by Mary Feliz
The boys looked to me, and I nodded. Why not? It would be good experience for them, and I was certain the reporter was only looking for a photo and a brief quote in lieu of an interview with the hometown pilot. “I’ll get the car and meet you back here,” I said. David tossed me the keys. Characteristically, I whiffed the catch but scooped them up quickly after they clanked on the ground directly in front of me.
As I left, I heard the raspy static-filled voice of the public-address system: “Dr. Bennett to post-surgical, stat. Dr. Bennett.” Even in a small town, the lives of trauma surgeons offered little downtime. I was grateful he’d spared a moment to talk to the boys. My upbeat thoughts were replaced by worry before I reached the car. Could the emergency that drew Dr. Bennett away have been a change in Jake’s condition? I scanned the empty parking lot for anyone who might be able to give us an update. But there was no one.
I pulled the car to the curb in front of the portico, but before I could locate anyone, the boys climbed into the back seat. “How’d it go?” I asked.
“Fine,” David said. “He just wanted a quote from us about the rescue. We said it was really the search and rescue team and the EMTs who deserved recognition. We just called in the cavalry.”
“Good job.”
David squared his shoulders. He might have been a teenage boy who wished his parents could be neither seen nor heard, but he wasn’t beyond basking in his mother’s praise.
“But enough of the spotlight,” I said. “Let’s find out what awaits us at Heron Beach.”
“Hang on, Mom,” Brian said in a low voice. “Look.” He pointed toward the information desk inside the building where the volunteer wiped her eyes. The reporter stood in front of the counter with his shoulders drooped. He shook his head, then looked back toward us and frowned.
We didn’t need anyone to spell it out. “Jake’s dead,” said David, sucking in a deep breath.
Ordinarily, I’d have advised the kids to avoid jumping to conclusions and to wait for more detailed and accurate information. But the body language was clear.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“What happens now, Mom?” Brian asked.
David spoke before I could answer. “This is messed up. It isn’t right. How can he be dead?”
“It was a terrible accident. You said yourselves he was badly hurt. Sometimes internal injuries—”
David wiped at his eyes. “That’s just it, Mom. I don’t think it was an accident.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Are you saying Jake crashed deliberately?”
David closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. No. Not at all.”
“Then what?”
Brian fiddled with the window control then looked from his brother’s tortured face to mine. “He kept trying to tell us something. He was angry.”
I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to tell the difference between extreme emotion and the pain Jake must have surely been suffering, but I decided that listening would be the most useful skill to deploy at the moment.
David rested his head on the back of the seat in front of him, then sank back. “Brian’s right. What did he say? Something like ‘bad prop.’” He looked at Brian for confirmation.
“Or ‘check prop’ maybe?” Brian picked at a piece of loose rubber on his sneaker. “Like there was something wrong with the propeller.”
I thought back to my first sight of the ultralight. “That might explain why the machine was so ungainly. For whatever reason, it sure looked like he was having trouble getting it under control.”
“We need to tell someone,” David said, his face still reflecting his emotional pain. “Like, right away. Someone tried to hurt Jake. Maybe kill him.”
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s a leap. Isn’t it more likely that you heard him berating himself for skimping on safety checks or something?” David’s insistence on contacting the authorities surprised me and derailed my recollection of the oddly flying machine. I had the sense I was missing something, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the kids and their grief. We’d all grown attached to the idea that they’d saved the young man. They’d worked hard to do so. Beyond our empathetic sorrow over the tragedy of Jake’s death, the news was a blow to their pride in their accomplishment. But our wounds were too fresh to allow for cogent thought.
“Let’s think about this and talk later,” I said, speaking quickly in an attempt to change the subject and distract the boys. “We’ll call the sheriff but let’s head out to the beach first. I need to know where we’re all going to sleep tonight.” I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “If there’s still no condo ready for us, and no word from Renée, I don’t think we can stay. We wouldn’t be able to have Belle with us, for one thing. For another, if Renée doesn’t have time to return my phone calls and straighten out this misunderstanding, I don’t think she’ll have the time or commitment required to get her business organized. Working under those conditions would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“Go home?” Brian asked. “But this place is so cool.”
My heart sank. Instead of providing a practical distraction from the tragedy, I’d added to his grief.
“I agree. The ocean, the slough, the birds, the sea mammals…and the freedom. It feels like we’re a million miles from Silicon Valley. Your dad would love it, too. If we need to ditch the plan to spend the summer here, we’ll look for a week we can come down for vacation.”
“But that would mean without Belle,” David said. Belle wagged her tail, either artfully pleading her case or oblivious to the possibility that she’d be left out.
“’Fraid so.” I said. “Let’s wait and see though, before we panic.” We passed the rest of the journey lost in our own thoughts.
I pulled into a parking space in front of the main office and guard station. The boys leashed Belle and walked her back toward the bridge to sniff for rabbits and birds, and take care of any hygienic needs she might have. I checked my phone for coverage. Three bars. “I’ll text you when we’re ready for step two,” I called to Brian and David, then muttered to myself, “Whatever step two turns out to be.”
I opened the door and stepped inside, pausing to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light in the office.
“Morning, Maggie, I’ve got good news.” Vik reached into a cabinet on the wall behind the desk that was filled with metal keys. He selected one and placed it on the counter. “I finally reached Renée. She asked me to tell you how sorry she is for yesterday’s mix-up. She’ll be here shortly to tell you herself, but in the meantime, if you give me your receipts from wherever you stayed last night, we’ll reimburse you. And your condo is ready. It’s freshly remodeled and cleaned, three bedrooms on the third floor with a great view of the ocean.” He stepped back, shoulders squared as though he’d engineered the entire solution himself. Maybe he had.
I picked up the key with a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’m thrilled.”
“Turn right after you go through the gate. Then a left, right, left to reach the parking area for your building. Take the ramp to the second floor then the first set of stairs. Your unit is the first one on the south side of the building.”
Vik rattled off the instructions quickly. I struggled to replay his words and visualize them.
“Never mind. You’ll find it. It’s not that complicated. Unit numbers are indicated at the entrance to each parking lot and there’s a map for each building. If you have any trouble, just give me a call.” He handed me his card. “That’s the number for the guard shack here, not just for me. Pop it into the contacts on your phone and your boys’ cells. Any questions, any emergencies, we’ll be here. 24/7.”
I thanked him again and left the building. I glanced at the card and groaned. I ducked back into the lobby. “Vik Peterson?” I asked, holding up the card.
He nodded, smiling.
“Any relation to Jake?”
“My cousin. More like my little brother. His parents raised me up, mostly.”
A ringing phone stole Vik’s attention and saved me from having to report the worst news possible. He didn’t need to hear it from a stranger.
It was hard to focus on anything else in the face of such a dreadful tragedy, but what else could we do but trudge forward? I stepped outside and forged ahead, looking both ways as I crossed the small parking area searching for the boys.
Like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, prepped for an idyllic summer, Brian and David lacked only old-fashioned fishing poles as they leaned over the white-painted wood railing of the small bridge. I called out and waved the key in the air.
* * * *
I checked the number of the third-floor unit twice and opened the door slowly. I sniffed, testing the air in case this apartment was as bad as the first, but the condo smelled of new paint and freshly cut wood. Belle pushed past me, and the boys dogged my heels. David crossed the living room and flung open the shutters that blocked the view to the ocean. Without a word, he slid open the balcony door and stepped out. Belle and I joined him, as did Brian after proclaiming he had dibs on a bedroom with a balcony of its own.
David uttered no protest over his brother’s preemptive strike to commandeer the larger bedroom. He seemed entranced by the view, which included breaching dolphins. He turned. “How soon can I invite my friends down?”
“Are those dolphins?” I asked. “There…” I pointed as they spouted then disappeared under the waves. “Did you see them? They’ll be back up in a moment, watch.”
“Friends, Mom.” David repeated. “Can they come down this weekend?” His voice was full of teenaged nonchalance with a twist of impatience, but only for moment. “Whoa! Right there.” He pointed and we all watched until the dolphins disappeared into the distance. Belle sniffed and her tail thumped against the railing.
“Friends?” David reminded me as though he feared I’d grown feeble-minded at my advanced age.
“Not until the car’s unpacked, at least,” I said, handing him the keys. “Once you’re done, get started on a grocery list. I’ll go shopping later this afternoon.”
I dialed Renée’s number. My spirits sank as the phone rang with no answer. I sighed and left a message, not bothering to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Renée, it’s Maggie McDonald. Please give me a call back as soon as you can.” We needed to talk about commitment to this project. If now wasn’t the right time to tackle it, rescheduling would make more sense than struggling with an overfull agenda. I ended the call and went to help the boys.
I’d ring Max tonight. We needed to let him know about the fate of the pilot. Talking to him about it would help us all. But I also needed to discuss plans for Renée’s project and the rest of the summer. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone unnecessarily, but more and more it seemed our original plan had no hope of working out. We could stay through the weekend when Max could join us. We’d enjoy the perk of having Belle with us in a resort that typically didn’t allow dogs. But after that? I was nearly one hundred percent sure we’d be headed home.
Organizing is hard work, even for those who are wholly committed to the time investment required to revamp storage and time-management systems. I’d tried working on projects funded by relatives who thought their loved one would enjoy a more structured and organized life, but they seldom worked well. My jobs went smoothly only when clients were invested in both the process and the outcome.
In Renée’s case, we’d talked on the phone earlier about her budget and expectations. Without considerable participation on her part, she’d never achieve her goal of creating an efficient, attractive office space, appropriately staffed to meet the needs of modern absentee homeowners, tourists, and an aging infrastructure.
I wasn’t desperate for clients. I’d considered working with Renée only because my best friend Tess had asked me to. The deal was sweetened by the perks Renée had promised. But I had clients back in Orchard View who needed my help and with whom I was more likely to be successful.
I didn’t know what the problem was with Renée, but it didn’t much matter. She was making it clear that now was not the time for her to tackle revamping her business. It was going to break the boys’ already wounded hearts.
Chapter 5
To manage sand in the car while at the beach, line passenger foot wells with old towels you can carefully lift and shake out when necessary. Keep a whisk broom handy for the driver’s area, where a towel could get dangerously tangled among feet and pedals.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Tuesday, June 18, Late morning
My phone rang again.
“Maggie? Maggie McDonald? It’s Renée. I’m finally here in my office. I’m so sorry about the last couple of days. It’s not like me. I have a good explanation. I promise you, I’ll be much more reliable going forward.”
Renée continued to breathlessly assure me that she was serious about her project and ready to begin. I asked for directions to her office. She described a building on the opposite side of the property a few hundred yards beyond the gatehouse. I didn’t much feel like work and would have preferred a long walk on the beach talking to the boys, but I couldn’t put Renée off—not after insisting that she either show up or reschedule. I sighed. Life was so much simpler when it marched forward in accordance with my plans. If only the world worked that way.
After letting the boys know where I was headed, I walked past the small pond where a mother mallard was attempting to get her eleven ducklings into line. I sympathized.
I followed a path to Renée’s office in a building that looked as though it had started life as a clubhouse for the tennis courts it overlooked. I knocked on a metal screen door and, hearing no answer, entered at the corner of an expansive but dreary room. Fluorescent fixtures dangled precariously from rusted chains attached to beams that vanished in the darkness. On the floor were sagging cardboard boxes and dusty file cabinets topped with piles of stray cords. Three utilitarian steel desks topped with clunky desktop computers hugged the corners of the room, like heavyweight prizefighters waiting to square off. Tess had warned me before I took the job that the office had suffered through a series of inept managers who’d fostered a climate of back-biting and infighting. The room reflected its history.
What a mess. I sneezed. And sneezed again.
A woman emerged from a back room. She extended her arm toward a folding banquet table surrounded by collapsible metal chairs. “Maggie? Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thanks,” I said. I introduced myself, shook her hand, and made appropriate social conversation. But then it was time to get down to business. I pulled my computer from my backpack. Though I still personally preferred taking notes on a yellow-lined pad, I’d forced myself to use only my laptop or tablet for client meetings. Much of my approach to organization hinged on eliminating paper clutter, and there was no better way to do that than to avoid creating it in the first place. I found it easier to convince customers to curtail paper use when I set a good example.
Renée looked around the room and frowned. “I wouldn’t blame you if you ran out of here at once and never looked back. I haven’t given you the best first impression, and this mess of an office doesn’t help.”
“No one calls me unless they need help, Renée. I’ve seen worse.”
Renée’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m sure that’s true, but…” She waved her hands toward the stacks of boxes and the remnants of abandoned projects covered with dust. She sank into her creaky desk chair. “My next-door neighbors got picked up by ICE last weekend. I’m looking after their three kids.”
“Ice?”
“Immigration and…what’s the rest? Customs
Enforcement?”
“You’re not kidding? The real ICE?”
She pushed back her hair and sighed. “They’ve been staking out day care and health care centers, food banks, and schools.”
I shook my head, struggling to believe the words I understood individually but couldn’t fathom once they were all grouped together. “What happens now?”
“I know the parents have worked on their citizenship papers, but I can’t find them anywhere in the house.”
“Can they stay with you? The kids I mean?”
“I’m not an official foster mom. But no one has come by to ask questions or check on the kids either.”
“Does ICE or CPS know they’re with you?” I asked, referring to Child Protective Services.
Renée stared at her hands. “They work hard, but money is tight. They’ve focused on raising the kids. Immigration details took a back seat.”
I was sympathetic, but wasn’t sure how to respond. Renée continued talking as my thoughts drifted. There was nothing I could do to help. The situation was a disaster for a small family and had upended Renée’s life, but how did it measure up against the Peterson family’s tragedy? I sighed, noting how my outlook had changed in the last 24 hours. My vision of an idyllic summer was becoming obscured with one catastrophe after another. I struggled to refocus on Renée’s words.
“Do they need a lawyer?” I asked. “How does this work?”
“I’ve made a few contacts but now we’re all in limbo, waiting to hear back. I don’t know what I need, but I’m thinking diapers and baby food are probably both more important than a lawyer right now.” Renée looked at her watch. “I’m hoping to get started on this job while I wait for them to return my calls.”
“How can you even focus?”
Renée shook her head, then stood and dusted off her hands. “Let’s see what we can make of all this in whatever time we have. I’m the fifth new manager in the last two years. The financial records are a mess. And—”
