by Gerry O'Hara
After registering at the inn, she tied a sweatshirt around her waist and set out on a hike through the park. She walked alongside the river, which narrowed to a creek at this juncture. She watched a young couple with backpacks cross weathered wooden planks that bridged the creek. The water sparkled and the clarity revealed a bed of round river rock and minnow-size fish swiftly swimming back and forth.
Spring in the forest was special. Wild azalea and rhododendron peeked through masses of ceanothus—California’s wild lilac. Hunks of Scotch broom, ablaze with clusters of buttercup-yellow blossoms, swayed gently in the breeze. Yellow clusters dripped from acacia trees, sure to inflame her allergies, she mused. The trail was thick with manzanita, sycamore, and towering sequoias. This scenic spot was another world, hidden from the inn and campsites that were just a stone’s throw away.
The hike brought her to a gorge, and she had to watch for poison oak. Newts and salamanders zipped across the path, and squirrels chattered at her. It was tough going once she entered the gorge. The trail was not as defined and huckleberry vines sprang at her, their nasty thorns threatening to gouge her skin. Although the weather was warm, she pulled her sweatshirt on to protect her arms.
Then she reached the prize. A monolithic granite spire rose from the ground and a ribbon of waterfall cascaded over it, creating a pool at its base. Across the water, ripples shimmered in circles and grew as they fanned out.
She took off her shoes and socks and sat on an outcropping. She dipped her feet into the pool; after the long hike, the chilly water was refreshing. If only she’d worn a bathing suit under her clothes, she thought. The water was inviting; perhaps another time she would go for a swim.
The tensions of the week fell away in response to the beauty of the woodland setting. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, making the scene more perfect than if she had designed it herself. Tranquility. Every nerve in her body relaxed. How fortunate, she thought, to have this natural gem nearby.
Later, after a brisk shower, she had dinner at the inn’s restaurant, and then browsed the gift shop. She chose a couple of postcards and a T-shirt, then returned to her cottage.
Back in her room, she undressed and pulled an oversized sleeping shirt over her head. She hauled Kristin Hannah’s latest novel from her overnight bag and made herself comfortable in a chair by the window. At ten o’clock, her eyes weary from reading, she closed the book. It had been a pleasant, even inspirational, day. The one ingredient that would have improved on the mix was Cash.
She had expected a candlelight dinner for two, mood music, and a walk through Ventana’s garden, not dinner alone. She could almost feel his arms crushing her close, his heartbeat throbbing with desire, his lips hotly pressing hers. She had visualized a steamy love scene, but she knew it was only a fantasy. She settled for going to bed early, wearing her sensible cotton nightshirt.
The following morning, Christie enjoyed an unrushed breakfast of Belgian waffles and strawberries. The sun was brilliant and the air already showed signs of warmth. Spring was unpredictable on the coast; one minute it was summer weather, the next it felt like winter. After finishing a second cup of decaf tea, she checked out of the inn and drove to the art gallery. Judging by the scarcity of cars in the parking lot, she was either early for the exhibit or there was a lack of interest. She surmised that others would drift in and out throughout the weekend.
The gallery walls were covered with paintings of various scenes and contrasting styles, but she spotted Scott’s work immediately. His bold strokes stood out. Two men were standing together, and as she approached, one turned, and she was pleased that it was her instructor.
“Christie, so glad you came. I’d like you to meet the gallery owner, Mr. Allingham.”
They shook hands, and as Allingham departed, Scott put a hand to the small of Christie’s back to guide her through the exhibit.
“I’m extremely pleased at how many paintings Allingham hung. I didn’t expect so much exposure.” He waved his arm.
Christie walked alongside Scott, slowly taking in his artwork. When one particularly caught her attention, she would stop, and Scott would explain some detail about that particular piece. She especially liked his Big Sur paintings. They were realistic, but he had painted each scene with his own interpretation. Strong, bold strokes and vibrant colors accented the natural beauty of the cliffs and surf.
They were interrupted by the gallery owner, who had a couple in tow. He introduced them to Scott, and Christie excused herself so he could focus his attention on the prospective buyers. She paused at a large canvas on an easel. It didn’t look like one of Scott’s; the colors were soft and moody, capturing the fog-shrouded bluffs with a sense of emotion. She leaned forward and checked the signature. The hair on her arms rose. The artist was Elliot Parker! She swiveled and scanned the wall. Four more of Elliot’s paintings hung in the gallery. Heart pounding, Christie hurried over to the gallery owner. She could hardly believe what she had seen. Allingham was bent over a podium, straightening out the guest book and pen: busywork. She tapped his arm and he looked up.
“The paintings by Elliot Parker, are they recent acquisitions?”
“Yes. Mr. Parker comes through here regularly, and his work is well received, especially by tourists. I am always grateful when he brings in new work. Are you interested in a particular painting?”
“Do you know where he is staying?”
Allingham looked at her quizzically. “We can’t give out that kind of information. I’m sure you understand. Privacy reasons.”
“This is very important. I’m a friend of Mr. Parker’s daughter. She is expecting a baby and there have been complications with the pregnancy. Elliot has been on the road so long, he is unaware of the situation. We’ve been trying to contact him.”
“You could leave a message.”
“There isn’t time.”
“I’m sorry, we are strict on confidentiality.” Allingham turned, dismissing her. Christie pulled a card from her wallet, scratched a message on it, and handed it to him.
“Please give this to Elliot when you see him. Impress upon him that this is an emergency.”
On the way out of the gallery, she said a hasty good-bye to Scott. She knew what she had to do: check every campground in the area. First she’d call Cash.
He answered the phone on the third ring. Christie told him that she believed Elliot was in the area, and her plan.
“If you locate Elliot, tell him to drive to Watsonville Airport and then call me. I’ll fly him to Sedona.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Once he knows Margo needs him, he’ll be ready to return home. And Christie, why don’t you come, too? We can be back tomorrow.”
The one question Christie did not voice was: What if she couldn’t find Elliot? If she failed, she would feel as though she had let Margo down. Being this close, it would be unthinkable not to succeed. Margo needed her father. Being estranged from him after losing her mother must make her feel like an orphan.
The reservation office at Little River Campground was her first stop. The receptionist was friendly. She thumbed through the campsite roster, but Elliot was not registered. She gave Christie a list of campgrounds and some phone numbers and told her that she was welcome to use the office phone. Christie was appreciative; her cell phone was getting spotty reception.
The third campground host she spoke to gave her a lead. “Mr. Parker often stays here,” he said, “but when he showed up a little more than a week ago, we were completely full. I suggested he try Fernwood or Little Sur Campground.”
She got an answering machine at Little Sur. Thanking the receptionist for use of the phone, she jingled her keys as she strode to the car. She only had to drive a few miles, but it seemed like an eternity until she saw the rough-hewn signboard over the campground entrance.
A cardboard clock at the reservation desk indicated that someone would be back at one o’clock. It was one fifteen now; so much for punctuality!
The road curved into a cul-de-sac; campsites lined only one side of this section. Just around the bend Christie came upon a secluded site. Set back from the road was a twenty-four-foot motor home and a single canvas-and-metal chair. A folded artist’s easel rested against the motor home. Christie’s hopes soared. She parked and got out, her heart thrumming. Big Sur was popular with artists; this could be anyone’s easel, she reminded herself. She quickly shook that idea out of her mind. She had too much invested to allow negative thoughts to intrude. Margo needed this to be Elliot!
She stepped up to the RV and knocked on the door. No answer. Just her luck. If this was Elliot’s spot, he could be out hiking or beachcombing, and might not be back until dark. Or maybe he had a tow vehicle and had driven to Monterey or Carmel.
“Are you looking for someone?” a soft voice asked.
Christie whirled and stared into the face of Elliot Parker.
Elliot locked the motor home and they headed to Watsonville in Christie’s car. Cash had given easy directions to the airport, which was about twenty-five miles north of Monterey. She had told Elliot about Margo’s problem with her pregnancy and the restrictions the doctor imposed.
“It’s important that she be kept stress-free,” she said. “And worrying about whether or not she would ever see you again hasn’t helped.”
Elliot turned his face toward the window. Christie realized that her remark was sharp, but it was true, and he deserved it. How could he have deserted his daughter, argument or no argument?
“I was having a difficult time,” Elliot said by way of explanation. “I’m grateful that you found me. I would never purposely hurt Margo. I love her,” he said simply.
They arrived at Watsonville Airport and parked. They were on the tarmac in time to watch Cash’s plane touch down and roll off the runway toward them. Elliot took Christie’s arm and they ran out to meet the Beechcraft. Cash pushed the cabin door open, dropped the step, and Christie and Elliot climbed aboard. “Elliot, it’s good to see you,” Cash said.
“I didn’t know about Margo’s baby,” Elliot sputtered. “I would have returned home…” There was regret in his voice.
“I know, Elliot. That’s all over now. I’m going to get the plane back in the air.”
They buckled themselves into their seats while Cash taxied onto the runway. He accelerated, bringing the nose of the plane skyward, and as always Christie felt her stomach drop.
“Not scared, are you?” Elliot asked.
She tried to appear nonchalant and shrugged her shoulders.
They were quiet during the rest of the trip, and as they made their approach to the airport in Sedona, Christie closed her eyes and silently vowed not to open them until the plane rolled to a stop.
Once on the ground, Cash secured the wheels to the chocks. Hal was waiting for them. He appeared hesitant as the threesome approached, then he finally stepped forward and grasped Elliot’s outstretched hand. “Glad you’re here, sir,” he said.
“How’s my daughter?”
“Better now that you’re here. Cash’s call was a gift.” He turned to Cash and clapped him on the back. “Thanks, buddy. You, too, Christie.”
Later that night, at Cash’s hacienda, he and Christie sat on the patio going over the day’s events. Cash’s housekeeper had been unprepared for the impromptu arrival of her boss and guest and had family plans.
“Finish your wine and we’ll go into town for dinner,” Cash said.
“I’m not dressed for anything fancy.” Christie looked at her khakis, perfect for hiking, but definitely not in tune with upscale nightlife.
“I know a restaurant that serves great seafood, southwestern style. Casual attire is the norm.”
“All right, but I don’t want to be rushed. Let me enjoy the wine. I feel as though I’ve been on fast-forward all day and now I need to rewind.”
Cash smiled and reached over and touched her arm. “Take your time.”
Forty minutes later they were sitting in a quaint Mexican restaurant ordering seared ahi with ceviche. The hostess had given Cash a hearty greeting, and the chef came out to say hello, telling them that the ahi, flown in that morning, was special tonight. “Best you’ll ever have,” he insisted, and he was right.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Christie,” Cash said. “Two reunions in a short period of time. And not easy cases.”
She glowed with his compliment. She did feel good about herself. It had been an extraordinary couple of weeks. She’d set a record that undoubtedly would never be repeated. And that was a good thing, because the two cases had worn her out. Besides the long hours, her emotions had been overtaxed.
Cash reached across the table and wrapped his hands around hers. He seemed to study her face before he spoke. “I’m glad you came into my life. I confess I had taken a narrow path, my work was everything, the only thing. And then I met you and…well, things changed.”
She didn’t know what to say. They had been separated for only a few days, but the intensity of her feelings for Cash had escalated with each passing day. But she was afraid to let him know. In the back of her mind, there was the fear that this was a fairy tale and it would soon end, but not in a storybook, happily-ever-after way. She’d been burned once.
“Christie?” He tipped his head questioningly.
“This is a special time for me, too,” she said.
The waitress unobtrusively placed their bill on the table. Cash took some twenties from his wallet and placed them on the little tin plate, and they left.
On the ride to the hacienda, Christie was deep in thought. She was confused. She wanted to be open about her feelings for Cash, but she still had reservations.
“You’re quiet,” Cash said.
“A lot has happened this week. I hope the excitement of seeing Elliot wasn’t too much for Margo.”
Cash pulled the car into the driveway and parked. A few minutes later, alone with Cash inside the house, Christie felt a restless tension. It was too early to excuse herself and go to her room and read, but for some reason she wanted to put distance between them. She had so much to consider about their relationship.
“It’s still warm, would you like to go for a swim?” Cash asked.
“I don’t know—”
“You’re a Pisces; you should have a natural affinity for water. Don’t you have a bathing suit in your duffel? I can’t imagine going to Big Sur without a swimsuit.”
“Yes, I do,” she answered.
“I’ll give you ten minutes to change, then I’ll meet you on the patio. It would be a shame to miss a good swim on a warm night. I’ve been confined so much today, I could use a little exercise.”
She didn’t argue. A swim might wear off the tension, help her sleep better.
As soon as she stepped onto the patio, she knew that she had made a mistake. Cash openly appraised her, and when his gaze rested on her face, it was penetrating. She felt overwhelmingly vulnerable. He moved toward her, and she stepped back awkwardly, then felt foolish. She wasn’t afraid of him; she was afraid of herself. Her knees seemed to buckle, and she sat in a chair to gather herself.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, just getting up the courage to go in the water. It must be cold.”
“On the contrary, the hot desert air keeps the pool quite warm.”
The moon was rising to its zenith and the patio
was touched by its light. A ripple of breeze skittered across Christie’s skin, and she trembled. Cash took her hand and slowly pulled her up. They stood close and she could feel his breath on her face. They walked to the pool’s edge. Cash did a shallow dive, skimming the surface of the water. She opted for the steps, moving slowly, putting off the inevitable. Finally, she was in. She started to swim across the pool. She was aware of Cash at her side, their bodies nearly touching. When they reached the far end, they turned and swam back.
It felt good to have the water pulse around her body. The tension of the day began to slip away. She closed her eyes and floated lazily, opened them again and swept her arms into a graceful breaststroke. Cash lunged into a ruthless butterfly, churning the water into whirlpools. Christie could not fight the tidal wave. She grabbed the side of the pool and hoisted herself out of the water. Cash’s strokes were powerful, and he covered the distance like an Olympic champion. After a few laps, he joined her on the side of the pool, their wet bodies dovetailing. Again she was assaulted by a tremor. “You’re cold,” he said. “Let me warm you.”
She expected him to wrap a towel around her, but instead he enveloped her in his arms and pulled her close. His face burrowed into her hair and she could feel his moist breath in her ear. He pulled her closer and she could feel the heat of his body dry every bead of moisture on her skin. She could hardly breathe. She knew that it would be prudent to draw away, but she lost the will to resist.
His hand did a slow climb along her spine and then his fingers fanned through her hair. His touch seemed to set her nerve endings on fire. His mouth pressed against hers and she felt as though the world was spinning.
“I want to hold you in my arms forever,” he whispered across her mouth.
“Yes, forever.” Had she uttered the words for him to hear, she wondered, or were they spoken only in her heart?