Mari smiled. “Good memory.”
Jason reached out his arm and stroked her waist. “I can remember facts spoken by those beautiful lips. Come here.”
“Not yet,” Mari said. “I have to finish telling you the story. It’ll blow your mind. Read this note.”
She handed the paper to Jason and watched his eyes widen and then narrow as they darted across the page.
“Holy shit.”
“I found it in a safe deposit box at the bank along with the diamond and sapphire earrings Violet describes in the letter. I think my grandfather saved her life.”
“This,” Jason said, pointing at the note, “is incredible. Are you going to tell anyone? This could be a huge story.”
“I know,” Mari said, sitting down next to him and balancing her laptop on her knees. “I’m planning to tell Carol at the museum, but I need the whole story. I did a little digging, and I think Violet might have survived and moved to Chicago.”
“No way.”
“She’d be eighty-seven this year. Obviously, she had to change her name. I went off a hunch and Googled her maiden name along with the name Vera. And look what I found.”
She tilted her laptop toward Jason so he could see the enlarged marriage certificate on the screen. “Vera Stanek of Illinois. All I have to do is search census records and find an address to see if she’s still alive.”
His face fell.
“Where did you find this?”
“Online.”
Jason stood up, his hands shaking. “This is some kind of joke, right?”
Mari reached for his hand. “What’s wrong?”
Jason pulled his hand away, his face twisted in a grimace.
Chapter 27
Violet Harcourt
1940
As I fell toward the ocean, tears blurred my vision and the cold wind stung my cheeks. It all happened so fast. A split second later, I hit the ledge below. In the same instant, I saw the red of my peplum jacket catch the wind, continuing to drop toward the ocean. Ricky was wearing it along with the red skirt I’d sewn for him. I wished I’d had a moment to thank him . . . but no words escaped my lips.
Quickly, I rolled beneath the rocky overhang. In the dark grotto hidden under the outcropping of sandstone, I watched the tail of his white head scarf whipping in the breeze. The ocean swallowed him whole. I covered my mouth.
My stomach twisted, noticing how the surf at Natural Bridges was far more violent than down by the boardwalk. Placing a hand over my belly, I counted the seconds: 10 . . . 20 . . . 30 . . . 40 . . . 50 . . . 60.
“Please be all right,” I whispered to Olive, hugging my stomach. I’d only dropped about six feet, and I prayed the impact hadn’t hurt her.
The sky faded to black, and I squinted my eyes. There was no movement beneath the waves. My heart clenched. What if I had persuaded my friend to kill himself in my desperate attempt to escape? I’d watched Ricky Cruz perform his daring stunt diving act enough times to believe he could survive the fall. But he hadn’t resurfaced.
Oh God. I had made a terrible mistake.
Then I saw something. A slip of red fabric bobbed in the water. I gasped. The jacket. Beside it floated the white chiffon scarf, like a ghost gliding atop the surface. The earth above me shook with approaching footsteps. I pressed my back against the cave wall and held my breath. Sand and dirt sprinkled my hair. I flinched when the man spoke. His words were labored, as if he’d been running.
“Dear God, did you see her jump?”
“Christ. She hit the cliff on the way down. My wife screamed when she saw it. Bounced off the rock like a checker, went straight into the water. I told my wife to ring the police, to run to the nearest house and see if they have a telephone.”
“Do you reckon she’ll survive?”
“I doubt it. She hit the rock hard. Besides, there aren’t any fishing boats at this hour. There’s no one to throw her a life preserver.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
The earth shook again as the men walked away. I broke out in a cold sweat, my eyes scanning the coastline. Ricky had cleared the jagged rocks below, but the water was cold, and the tide strong.
Ricky, where are you?
Then I noticed a dark form creeping slowly around the cliff’s base, much farther down the beach. I nearly cried out in relief, recognizing the lean man, naked save for a pair of striped skivvies. My friend had survived.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I could never repay Ricardo Cruz for his act of bravery. I’d given him my diamond and sapphire earrings, which had belonged to my grandmother, sewing them inside the red dress along with my note. They were meant to bring me luck on my wedding day. Something old, something blue. I hoped Ricky would use them in whatever way helped him find prosperity in his own life.
In the darkness of the cave, I unbuttoned my red peplum jacket and shimmied out of my skirt. Shivering in my brassiere and girdle, I fumbled in the dark for my handbag. I opened it, taking out a simple blue-collared dress. After changing, I folded up the red jacket and skirt, tucking them into my handbag. Removing my white head scarf, I stuffed it inside the bag, and then pushed the clasp together, hiding the evidence.
A crowd would gather shortly, eager to gawk at the cliff’s edge where a distraught woman had taken her life. People were drawn to the macabre—it was human nature. Sirens wailed in the distance, reminding me I had to move. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I clawed my way up the cliffside, the toes of my saddle shoes finding footholds in the rock.
“We’re going to be all right,” I whispered to Olive, my gloved hands digging into the earth. I hauled myself up, swinging my leg over the guardrail. Brushing the dirt off my dress, I stood on the footpath, wondering what a fright I must look. My knees were scraped from the fall and my arms scratched. As the sirens drew closer, I walked down West Cliff Drive in the direction of the lighthouse.
Ambulance lights flashed as the emergency vehicles rounded the bend at Steamer Lane. The sirens wailed, louder and louder. My breath came in ragged gulps, my arms and legs pumping as I started to run. I crossed the street, eager to avoid the group of people who had started to gather on West Cliff Drive.
Women with rollers in their hair stepped out of their houses in their bathrobes, looking around to see what the commotion was all about. Whispers carried on the wind. Have you heard? A suicide. Ducking my head low, I walked with my eyes on the ground, terrified someone would recognize me. My train would depart from the boardwalk in twenty minutes. And news would reach Charles in no time.
I thought of Charles sitting at the hotel bar, his face grave as someone told him that his beloved wife had died. Hot tears pressed against my eyelids. I had robbed him of the opportunity to kill me, but I didn’t feel vindicated—only sad. Perhaps in his delusion he believed he loved me, and he’d weep with grief.
My heart clenched, thinking of Mother and Evie. My death would hurt them terribly. But so long as Charles lived, I could never tell anyone the truth. To the world, I was dead. Violet Harcourt would be remembered in infamy. When I’d dreamed of seeing my name in print, this wasn’t what I had imagined.
Spotting the Giant Dipper, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen slightly. The train waited at Casino Station. I took off my sunglasses, fearing they would make me too conspicuous. Then I wiped off my red lipstick, using my thumb. Reaching into my purse and opening my compact, I looked at my reflection. With my short black hair, makeup-free face and dirt-smudged cheeks, I appeared to be a woman down on her luck.
As I approached the boardwalk, I imagined how a single, working-class woman might walk, how she might feel. Closing my eyes, I pictured her. She was from Louisiana. Her husband had died. She was in her forties, tired and hardened.
I opened my eyes, fully embracing my character. Fear of being recognized fell away as I, all weary bones and grit, approached the station agent. I unclasped my purse and fumbled for the ten-dollar bill I had pilfered from Charles. Sliding it beneath the glass, I
grunted in a smoker’s voice with a Southern drawl, “San Francisco.”
“Round-trip?”
“One-way.”
The ticket agent took my money and handed me a ticket, along with a handful of change. “Train departs in ten minutes.”
Instead of thanking him, I hobbled toward the train platform. If questioned, perhaps he would state my hair was gray instead of black. Memory could be tricky that way. I’d heard of factories seeking women now that news had spread of men enlisting and being called in the draft. From San Francisco, I could get on a Greyhound bus that would take me to Gary, Indiana. I didn’t know a soul in the Midwest. Charles, if he suspected I was alive, would never look for me in a factory town.
My eyes pricked with tears. I took one last look at the boardwalk, the bumper cars, the carousel, the Skee-Ball machines and the sky glider chairs. Would this be the last time I set eyes on the Pacific Ocean, breathing its familiar scent of fresh sea air?
With its eerie whistle, the train shot a white plume of steam into the night sky, reminding me I had to keep moving. My heart pounded in rhythm with its pistons. Had Ricky made it home safely? How cold he must’ve been, emerging from the water without someone to throw a blanket around his shoulders.
“All aboard!”
I jumped as the conductor bellowed instructions, ducking my head while passengers moved toward the train coaches. Allowing the crowd to push me forward, I climbed aboard, my eyes searching for an unoccupied seat at the back. A woman in a fur coat laughed, leaning her head against the arm of a blond man.
Though it terrified me to expose my face, with my short black hair and plain dress, I hoped to blend into the background. How strange to think I once craved the spotlight—dying to be recognized as a great beauty on the silver screen. Now I yearned for only one thing—to provide a better life for my daughter.
Placing a warm hand over my stomach, I took a deep breath. I couldn’t feel her move yet, but I could sense Olive’s presence. She had given me courage tonight. No matter what challenges lay ahead, I would never be alone. She was with me every step of the way. And for her, I would be strong.
“Last call for San Francisco!” the conductor hollered. The steam whistle sounded, high and shrill. I held my breath as the locomotive rumbled in place, waiting for the doors to close. Any minute now, the train would depart.
Without warning, two policemen boarded the car. They’d found me. The ruse was up.
Passengers whispered to one another as the cops walked down the aisle, flashing their badges. I turned my face toward the window. What would I say to them? Would I go to prison?
“People say it’s Mr. Charles Harcourt’s wife,” one burly policeman said to the other. “Two boys saw her walking in the direction of Natural Bridges around seven-thirty. Said they asked her for a cigarette.”
“You sure it was her?”
“A neighbor saw her leave the house in a red dress and a white head scarf. Said she looked frightened. Matched the boys’ description. Violet Harcourt. Only twenty years old. Real pretty too. She won the beauty pageant in June.”
I shut my eyes. They knew my name.
“Her fella owns the Oceano? Hell, what more could she want? My wife’s still on my ass because I haven’t paid the gas bill.”
“These are tough times. I can’t speak for a motive, but you know how moody women are. So she’s sick in the head, so what?”
“Cripes. So it’s a suicide?”
“Looks that way. A few folks saw her jump. Still no body, though.”
Too frightened to look up, I wondered if the other passengers had turned around in their seats, if they would point at me. I heard their hushed whispers.
“Give it till morning. She’ll probably wash up down the beach.”
“Christ, Fred. Children don’t need to see a dead body. Maybe we oughta close the boardwalk?”
“Train’s clear of the husband. I don’t think he’s trying to skip town. Check with the chief, see if they found him.”
The two officers turned around and then disembarked the train. I looked down at my hands, my palms slick with sweat. They hadn’t mentioned Ricky’s name. They were looking for Charles.
Suddenly the train rumbled to life, and we were moving. I had gotten away with it. Pressing my face against the window glass, I watched the boardwalk grow smaller in the distance, the lights of the Ferris wheel illuminating the night sky. The police officers stood outside the Plunge, smoking cigarettes.
When the train passed over the San Lorenzo River Bridge, a tear of relief slid down my cheek. Taking off my dirty gloves, I stared at my purple fingertips, my ring finger free from its cumbersome diamond.
This time, I hadn’t left a note for Charles. My wedding band and engagement ring on the nightstand told him he didn’t own me anymore.
Until death do us part.
In death, I had finally found my freedom.
Chapter 28
Marisol Cruz
2007
Jason looked at the marriage certificate, then back at Mari. “Gene and Vera Stanek are my grandparents’ names.”
“Jason,” Mari said, but she was at a loss for words.
He crossed his arm over his chest, and then put one hand to his mouth, staring at the ground. “They got married in Cook County, Illinois. How old did you say Vera Stanek would be?”
“Eighty-seven.”
Jason stared at Mari, and then shook his head. “My grandmother lives in Naperville, Illinois. She’s eighty-seven years old.”
“But your last name is Doyle. Jason Doyle.” Mari realized how stupid she sounded, but she couldn’t process what was happening.
“Stanek is my mom’s maiden name.”
“Have you seen pictures of your grandmother when she was young?”
“She hates to take pictures. We hardly have any.”
“Here,” Mari said, taking the laptop from him. She typed “Violet Harcourt, 1940” into the search engine and waited for Violet’s beauty pageant image to load. Gently pushing the computer toward Jason, she pointed to the screen. “That’s Violet.”
Jason squinted at the screen. “I can’t be sure. It could be her. Wait . . . no, those are definitely her eyes.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Are you telling me that my grandma was an abused woman? That she had a secret life?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”
“She said she grew up on a farm in Oregon.” He once again covered his mouth with his hand. “But . . . she was pregnant. No, that means if it’s her, she was pregnant with . . . my mother.”
He pushed the laptop away. “I can’t—this is too much.”
Mari’s throat was so tight she could barely breathe. It all made sense. Jason grew up in Chicago. He said his grandmother never talked about her life before the war.
“Jason, wait.”
“What?”
She looked at him, wishing she could touch his unruly brown waves. Suddenly she became aware of how much she cared for him.
“Listen, I’m so sorry for dumping this on you. You don’t have to speak to your grandma about this—especially if it would upset her.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Not yet. I wanted to tell Carol at the museum, but I haven’t emailed her.”
“Would you mind keeping it to yourself for now?” Jason rubbed his hands through his hair. “Jesus . . . what if Gene isn’t really my grandpa? Am I related to the Harcourts?”
Mari tried to swallow. “I don’t know.”
“That would mean Travis is . . . is what, my cousin or something?” Jason grimaced. “I can’t take this.”
“Jason,” Mari said, her voice wavering. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. Hey, where are you going?”
But he had already wandered out of the room in a confused daze, muttering something about his grandmother.
“Jason,” Mari called after him. The front door slammed shut and she drew her elbows in, pressing the
m against her ribs. She’d told Jason about his beloved grandmother’s painful past—a past Violet had gone to great lengths to keep hidden—and dropped the bomb that could decimate his family. It was no wonder Violet’s words had shaken Jason. Mari looked again at Violet’s note, her desperate plea for help.
Dear Ricky,
You once told me that if I was in trouble, you were here to help. I am ashamed to admit this, but my life is in danger. As you might have guessed, my husband Charles is a violent man. I fear that he will kill me.
If you’ve found this note inside the jacket pocket of the ladies’ suit I’ve asked Evie to give you, then you are my last hope of survival. Charles will never stop searching for me until I am dead. I’m begging you to help me, so he thinks I have taken my own life.
I’ve sewn this jacket and skirt in your size. There’s a cave just beneath the yellow warning sign at the cliff’s edge on West Cliff Drive (near the intersection of Auburn Avenue). On Friday, September 24th, meet me there at seven PM. Wear these garments and wrap this white scarf around your head. Don’t let anyone see you.
At sunset, I shall jump from the cliff wearing an identical outfit. The moment I land on the ledge below, you must jump the remainder of the way. I recognize I’m asking too much—it’s a thirty-foot drop and the water is dangerous, but you’re the only person I know who can survive the fall.
You once told me you could hold your breath underwater for two minutes. It’s enough time to convince the world I’ve drowned. I can never repay you for my life, but I hope the diamond and sapphire earrings from my grandmother will bring you luck.
Ricky, I admire you so much for following your dreams, and for helping me when I left for Hollywood. My only dream now is to live. I am pregnant with Charles’s child, and I want nothing more than to bring her into the world, safe and sound. I know I’m asking too much, but I pray in my heart you will help me again. Thank you for listening, and for being there, always.
Your friend,
Violet Harcourt
“WHAT TIME IS Jason coming over?” Paulina asked.
Mari sighed. “He’s not coming.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 21
