by Mary Feliz
* * * *
We’d checked into the first chain hotel I came to. As soon as we reached the room, I hit speed dial on my phone to check in with my husband Max. I wanted to let him know how things were going, or rather, how they weren’t, and give the boys time to bask in their father’s praise for their heroics.
While the phone rang, I handed my cell to Brian. When Max answered, the boys took turns recounting their adventure and soaking up their dad’s praise. Their young egos and energy were recharged by the time David handed the phone back to me.
“Wow!” said Max.
“I know. I’m so impressed. You’ve never seen such cool heads under pressure. All the first responders were saying the pilot wouldn’t have stood a chance if the boys hadn’t been right there on the scene.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. It was one of those ultralight aircraft things. Looks like a hang glider crossed with a lawn mower. A gigantic motorized dragonfly.”
“Sounds like a steampunk monster, but I get what you mean. So, it was an accident?”
“I think so. The pilot was just a kid. Older than our guys, but still.”
“You think he cut a few corners with maintenance and paid the price?”
“I’m sure there’ll be an investigation, but I can see myself at twenty, wanting to get going rather than do a tedious safety check, can’t you?”
“No way I’d ever go up in one of those things. Not in a million years. Not in two million.”
“But if you did, you’d be lucky if two kids like ours were there to be your safety net, right?” I winked at the boys, who blushed. Then I told Max about the other hiccups in our plans, promising to check in when I knew more.
By the time I wrapped up the call, Belle was snoring in the middle of the boys’ queen-sized bed, leaving little room for Brian and David. Determined, they crammed in on either side of her, as if she was a bolster designed to keep them from kicking one another in their sleep. She perked up as they unwrapped their sandwiches, but I distracted her with filled dishes of kibble and water.
Dinner in bed proved an intriguing novelty. The boys wanted to watch television, but their eyelids drooped. In lieu of tucking them in, I straightened the covers on each side of the bed. As I smoothed the sheet folded over the blanket on David’s side, he sighed. “Mom, I don’t think it was an accident.” He was asleep before I could delve further into his suspicions.
Shrugging, I chalked his concern up to the gloom that darkens everyone’s perspective at the end of a long and stressful day. By morning, I was sure his outlook would be sunnier. After all, who’d want to tamper with the aircraft of some local kid?
* * * *
In the morning, other more immediate concerns shifted my attention from the mysteries surrounding the crash. Awakening stiff from our bluff-side scramble, I ached to dive back under the covers. But I was a mom, Belle needed a walk, and we all needed breakfast.
The boys stirred. “I’m going to walk Belle and check out,” I told them. “Pack up your gear. I’ll meet you at the car. We’ll get breakfast and restart this adventure.” With that rousing speech to instill enthusiasm, I leashed Belle and headed downstairs, hoping I hadn’t waited too long to attend to her needs.
She made a beeline for a grassy patch as soon as we got outside. The day was cool, but the marine layer was starting to burn off. It would be another glorious day at the beach, if we ever got there.
No sooner than I had unlocked the car, the boys joined us.
“Where to?” David asked.
“Starbucks,” Brian said. “If there is one in this little town.”
“We can do better,” I said. “Beach Street Café. The hotel desk clerk told me last night that it’s a hometown favorite.”
* * * *
It was. One part modern-foodie mecca and two parts hometown diner and information center, the place bustled when we arrived. A counter stretched across the one-room restaurant. It separated the kitchen from the dining area, which included an assortment of tables for two, four, and six that could be shoved together for larger groups. “Sit anywhere you like,” said the waitress. “Coffee? Orange juice? Water?”
We seated ourselves while she poured my coffee and handed us each an extensive menu listing basic breakfasts and more elaborate brunch items. “Sandwiches are on the back if you’re more in the mood for that. We get people in after the graveyard shift, so we serve breakfast and lunch all day.”
I thanked her and glanced at the back of the menu. “How ‘bout that, Brian? You can have your grilled-cheese sandwich and hot chocolate if you still want them.”
“Nope. Cinnamon French toast.”
“Buckwheat waffles for me.” David said. The waitress, who introduced herself as Lucia, topped off my coffee and took our orders, including a veggie Eggs Benedict with avocado for me.
We settled in to wait, examining the table top. Under a layer of glass, a vast array of business cards advertised local shops and services. “Surf lessons,” said Brian. “Can we do that this summer?” He flung out his arms simulating a surfer stance, and nearly cleared the table of sugar, ketchup, and salt and pepper shakers. David grabbed for the items, saving them from becoming shards on the spotless checkerboard floor.
“Breakfast is on us,” said Lucia, plopping down the paper and pointing to a front-page story with the bold headline: Local Researcher Rescued from Crash. “Jake Peterson is a regular. Used to work here in high school. His grandma lives next door to me.”
Below the fold was a photo of Brian, David, and Belle watching EMTs load a stretcher into the helicopter. Brian and David blushed, and I looked toward the kitchen, where the chef peered through the pass-through window, waved his spoon, and slapped the counter in applause. “Heroes eat free,” he called out.
“Is everyone in town this cheerful?” I asked Lucia. “Where are the curmudgeons and the grumps?”
“We have our share, for sure, but as a rule we might be friendlier than the folks over the hill in Silicon Valley. Maybe we’re just not quite as rushed. Or maybe it’s our food that sweetens tempers.” Lucia winked.
“Are you the owner?” I asked.
Lucia nodded. “Yup. Me and Sam, there on the grill. This place has been here for decades though. My mother worked here, summers, when she was a teenager. It’s an institution. After work, before work, on the way home from fishing or the beach, everyone stops in here at one time or another. That guy at the corner table is Charlie Adams, the ranger at the state beach where you boys found Jake.”
Adams looked up when Lucia mentioned his name. She waved and called to him. “Meet our local heroes,” she said. He smiled, waved, and went back to reading his paper.
“Used to be, we were smack in the middle of the canning factories—Green Giant, Dole, California Giant, Martinelli’s apples. Not too many of them left. We’ll outlast them all.”
Sam whistled from the window, and Lucia left to pick up our orders, then placed them in front of each of us, demonstrating a formidable memory for food and faces. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast,” she said. “Shout out if you need anything. Homemade salsa coming up for your eggs. Go easy if you don’t like jalapeños.”
The salsa was a perfect mix of freshness and a pinch of heat to balance with the smoother flavors of avocado, egg, and cheese.
“Thanks, boys,” I said, wiping cheese from my mouth after a too-ambitious first bite. “For breakfast.”
“That’s not why we helped him,” said David, sounding aggrieved.
“I know,” I said softly. “Lucia and Sam know that, too, I’m sure. But it’s making them feel great to say thank you. Your actions benefited their friend and the community, and they want to recognize that. It’s generous to let them.”
“’Kay,” said David, taking a big bite of his waffle and closing his eyes. He opened them w
ide. “Okay!” He turned to Sam behind the counter and gave him a thumbs up. Brian nodded his appreciation without slowing his assault on his French toast. By the time they were finished, I was more than full.
“Do you want to order lunch to go?” Lucia asked, taking our plates.
I nodded. I’d been watching a series of customers pay for their breakfasts and pick up bagged lunches to go. If the regulars were all doing it, how could we go wrong? “But let me pay for those. Breakfast was excellent. Thank you.”
She brought us lunch menus and we ordered, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever be hungry again. When she delivered the bags of food to our table, along with the bill for lunch, she asked the boys to autograph the newspaper. “For our wall.” Lucia pointed to a bulletin board at the far end of the restaurant that featured drawings by small children, photographs of young men and women in uniform, and framed articles touting the achievements of local teens. “You’re one of us, now. Always. Please come back.”
“We’re staying for the summer,” I said. “I’m helping out Renée Alvarez at Heron Beach.”
Lucia laughed. “You’re that Maggie? Renée told me all about her plan to reorganize the office out there. She’s my best friend. She was married to my brother.” Her cheerful expression darkened.
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why.
Lucia shook her head. “It was a long time ago. They weren’t married long. Helicopter pilot. Iraq war.”
On that somber note, she turned to address the caffeine needs of other patrons. “Haven’t you had enough already?” she asked a man I was sure she’d called Oh-Oh. “Never,” he answered. “I don’t know why anyone turns to drugs when your coffee is available. Top off my little brother’s cup, too.” He pointed to a lanky teenager at the table across from him. “You’ve met Domingo, right?”
Lucia nodded and looked back at me over her shoulder, making me feel self-conscious about my eavesdropping. I’d never lived in a town that felt this small, where everyone was one or two introductions away from knowing all the other residents. I liked it.
I left a generous tip to cover both breakfast and lunch, and added my business card to the collection under the table top. Brian stopped to snap a photo of all the cards under the glass. I knew without being told that it was his way of noting the contact information for the surf school he’d expressed some interest in, along with a flight school that offered a free trip aloft to anyone under the age of fifteen. Rescuing a crashed pilot hadn’t dimmed his love affair with altitude.
It wasn’t until we were outside and I was tucking the lunch bags into the car that I realized Lucia had included a raw beef bone for Belle. “For the hero dog,” she’d written on the bag, signing it with a heart.
I poked my head back in through the café door to say thanks. Lucia was busy, but mouthed the word “wait” as she handed out steaming plates of food at a table filled with beefy men wearing fishing gear.
“Thanks, on behalf of Belle,” I said.
“So that’s her name.” Lucia laughed. “I fell in love the minute I saw that picture. She’s gorgeous.”
“And she knows it. But, I wanted to ask you if you’ve seen Renée. I’ve been trying to get in touch. She hasn’t answered her phone or returned my call.”
Lucia shook her head and patted her pockets, apparently searching for her phone. “That’s not like her, but if you’re calling from the beach, cell service can be sketchy. Have you tried texting her?”
“I’m sure she’ll call soon. Everyone says she’s reliable.”
“She’s got the kids,” Sam called out from behind the counter. I was surprised he could hear us over the chattering customers and the other sounds of the busy diner.
He called out to a man in his late twenties or early thirties and held up a white paper bag. “Rivers, you can’t pick strawberries on an empty stomach. Don’t forget your lunch.”
The man grabbed the paper sack and grumbled a thank you, making him the grumpiest person we’d encountered so far. He didn’t wait to be introduced.
Lucia ignored him. “What’s the hearing equivalent of x-ray vision?” she asked. “It’s Sam’s superpower. He’s right though. I forgot. Something was going on with Renée’s neighbor yesterday, and Renée’s looking after her three little kids. Twin toddlers and an infant. She’s got her hands full.”
I tilted my head toward the waiting boys. “I remember those days. If you see her, please tell her that Maggie would appreciate a call when she gets a chance. If she’s willing to give me access to the office, I can get started without her.”
“Will do.”
I ended our conversation and scurried back to the car.
“Can we stop at the hospital before we head to the beach?” asked Brian. “Check on the pilot?”
I thought for a moment. “Please?” asked David. “They might not let us see him, since we’re not family or anything, but someone should be able to tell us how he’s doing, right? He was in bad shape.”
David had nailed one of my reasons for hesitating. The downed pilot had been in critical condition. What if he’d since died or was circling the drain? The kids would be devastated.
“It might not be good news,” I said. “Even if he recovers, it might be a long road.”
Brian and David nodded solemnly before climbing into the car, with David back in the driver’s seat. I was in favor of giving teens as much supervised driving time as possible.
“Still…” I closed my door and fastened my seatbelt. “As long as you’re prepared for anything, including the possibility that we won’t learn much, what with privacy rules and all. Just remember that what you did yesterday was incredible. You did what you could to help and called in reinforcements. I’m proud of you.”
David put the car in gear, pulling away from the curb and doing a U-turn to head back toward Highway 1. The community hospital was strategically positioned close to the next exit north off the freeway. The medical facility was near the airport too, for easy air transport of patients to Silicon Valley’s world class trauma centers some fifty miles north.
Chapter 4
To reduce housekeeping chores on a beach vacation, set up a foot rinsing station outside your front door. Keep it simple. A plastic dishpan of water and a towel or soft brush will do the trick.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Tuesday, June 18, Morning
“Main entrance or emergency?” David asked as he pulled into the hospital parking lot.
“Main entrance.” I hoped the volunteers or staff in the front lobby would be less rushed than ER workers and more likely to entertain our non-standard request for information about a patient along with questions that probably broke all kinds of confidentiality rules.
David found parking easily, close to the door. There were distinct advantages to being outside Silicon Valley—namely, lower population, lighter traffic, and fewer SUVs crammed into compact spots.
The doors swished open automatically as we approached. Once inside, I introduced myself to the volunteer staffing the main desk and asked about the pilot who’d crashed. “Oh, you mean Jake Peterson,” she said. Looking up, she spotted Brian and David, glanced at the newspaper on the desk in front of her, and her mouth gaped. “Oh! You’re them!” She jabbed her finger toward the front-page photo. “He’s in G-210, but let me see if I can get the nurse on the phone for you.”
We waited while she dialed, though Brian and David found it hard to meet her enthralled gaze.
“Is this what it’s like to be a rock star?” David whispered under his breath. “How do they get through the day?”
I smiled. “Are you boasting or complaining? Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Before David or Brian could respond, the volunteer pushed a button to disconnect her call and looked up. “I could
n’t reach the unit—oh wait.” She waved to a white-coated man in his mid-fifties wearing a Mickey Mouse tie. “Dr. Bennett? Do you have a moment?”
He stopped mid-stride and looked us over with bushy eyebrows raised. “How can I help?”
The volunteer introduced us. “They’re inquiring about Jake’s status. What can we tell them?”
The doctor rubbed his chin and was silent for a moment. He sighed, and I feared we’d learn nothing, but then he spoke, his voice weary. “Thanks for being Good Samaritans yesterday. Your quick thinking made a big difference.” He shook each boy’s hand, then extended his arm, inviting us to sit in a nearby waiting area outfitted with dark green armchairs and sofas that made the room seem more like a hotel lobby than a medical facility.
“There are regulations that prevent me from sharing anyone’s health information without their consent, but I can tell you that a patient transported here by helicopter yesterday is doing well. He’s still in intensive care, but we hope to move him this afternoon. No promises, but thanks to you, he’s stable.”
The boys beamed.
Dr. Bennett stood. “I’ll talk to my patient about allowing you to visit as soon as he’s strong enough. I’m sure he’d love to thank you in person. Do you have a card or something I could give him?”
For a moment, I thought he meant a get-well card, but then I realized he was referring to our names and contact information. I rummaged in my backpack, pulled out my business card, and handed it to the doctor, repeating our names for him.
As we were leaving, a young man in a gray hoodie with a camera bag over one shoulder barreled through the door, nearly knocking Brian over. “Dr. Bennett!” he called, grabbing Brian’s shoulders. “Sorry,” he said quietly before shouting the doctor’s name again. I glanced over my shoulder, but the doctor was gone, and the doors to the wing behind the volunteer desk were swinging closed.
The young man looked from Brian to David. “You’re Brian and David McDonald, yes? Have a minute? I’m Roger Montero from the Register—local paper. Very local. But I work for the television station in Salinas too. We’d like to run a follow up.”
