Teresa shrugged and started to go in the market to get dinner, but then she heard the woman say into her phone, "I have to go; it's starting."
There really were a lot of people heading out toward the cliff. What were they doing? Her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to follow them.
When she got to the end of the street she saw there were a couple of dozen people there. Families with children, couples with their arms around each other, a guy in a business suit with a cup of takeout coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. All of them were just standing around.
At the end of Calle Principal was a "T" where three roads intersected. Cliff Drive headed off to the left into what looked like a residential neighborhood filled with more cute cottages. Wharf Road went downhill to the right, presumably to the bayfront. And Calle Principal ended at this spot where a twisted, gnarled old pine tree stood in front of a metal barrier at the very edge of the cliff.
The ground at her feet was dusty, strewn with crispy pine needles. The needles crunched under her shoes, sending up the scent of a Christmas tree with each step. The wind was powerful here, up high in this exposed spot, with the endless miles of ocean in front of her.
Everyone just stood around, waiting. For something.
She walked up to the barrier itself. People were leaning forward, resting their elbows on it, and looking out.
She looked, too.
The view was amazing. The cliff itself was about a hundred feet high, of a pale sandstone studded with rubbery-looking ice plant. Way down at the bottom, the sand at its base seemed very far away. The cliffs went on for miles here, interrupted only by a road coming out of the hill off to her right. This road led to a wharf with fishing boats tied up to it and other small craft huddled in its shelter on the far side.
An offshoot of the road followed along the base of the cliff, crossing in front of them and ending over to the left, where the roller coaster of her post card soared up, appearing to almost reach as high as the cliff itself. The roller coaster was of brilliant red and white, brighter in person than it had appeared in the photo. There were a bunch of other rides and buildings clustered around it, with a wooden boardwalk in front of it that almost touched the water's edge.
In the center of the bay, way out, the lighthouse she had glimpsed earlier looked like a birthday candle on the cake of its tiny island.
And the water itself, as before, felt intimidating in its brute force and size. It was almost too much: too big, too beautiful, too beyond understanding.
The last person in the group put away his phone. The last child was hushed. The last person coughed. Then silence fell over them all.
"I love you," a woman whispered to her husband, as if something life-changing was about to happen.
Still they waited.
Out in the sky, the colors began to change. First a wash of gold touched the water, rippling from horizon to shore, transforming the ocean from its cool blue to a thing of heat, of warmth.
The roller coaster was hit with a flash of sunlight on its metal track, and the glint of it made her look away.
As the sun moved closer to that far horizon, all the colors darkened, washing away the clear blue of the sky and turquoise of the sea, replacing them with rich, burning tones that shimmered across the wisps of cloud, and deepened the blue of the water to indigo.
Even as the air around them seemed cooler by the moment, the surface of the water itself grew hotter, brighter, tinged with oranges, then coppers, and then into deep rusts. The reds began to take over, to dominate, and then the purples came in their turn.
First a hint of pale pink moved across the copper sky, then it went deeper into darkest burgundy, then a wash of darkest violet shadows started to tremble around the edges as the copper sun crept closer to the horizon, finally drowning in the depth of the ocean.
Finally they were left with only the shimmer of cobalt water, touched here and there with a metallic sheen that started gold, but finally turned to icy silver.
The first star pricked out in the sky.
Then, with a suddenness that made her gasp, the lighthouse beam clicked on, refusing to let the darkness rule. The beam began to march around in a circle, washing across the dark waves and lighting up the white crests in the darkness.
Melancholy. She didn't need the dictionary in her apartment to know that was the correct word.
Aloneness. That's what she felt. Not loneliness, really, but a sense of how small she was, how big the world was, and how much of it she had never seen in her struggle just to survive from day to day.
Now she was seeing another world, another life, one like the lives in her beloved books, larger and filled with possibilities.
There were people who stopped what they were doing each day just to watch the sunset. And there were others all over the planet doing the same thing in turn, as the sun came and went in their part of the world.
She wasn't limited to that tiny neighborhood she'd known, with the constant pressure, the voices telling her not to dream, not to hope, not to try. The echo in her ears saying to give up. Saying there was no future for her, and death was all that waited ahead.
All the time she'd been hearing those words, this world existed. This one, and probably millions of other worlds like it, all over the planet. If she didn't want that old life, she could pick a new one. Maybe she could pick this one.
She felt a chill start to creep through her sweater, and followed the others back down the street toward the lights of the little grocery, and home.
She stopped at Santos' Market. The three old men from the bench were gone now that the sun had set. She wondered if they'd be back in the morning.
Once in the market she was overwhelmed by the noise and light. The store was lit up with fluorescent fixtures overhead, making the aisles bright as runways, and the place was jammed with locals and tourists, all talking loudly over the music coming from a tinny speaker by the cashier.
Jazz music. Not rock, or country, or even Mexican pop like the name Santos might imply. But classic jazz that sounded like something heard in a nightclub in the 1950s, in some hole-in-the-wall hangout filled with people dressed like beatniks, who smoked and drank bitter black coffee while poets rapped out their rhymes accompanied by finger snaps. She'd read about that world in a book, too. But to see little bits of all the things she'd read about, all mingled and mixed into this unique blend of old and new, strange and familiar, made her feel both at home and alien.
An announcer came on after the song ended, reminding listeners that tonight's OTR program would be Candy Matson. She wondered what kind of music that was.
An old man with two young boys passed her, dressed like they'd just come from the beach. The little boy, about eight, bumped her arm as he went by, and the man stopped him in his tracks with a "Diego!"
The boy turned to her and said, "Excuse me, Miss."
She smiled. "It's all right."
"Can we get ice cream, Abuelo?" The older boy asked, and they went down an aisle toward the back of the store.
Manners. Another thing she'd read about in books but had rarely seen.
She saw several of the people from her sunset watch, and they actually smiled and nodded to her, acknowledging their shared experience from earlier.
She smiled back, then somebody else bumped her and she realized she was blocking the door.
"Excuse me," she said to them, and headed for the nearest aisle to find something to eat.
In the back of the store was the mother lode: a full deli, meat counter, and baked goods case.
The baked goods case was pretty much picked over, with a sad-looking muffin and a single doughnut its only occupants.
But the deli case was filled, and she stood there a long time, with people passing her, choosing what they wanted, and leaving.
She needed to just pick something. It had been a long day, and she needed to get back to her room and put her feet up and read for a while to get relaxed. She needed to have a good
night's sleep so she could start work tomorrow.
She grabbed the first thing that looked good, a pasta salad with salmon, and headed for the cashier.
A bunch of laughing kids, some of whom she recognized from the community center, were blocking the aisle, deciding on which chips to buy, so she went to the next aisle.
On the wall was a pay phone.
She had a prepaid debit card and used it for the long-distance call.
"Sandra?" she asked softly when the phone was picked up. "Sandra Murphy?"
"Just a minute," the male voice said. She could hear the sound of the police station in the background.
Detective Graham came on the line. "Hi, girlfriend," he said in a high voice.
She giggled.
"That must mean things are going well," he said in his normal voice. "All settled in?"
"Getting there. I just bought supper and I'm heading back to my apartment. It's right over the bodega."
"I know. That's where I stayed last summer when I went fishing with my buddies. But what do you mean, you're heading back? Aren't you calling from the apartment?"
"They haven't put in the phone line there. So, I was thinking—"
"—No cell phone," he said firmly. "I'm not sure you realize how much danger you would be in if someone found you."
She froze. She had almost forgotten the danger. She whispered into the phone, "do you think they're coming for me here?"
His voice was soothing. "No, there's no way. I didn't mean to scare you. But we have to be careful." He paused. "Listen: I wasn't going to tell you this, because I want you to relax and enjoy yourself, but if you feel scared, there is someone in town you can talk to."
"The sheriff's captain?" she whispered.
"Um, yeah. Did he tell you?" He sounded surprised.
"No." She looked around to make sure no one was close by. "But Logan said he had recommended me for the job, so I figured you knew him."
"Captain Ryan Knight's my ex-partner," Detective Graham said. "He used to be a detective up here. If you get into trouble, you can ask for him by name and he'll help."
"Does he know…everything?"
"Enough to help you. But you shouldn't need his help. Do you think you were followed? Is that what's bothering you?"
"Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was just wondering… how many people know what I really am?"
He laughed. "Everyone knows."
"Everyone?" Her hand slipped on the receiver.
"Yup. They know you are the new literacy tutor, a nice young woman who just arrived in town."
"Don't scare me like that."
"Like what? That's the truth, isn't it?"
"You act like this is easy."
"No. I act like this is who you really are. How do you think you can move forward if you keep judging yourself so harshly? Let it go."
"Like the song."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Just something from a conversation I had with an old lady on the bus."
"See? You're making friends already."
The display on the phone showed the minutes of the call adding up, but she didn't want to hang up. She had hated all those months of being locked up in the safe house, but still, she hadn't felt alone with Detective Graham there every day.
"Are you feeling tired?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Surprisingly not."
"You're young," he said.
"Or running on adrenaline," she said. She told him about the sunset, about the town, about the people she'd met, letting the call eat up the minutes and the dollars.
Finally, he said, "you'll do fine, Teresa," he said. "Just keep your head down, do your job, and don't get into trouble."
"I promise I won't get into any trouble," she said, then laughed. "Famous last words, right?"
"Dear Lord, I hope not," Detective Graham said and they hung up.
She was halfway up the stairs to her apartment before she realized she had completely forgotten to ask about Mama and Amy.
At the top of the stairs to her apartment she looked back, wondering if she could see the ocean from this spot. Nope. She would need to go out to the balcony again and stand on tiptoes to get a glimpse.
A block away down the street, all the lights were on in front of The Owl. She could see a crowd gathering. The faint sound of a string quartet wafted her way on the ocean breeze. She wondered what was going on at the library at this hour?
She looked at the bag of groceries in her arms. A salad and some cookies. And a book waiting inside.
The night sky was clear, and the stars pricked out in the immense blackness above.
A family went by on the street below. Then a couple, arm-in-arm. Some children went running past, the slap of their shoes on the pavement accompanying their laughter.
She watched as all of them joined the line that was forming at the library door.
She set down the grocery bag and fished in her pocket for the key to the apartment.
The music changed then, and she heard Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, which she immediately recognized because Mrs. Williams always played it softly in the children's room of the library, in the belief it would improve the kids' memories. It was a buoyant tune, lifting her up and pulling her toward it.
She paused there, the key in the lock.
She had allowed herself to be curious just an hour before, and followed strangers to the cliff, where she had seen the most beautiful sight of her life.
What else was out here in the world that she was missing?
She went in the apartment, put the salad in the fridge, and then headed back down the stairs to see what else she could find.
Chapter Seven
The light from The Owl was spilling out the open door when she arrived. A signboard set up at the entrance said AUCTION TONIGHT. The music and laughter inside beckoned.
She went in.
The tiny library felt more like a den in someone's home than a public institution, with its shelves filled with books and the little alcoves with cushion-covered benches where one could sit and read. She had noticed that feeling before, but the effect was even more pronounced now, with the darkness outside, the warm glow of the lights inside, and all the little rooms filled to overflowing with the crowd milling about.
In the back of the library was the house's former dining room. It had been turned into a meeting space, with a massive table in the center that now held little displays. There was a sheet of paper and a pen placed beneath each display. She realized these must be the items for the auction.
She heard Logan's voice somewhere and her heart leapt. He was talking to a man almost as tall as he was, along with Pamela, the older woman she'd met on the bus. She listened to them as she went around the table, looking at each display.
ONE MAKEOVER (INCLUDES NAIL POLISH), read the display for The Surfing Puggle.
"I have one," Logan was saying as they were apparently comparing notes on something.
TOUR OF THE BAY AT SUNSET, the display for Owens Boat Charters stated, with a bid on the sheet below for $1000.
"Three for me," said Pamela. "And no, I'm not saying where they are."
ROMANTIC DINNER FOR TWO AT FEUILLE D'AUTOMNE, with a top bid of $75.
The man next to Logan shook his head. "Nope," he said cryptically, and they laughed.
She realized they were talking about tattoos, and she instinctively glanced down at her left hand. There was a faint sign of her own tattoo showing through the makeup she'd applied many hours ago. She covered the mark with her other hand.
She looked at more displays. This whole row was food, making her hungry: fish and chips from Mel's Fish Shack, breakfast from a food truck, cotton candy from the amusement park, a pizza party from DiPietro's on the wharf, champagne and caviar at a bed & breakfast overlooking the bay. It went on and on. She'd better find something to eat soon.
"Hi, pretty lady," a voice said, and she jumped.
It was the kind of thing men on the street would say to
her all the time, leering and sneering at her, and she twirled around, ready with a sarcastic remark.
But then she realized it was the surfboard dude from the bus.
He was dressed the same as the first time she'd seen him, in a tie-dye T-shirt and ragged jeans. This time he had on pink, yes, pink flip flops. His messy black hair was tied back into a ponytail with a red bandana that she at first wondered might be a gang sign, but then she saw his expression.
"Sorry," he mumbled, obviously taken aback by the flash of defensive anger in her eyes.
At his downcast, puppy dog expression she found herself smiling.
He matched her smile with a big one of his own. "You saved the surfboard!" he said in sudden recognition. "What a nice lady."
"Yeah," she said. "That was me."
"Did you want the doughnuts?" he asked.
She shook her head. "What doughnuts?"
He pointed to the table. A DOUGHNUT A DAY FOR A MONTH FROM SANTOS' MARKET, the bidding sheet read, and the picture propped up next to it of maple-glazed and chocolate cream confections made her mouth water. She saw there was only one name on the bidding sheet, with a bid for—she choked—five hundred dollars signed by Hector Peña in a slanting, loopy handwriting.
She smiled up at Hector and he grinned back. "My wife likes doughnuts," he said happily. "Do you like doughnuts too, pretty lady?"
"My name is Teri," she said.
"That's nice, pretty lady," he said, and she gave up on trying to get him to stop saying that. "But the doughnuts?" he asked again, clearly worried.
"Yes," she said. "I like doughnuts." At his crestfallen look she added, "but I'm not going to bid on them. I think it's very nice that you want to buy your wife doughnuts."
"Love her," he said simply. "I want her to be happy."
"And doughnuts will make her happy," Teresa said, realizing Hector's loopiness was apparently a permanent condition, but very sweet just the same.
"Yup," he said. "She will get a doughnut every day for a month. Like a birthday every day." He laughed at that, like it was the best thing he'd ever heard of.
Teresa found herself laughing along at his obvious joy. She did wonder how his "lovely" wife might feel when she found out that he had bid five hundred dollars for doughnuts not worth more than twenty bucks, but she didn't have long to find out.
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