risk everything, to reach out to Ricky with my plea for help.
Edging toward twilight, the darkening sky reminded me I ought to leave. My heart sank, thinking of Evie and how I had lied to her again. I remembered what a gas we had when we’d traveled to the Woolworth’s in San Francisco, purchasing matching wallets. Had that only been two years ago? I had difficulty recalling a time when Charles didn’t control my every move. I swallowed, praying she’d brought the bag of clothing to Ricky. If Ricky didn’t arrive tonight . . .
I needed to be strong, for Olive. Would I hurt her? The impact would inflict less damage than Charles could. I had no other choice.
Opening my Woolworth’s wallet, I stared at the Social Security card printed with the word “Specimen” and a nine-digit number. The sample had always been there, but the night I began sewing, I hoped it would serve a vital purpose.
For the past week, Charles and I had eaten supper in silence, save for the newscaster’s voice on the crackling transistor radio. I enjoyed FDR’s “Fireside Chats” and his calm, collected demeanor, but now with the escalating threat of war, Charles had become paranoid. He called his lawyer daily about the draft, asking how to manage his hidden assets overseas. The stress wore on him, and with it, his patience with me diminished. I could sense his rage building.
The pink scar on my wrist shone in the dim light, a reminder of Charles’s cruelty. If I failed to escape this time, there would be no second chances. Picking up my sewing shears, I walked into the bathroom.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I looked at my pale reflection. Breathe. The sun would set in an hour, and I didn’t have a moment to waste. A faint purple bruise began to show beneath my right eye, a parting gift from Charles. Removing the bobby pins from my curls, I watched my long auburn hair fall in waves over my shoulders. The scissors felt cold in my hands.
I pressed my lips together. I’d always loved my hair, taking pride in its shine and scarlet richness. But I felt numb as I snipped, watching it tumble into the sink. When I finished, the bob grazed my jawline, making my blue eyes appear larger. I gathered the hair, tossing it into a paper bag from the supermarket.
Tearing open a cardboard box, I took out a tube of black hair dye, applying it from my roots to my newly shorn ends. Evie hadn’t noticed the Valmor dye in my shopping cart, hiding beneath a carton of eggs. My eyes watered from the sting of the chemicals and my nose twitched from the terrible scent.
For crying out loud!
I grabbed a piece of toilet tissue and wiped up a drop of goop that had fallen on the sink before it could stain. Oh, why hadn’t I thought to wear an old pair of evening gloves? The tips of my fingers were turning purple. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I swallowed. It was nearly seven-thirty.
Sticking my head beneath the faucet, I rinsed my itching scalp. The water ran a muddy purple, and I grabbed an old towel. I stopped, holding my breath when I thought I heard Charles turning his key in the lock. But it was only a trick of my imagination. Patting my hair dry, I felt the lightness of my new cut—the freedom of it. I mopped the water from the bathroom floor, and then hurried outside.
The street was quiet. As discreetly as I could, I lifted the lid of a trash bin two doors down, discarding the wet towel, the paper bag with my chopped hair and the empty tube of hair dye, along with its box. The skirt I’d sewn hugged my growing belly, the red peplum jacket hiding the small swell. Opening the side door of my home and darting inside, I walked into my bedroom. I took a white chiffon scarf from a drawer and wrapped it around my head, tying it beneath my chin. With my new haircut and color completely concealed, I exhaled.
Seven-thirty.
Checking my reflection in the vanity, I put on a swipe of red lipstick, and then my black sunglasses. But the purple of my fingertips . . .
My stomach lurched as if I were waiting at the peak of the Giant Dipper roller coaster. Shaking my head, I slipped on a pair of white gloves. There was no time for detail. Charles could be driving home this very moment. I clenched my teeth, touching the bruise on my cheek. He wouldn’t harm us anymore. This time, I would escape for good.
ADRENALINE PUSHED ME out of the house. I walked briskly along the footpath, carrying my large handbag as if it were a bomb. My eyes darted toward every car that passed. Charles was likely having me followed. However, being watched was all part of the plan. Onlookers would witness my fall from grace.
The sun hung low in the sky. Purple shadows stretched long over the pavement, the branches of the cypress trees gnarled and menacing. In less than half an hour, everything would fade to darkness. Walking faster, I held my breath.
A pair of boys walked down the road, perhaps thirteen years old. Looking at the sidewalk, I attempted to pass without drawing their attention.
“Good evening, Miss. Do you have a cigarette, perchance?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I replied, my voice trembling.
Turning on my heel, I walked away quickly. If I appeared distraught, that would aid my story. But the fewer people I spoke with, the better. The winding footpath brought me closer to the bluffs overlooking the ocean. I swallowed. A couple ambled down West Cliff Drive, out for an evening stroll. I felt guilty about the horrible sight they were about to witness, even though it wouldn’t be real.
The stone arches of Natural Bridges came into view. I slowed to a stop. Climbing over the guardrail, I looked to my left and to my right. The couple in the distance had noticed me. My heart began to pound as I walked toward the cliff’s edge. The ocean roared in my ears. I gasped as I looked at the choppy water below, my saddle shoes sending a cascade of pebbles toppling over the brink.
A yellow triangular sign with the words WARNING, NO ENTRY, HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS stood to my right, clearly marking the spot. The road was empty of automobiles at the moment, but a car could round the corner and pull over if I were spotted. Taking a step closer, my breath hitched. Waves crashed against the rocks like a battering ram, relentless and strong. I could feel the couple watching me as I leaned over the edge, trying to catch a glimpse of the sandy shelf below.
The sun dipped toward the horizon, taking the last rays of light with it. I stared into the dizzying depths of the cold, swirling blue water below. Voices called in the distance. I had no time to deliberate.
I thought back on Ricky’s words, and the sincerity in his eyes that fateful night when I drove Harry Goodman’s Oldsmobile through the fog.
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 had come to him. I couldn’t see Ricky, but I trusted he would save me. With my heart pounding, I shut my eyes.
And then I jumped.
Chapter 26
Marisol Cruz
2007
Mari stared at the note in her hands. She’d left the bank in a trance, Violet’s letter stashed in her pocket like she was a criminal. But really, the letter had no monetary value, and she hadn’t wanted to explain its significance to Carl. Now she read it again in the privacy of her bedroom, taken aback by the secret Abuelo had kept his entire life.
Mari’s eyes pricked with tears. How terrified Violet must’ve been, pregnant and alone. She clenched her teeth, her suspicion that Charles was an abusive husband now confirmed. And Abuelo—had he risked his life to save Violet? Or had he left her alone, to take her life out of desperation?
Mari stood. Could Violet still be alive? She would be an old woman now, in her late eighties. Mari flipped open her laptop, and then drummed her fingers against the keyboard. Where to start? Closing it again, she walked into the kitchen, hoping her mom had come home.
Ernesto sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
“Hey, Dad. Is Mom home yet?”
“Not yet, mija. She’s stil
l out with her friend. What’s up?”
Mari bit her lip. “Not much.”
She wanted to tell her father everything about Abuelo, but she didn’t want to upset him. Her claiming Abuelo had risked his life to save Violet—a woman her grandfather had never spoken of—might be interpreted as an insult to Abuela’s memory. From Violet’s note it appeared they were only friends, but Abuelo was incredibly loyal to her.
Lily would be done with dance class in an hour, and then after picking her up, Mari had to work the night shift at the Jupiter Café. Since she’d started working weekends at the boardwalk, Wanda had given Mari the worst shifts, probably out of spite.
Remembering the trunk of Abuelo’s things, Mari decided it seemed as good a place as any to start.
“Hang on a sec.”
After darting into her bedroom, Mari rummaged in the closet where she’d stashed the trunk. She flipped the lid open, taking out the contents. With the vintage postcards and trinkets cradled in her hand, Mari returned to the kitchen. She set them down on the table. “I was looking through Abuelo’s things, and I was wondering if you could tell me more about his travels as a young man.”
Ernesto smiled, picking up the first postcard, the Ferry Building.
“Papa loved San Francisco. He told me how glamorous it was back in his day. He took Abuela out to dinner and to jazz clubs in the Fillmore District.”
Mari smiled, envisioning how wonderful the historically black neighborhood must’ve been before it was ruined by urban renewal in the 1960s.
“What about this one?”
She handed him the drawing of the Empire State Building in New York.
Ernesto laughed. “He was so proud of traveling to New York. It was the first time he ever flew on a plane. He took Abuela for their fifth wedding anniversary. She told me he prayed during takeoff and his knuckles were white as a sheet. He was scared outta his mind! But determined to show her the Big Apple.”
“That’s romantic,” Mari said, envisioning her grandparents walking around Central Park and looking at the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Ernesto snorted. “Romantic? Creo que no. He didn’t have much money then, so they stayed with a cousin in Queens. The house had fleas.”
Mari brushed her arm, her skin crawling. “Ew! How do you know that?”
“Because he told me. He tried to plan the perfect trip, but there they were on a pullout couch, itching all night. They were young, though, and they laughed about it.”
“That’s love,” Mari said, her heart warming as she imagined traveling somewhere with Jason. He was definitely a glass-half-full type of guy, and she could see him making the most of a crappy situation. He’d probably ask her to dance in the rain.
“How about this?” Mari said, handing her dad a key chain in the shape of Texas, painted with the Texas flag.
Ernesto winced. “He went to Houston for a diving competition. But when he won, no one clapped. Said it was the worst racism he ever encountered. Of course this was the forties. He said some guys in cowboy hats threatened to kill him.”
Mari clenched her fists. “That’s horrible.”
“They followed him around in their pickup truck, yelling insults and throwing beer cans. But he never gave in to their taunts, didn’t fight them. Probably the reason he came home safely.”
“I wish he would’ve punched them.”
Ernesto laughed. “You have your mama’s fire. Don’t get on her bad side.”
Mari giggled. When Paulina snapped, her tongue was sharp as glass.
“And when did he go here?” Mari asked, pushing the vintage postcard of the Wrigley Building across the table. It showed the Michigan Avenue Bridge at sunset, the famous building set against a brick cityscape.
Ernesto furrowed his brow, squinting at the postcard. “He never went to Chicago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He loved to talk about his travels. When I was a kid that was all he ever talked about. I can tell you every detail of that trip to New York and that trip to Texas, but he never mentioned Chicago, not once.”
“Maybe someone sent it to him.”
Her father turned the postcard over. It was blank, like the others. “You’re right. This one has a stamp. The others don’t. See?”
Mari snatched the postcard from him, looking at the stamp and postmark date: October 1, 1940—a few weeks after Violet’s death was reported in the papers. After reading Violet’s letter, it all made sense.
“Thanks, Dad,” Mari said, taking the postcard.
“Wait, where are you—”
But she walked straight to her bedroom, her body humming with adrenaline. Violet had sent a postcard once before, from the Brown Derby in Hollywood. Had she sent a blank postcard from Chicago to tell Abuelo she was safe?
Violet wouldn’t have used the name Harcourt, obviously. Maybe she’d chosen her maiden name, Sweeting.
Opening her laptop, Mari typed “Violet Sweeting, Chicago 1940.”
Nothing came up.
Evie had mentioned that Violet made new friends in Hollywood. She might’ve used the name of someone she knew.
Mari typed “Evelyn Sweeting, Chicago 1940” into the search engine and waited. Nothing. She tapped her chin, remembering the first name of one of Violet’s Hollywood friends Evelyn had mentioned. Roxy! But aside from a pinball machine called the Roxy, her search yielded nothing.
Mari struggled to remember the other name. Evie had mentioned her trip to San Francisco with Violet, buying matching wallets from Woolworth’s . . . oh, what was the other girl’s name?
“Vera.”
Mari smiled, then typed “Vera Sweeting, Chicago 1940.” A marriage certificate appeared in the image search. On July 7, 1944, Vera Sweeting had married Eugene Stanek in Cook County, Illinois.
Vera had written in her age as twenty-four, which would have been Violet’s age at the time. Eugene Stanek was twenty-five.
A knock sounded at the door and Mari startled. She wasn’t expecting anyone. But after the city council meeting, maybe a disgruntled neighbor had decided to drop by to share his or her frustration. She needed to schedule a meeting with the mayor. Hopefully he would hear her out. Building condos on the beach was wrong for the community, and in his heart he had to know that, whether it was his son’s project or not.
“You gonna get that?” Mari called to her dad.
“No,” he grunted. “It’s probably solicitors.”
Mari stood, smoothed her jeans and walked down the hallway. Spying a thick head of hair peeking through the window glass, her mouth parted in surprise. Opening the door, she smiled. “What are you doing here?”
Jason stood on her front porch, a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand. “These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful,” Mari said, taking them. “But what’s the occasion?”
“I saw them at the farmers’ market and thought of you. I know you love yellow, and I wanted to stop by. I hope that’s okay.”
“Hmm,” Mari said. “Kind of stalkerish, don’t you think?”
Jason grinned. “Yep. I have your face printed on a pillow that I snuggle with every night, and a doll made out of your hair.”
“Gross,” Mari said, giggling as she leaned in to kiss him.
Jason stroked her cheek. “Can I come inside?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “My dad’s home, so no funny business.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As she opened the door, Mari realized she hadn’t cleaned her room, and there were piles of laundry everywhere. She cringed a little at the crumbs and unwashed dishes in the kitchen. But that was Mom life—the chores never ceased.
“Sorry, it’s messy,” Mari said, leading Jason down the hallway.
“Who’s that?” Ernesto called from the kitchen.
Mari dropped her voice to a whisper. “Ignore him.”
“It’s okay,” Jason said. “Let’s go say hi.”
“Ugh,” Mari said “
Okay.”
“Hi, Ernesto,” Jason said, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s great to see you again.”
Ernesto looked up from his paper. “Jason! I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“He brought me flowers,” Mari said, smiling. “Aren’t they pretty?”
“Si,” Ernesto said. “Your abuela loved sunflowers too.”
Mari filled a vase with water and set the flowers in the center of the kitchen table. “They brighten up the room.”
Jason smiled. “My grandmother loves them too.”
“Come with me,” Mari said, taking Jason by the hand. “I have to show you something.”
Ernesto raised an eyebrow, but he returned to his newspaper.
“Now he definitely thinks we’re up to something,” Jason said, as Mari tugged him down the hallway. “Wait,” he said, pausing in front of the black-and-white photograph of Ricky. “Is this your grandfather?”
Mari nodded. “When he was young.”
Jason looked at Ricardo Cruz in midair, his body poised in a V shape as he plunged headfirst toward the ocean. “He did some pretty daring tricks, didn’t he?”
“You have no idea,” Mari said, eager to tell Jason about her discovery. “Come in here. I found something online I want to show you.”
Jason stepped into her bedroom, looking around.
“Nice. So this is your room?”
“Ignore all the stuffed animals and the laundry baskets. I share it with Lily.”
“Oh, so this tiara isn’t yours? I think it’d look sexy on you.”
“Very funny,” Mari said, throwing a pillow at him.
Jason sat down on her floral bedspread, checking out her bookshelf. Mari picked up Violet’s note. “Remember how I told you that my grandfather knew a beauty queen who committed suicide in 1940?”
Jason scrunched his brow. “Violet Harcourt?”
Boardwalk Summer Page 20
