She felt a hard bump. “Hey, Koke, not so rough. Be a love, be a love!” She signaled the other two trainers to wave their whales into the opening formation. Nothing turned on the crowd like a bevy of behemoths doing synchronized leaps.
The announcer launched into the welcome spiel, cued the music, and the crowd hushed. Those in the front rows, including a den of Cub Scouts, adjusted their rain gear in squirming anticipation.
Bri climbed onto Koki’s back and gripped his body with her knees and elbows for the deep dive.
On the upward thrust, trainer and whale burst from the pool high into the air, in perfect alignment with the two other whales and their trainers.
Without warning she felt Koki twist left, throwing her off balance and off his back.
She landed hard, the impact with the water driving the wind from her lungs. To her horror, a giant shadow blocked the sun. Hastily Bri dove under the instant before Koki’s body slammed down with an enormous splash.
Pushed deep by the force of the whale’s descent, Bri panicked. She had not had time to fill her lungs with sufficient air before the massive body fell. With astonishing speed Koki vanished from sight, and she realized a trainer’s worst fear. She had seen the same signs in younger, untrained whales. For whatever reason, her whale had gone rogue.
He wants to kill me!
Koki came about, gaining speed for another attack.
Bri choked on water, broke the surface, sputtered, gasped for breath. She half-heard someone yell, then a cacophony of screams.
Again the immense shadow blocked the sun, but Bri was quicker this time. She was well underwater, with a good lungful of air, when the whale crashed down.
Bri surfaced. Out of the corner of an eye she saw the other trainers run along the concrete apron, shout, blow their whistles, kneel to slap the water and divert the killer whale’s attention. Koki circled for a third time, his adolescent hormones swollen with aggression.
She was tired but mustered all her strength and swam in the direction of the advancing whale. He would not anticipate her so soon. So while he was still in the water, she would leap onto his back, then dismount off the opposite side onto the safety of the splash ramp before he had a chance to breech again.
It never happened. Bri felt a searing pain. Her thigh was on fire. The whale had her in his teeth. The next instant, the sky rushed toward her, followed by the sick sensation of falling backward into emptiness.
She called Brad’s name before all went black.
Chapter 15
How goes the aerial training?” asked Fr. Byron as Cassie showed him into the living room. He had been waiting at the end of the driveway when she and Mags arrived home. “I assured your security patrol that the clerical collar is not a disguise. It helps that I recognized one of the officers and reminded him that his second son had received infant baptism from one Fr. Byron G. Wills. But tell me, have you been caught yet — you know, on the trapeze?”
“Are you kidding, Father?” Cassie said. “I’m working up the nerve to try a simple knee-hang from a moving swing. Have you any idea how much courage is required to dangle from that skinny little bar, lift your knees up between your arms, hook your legs over the swing, let go with your hands, arch your back, and look to the catcher?”
Fr. Byron grinned and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Mags. “I hear male flyers are warned never to flirt with the catcher’s wife.”
They laughed and Mags said, “I’d like to get Pierre Cardin on a swing. We could live for a week off the change in that man’s pockets.”
More laughter and Cassie began to relax. After the initial irritation at being ambushed by her clergyman, she realized she had brought it upon herself. Never ignore the family cleric, especially one as persistent as Fr. B.
After further small talk, Mags broached the weird string of California animal attacks making the news.
“What’s happening, Father? Is it the tides? Global warming? El Niño?” Mags was serious. “It gives me the willies.”
Cassie motioned the priest to sit. She knew that her friend had been uneasy ever since the report of the deranged horse. Every day seemed to bring an ever more disturbing rash of incidents involving whales, rats — and this morning there was a story out of Yosemite National Park about a pack of bears storming Muir Campground and critically mauling a soccer mom from Modesto in front of her two small children.
Joy lay in a coma still. For half of every day, Royce Blanken-ship did not leave her bedside. For the other half, he worked late into the night, refusing to exit the office until too fatigued to think.
“What have you heard, Father B?” Cassie asked. “Why would animals behave so peculiarly? And why only California animals mostly in San Francisco and L.A.?”
Fr. Byron stared into the steam from the coffee cup in his hand. He swallowed without first taking a drink. “It certainly is a disturbing phenomenon, I agree. That poor woman killed by rats in the basement of city hall was a sister to my parishioner Yolanda Bates. Yolanda, bless her soul, remains inconsolable. I pray to God these things cease, but as to their origin?” He shook his head slowly. “Even the experts are at a loss. They can’t always connect the victims and their attackers. They’ve pretty much ruled out rabies and other viral causes. None of the quarantined animals have tested positive for disease. I’m stumped.”
Cassie shuddered. “It’s like an episode of The Twilight Zone.”
The three sat in silence.
“Sorry,” Mags said at last. “I didn’t mean to bring us down.” She got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with a plate of molasses cookies to help brighten the proceedings.
A clatter from the garage and Nick joined the party, sitting beside his wife. He had changed into faded green running shorts and a T-shirt with the Azure World logo, a stylized globe the color of an unclouded sky, framed by an equally blue A and W. He exuded fitness and vibrancy.
“Jog with me, Fr. B?” Nick said, sitting forward on the couch as if about to spring into action. “It’d do wonders for your homily. Might even tighten your matins.” He was obviously pleased with the wicked banter.
Fr. Wills did not bite but instead sipped the hot coffee. “Thank you, Nicholas, no. I’m addressing a gathering of the Recovered Alcoholic Clergy Association in two weeks. Tonight is one of the few I have to prepare, and I hear you jog till the bars close. But before you and your wife go out on that stage tomorrow night and accept your accolades, I felt it wise that we talk.”
Nick jumped to his feet. “Then I’ll leave you to it. Cass, I plan a double circuit tonight, so don’t forget to set the security alarm if I’m not back.”
Cassie nodded, wishing Nick would give Fr. B the courtesy of a hearing. It worried her that her husband was all action and little introspection. Though lately she had been no better.
The priest stood and laid a firm hand on Nick’s shoulder. “There’s something I need to say to you both. Please, it won’t take long.”
Nick sank to the couch beneath the weight of the ecclesiastical hand and Fr. B joined him. The expression on Nick’s face was anything but eager. Mags took one look and scurried to the kitchen.
Cassie smiled hesitantly. “I hope you can join us at our table tomorrow night, Father B. No excuses. I’ve been awful at returning phone calls, and I thought this might give us a few minutes to reconnect. Besides, this is our golden hour, and I want you to be there.”
Fr. Byron avoided her eyes. “I did receive the invitation. Many thanks to you both, but I lead evensong and, with Fr. Krell down with gout, it would not be a good time for me to miss. If I do the accelerated version, I can catch some of the ceremony, the best of it, on television after. Plus the entertainment news shows will be nattering about it for days.”
The words were right but spoken with only halfhearted enthusiasm. “What, Father?” Cassie insisted. “What are you leaving unsaid?”
His usually expressive hands were still, folded over a slight mound of belly beneath the b
rocade vest. “The collect for Saturdays is, ‘O God, the source of eternal light: Shed forth thine unending day upon us who watch for thee, that our lips may praise thee, our lives may bless thee, and our worship on the morrow may give thee glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’ ”
The priest let that sink in, then said, “I haven’t seen either of you or dear Beth for a very long time. We haven’t talked. You haven’t attended ser vices.” He paused thoughtfully. “Do you watch for him, Cassie? Do you, Nick? Are your lips filled with praise? That’s what I meant by my last phone message. In the typhoon of publicity and public adoration, have you, blessed now beyond all measure, thought to build an altar of thanks to the Lord? I don’t mean a literal stone upon stone, but one of the heart.” His lilting voice softened. “Have you thought about requesting a service of dedication and gratitude to the One who has given you the desires of your hearts?”
Cassie felt the sting of tears. Everything had happened so quickly, the last weeks racing past in a blur.
“Look, Father, I mean no disrespect,” said Nick, “but you sit protected behind cathedral walls from which it is pretty safe to lob the occasional cheap shot. We’ve both been working eighty-hour weeks to get Cassandra on the market, to pay our creditors, to reward our loyal employees, to pay our stakeholders a decent dividend, to give Beth a good education, and to finally give ourselves a break so we can at last enjoy some of the fruit of our labors. And we did it, mind you, by finding and formulating the most fascinating fragrance on God’s green earth and making it available to everyone. And where was God all this time that we were the laughingstock of industry wags? Thanks to Cass, you’ll get your tithe, Father, but could you at least wait the customary thirty days for payment?”
Cassie gasped. “Nicholas! That was uncalled for. Fr. Byron only wants the best for us. How could you be so rude?”
“I won’t be accused of ingratitude,” said Nick, back on his feet, set jaw daring anyone to intervene. He turned on the priest, his words an angry rush. “How dare you rate my church attendance, and where do you get off accusing us of being in it for the applause? Excuse me while I go commune with nature. At least the moon doesn’t judge.” Without giving Fr. Byron a chance to respond, Nick stormed out the front door with a slam.
Cassie’s expression was forlorn. “You were pretty blunt,” she said.
Fr. B sighed. “I get that way sometimes. Forgive me, Cass, and make my amends to Nick. It’s just that behind every great symphony there is a composer; behind every flowing dance, a choreographer; behind every magnificent scent, a Creator. You said it yourself once: ‘The senses are a doorway to God. If we are made in his image and meant to love and enjoy him forever, then it is in part the senses that enable us to experience him more fully.’ I’ve always thought that was such a beautiful expression.”
“I said that?” Cassie stared at the cookie in her hand before parking it on the rim of her saucer.
Fr. Byron smiled kindly. “Yes, you did. All I ask is that you not seek your identity in Cassandra the fragrance, but in Christ the Rose.”
“How do I do that, Father? Everyone wants a piece of me, and honestly, I’m enjoying the clamor. You’ve always been one to point out how we ought to take joy when in rhythm with the life God gives. Well, brother, I’m happy to say that for the first time in my life, I’ve got rhythm!”
Mags retreated to the dining room to watch Beth do her homework.
After five minutes of being stared at, Beth said around her wad of gum, “What!”
“It’s not often I get to see a teenager at home on a Friday night doing schoolwork. Have I entered another dimension?”
Beth shrugged. “I’d been spending a lot of time with Andre lately. Then my parents got a call from the vice principal. I figured I’d better do some catching up.”
Mags nodded and gave her an old-as-I-am-I-understand look. “Carry on, then; don’t mind me.”
“Mags, why do people get so upset over perfume?”
Mags thought it over. “Renee Gaudette, the fashion designer, used to say that perfume is a haunting memory more reliable than the rest. Of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerfully linked to subconscious thought and memory. Am I making any sense?”
“Sure. I went to camp one year and took that old green shag pillow for comfort. Gretchen liked it too, and her smell was all over it. I wasn’t homesick until I smelled that pillow. I spent half an hour on the phone with Gretch. Mom never lets me forget that one.” Beth started to go back to her homework, then hesitated and looked up again at Mags. “So how come you and your daughter are strange?”
“If you mean es-tranged,” — Mags stifled a laugh — “it’s because we’re two strong-willed and independent women who found themselves on opposite sides of the fragrance wars. I believe in Old World sophistication with a pinch or two of restraint. My daughter thinks interesting and chic are found in the most outrageous promotions and outlandish claims.”
“Can’t you agree to disagree?”
“Not that I want to keep talking about this, but I’ll tell you one more thing. To her I’m a dinosaur. Outdated and always shooting my mouth off. The more I tried to advise and console, the more she pushed me away. So I stopped trying and sort of adopted you and your parents as my family. Now, don’t you have a date with a handsome hypotenuse?”
Beth grinned and opened her geography text. “More like a report on hunky Honduras. How did you and Mom meet?”
“Oh, now I like that story. It was right after another good friend of hers died, and we were both at a trade show in Brazil. Cass was missing her friend, and I was feeling like there’d been a kind of death in my family too. We just hit it off. I think she liked my spark at a time when she’d lost hers. I convinced her to partner with processing plants in Asia. Japanese women on average spend about fifty percent more on beauty products than women in America and Europe — put that in your social studies report sometime. That partnership helped Azure stabilize.”
“Wow, that’s great. Mom never talks about this stuff. Did you ever meet a geisha?”
Mags showed her surprise. “No, no geishas, but I do admire the Japanese sensibility. Don’t tell your mother I told you this, but the traditional Nippon women never perfume their skin directly. If they did, it might compromise their purity or advertise a woman of easy morals. Their method is to stitch fragrant wood shavings into the hem of their kimonos. Though perfume can damage fine clothing, pearls, mink, and silk, I love the idea of scented clothing as a sign of one’s virtue.”
“Huh, pretty cool. How’s this?” Beth placed closed fists against her forehead, eyes squeezed shut, as if in deep thought. “A name is coming to me . . . yes . . . yes . . . I give you Fragrant Fashions by Maggie O!”
Mags made a face but was secretly pleased. “Laugh it up, dearie, but you may have just named the next wave of sensible wearables. Don’t worry, I’ll share the credit.”
Beth played with the gum in her mouth. “That sculpture you gave her must really have sealed the friendship.”
Mags looked pleased. “Ah, the Salvador Dali perfume bottle from the house of Baccarat.”
“It’s so pretty. Must be worth a mint.”
“Yes, but a one-of-a-kind cut crystal decanter in yellow and gold by Dali is a tribute, not a commodity. Anyone who can love me despite my flaws is that special.”
Beth started to ask another question, but Mags held up her hand. “It’s getting late. I’ll leave you to Honduras and get myself to bed. Good night.”
Beneath the covers of her bed in the guest room, Mags thought about her daughter, their estrangement, and the hollow place that would always be in her heart. She had long wanted to tell Cassie how precious the mother-daughter relationship was, also how fleeting, and how tragic when it was too late to save it.
After the gala, she decided. Then she would warn Cassie with straight talk like only she could deliver. Poor girl. First from the priest. Then from Mags.
But no
t until Cass and Nick had their date with destiny. The gala would be their coronation. As for Mags, she wasn’t going near that glitter dome of excess. She would instead curl up with Gretchen in front of the TV with a big bowl of buttered popcorn. They would woof and holler for the home team like hockey fans at the playoffs.
Better make that two bowls. Gretch could really stow away the popcorn.
A shadow crossed in front of the side bay window, accompanied by heavy breathing. Cassie awoke from the couch with a start. She threw off the afghan and jerked upright, confused in slumber. Had she set the alarm?
“Beth?” By the light of the lamp Cassie had left burning after Fr. B’s departure, Nick bent over her, sweaty and breathy from running. He kissed her and she protested. “Phew! You smell like the bottom of a gym bag.”
Nick flopped to the floor and leaned back against the couch, hair flipping droplets of sweat. “Now there’s a scent promotion that needs work,” he joked. “Just so’s ya know, watchman, I told the rental cops to call it a night. No, you did not set the alarm, but I see you sent the parson packing.”
Cassie squinted at the clock. It read 2:35. “I think parsons fizzle past midnight. Sorry about the alarm. I was dead to the world. Where’d you go?”
Nick’s breathing slowed. “First I stopped by the laundry room and screamed my remaining aggression into the wash machine. Those big front loaders can really take a substantial pile of belligerent buildup. Then I circled Mt. Davidson, took a turn around Glen Canyon Park, outraced Mrs. Parker’s Pomeranian, and returned to drip on you.”
He threw a hand up and playfully Cassie nuzzled it. “My, my. We were having a nasty bout of preacher pique, weren’t we? Fr. B didn’t stay long after you left.”
Nick sighed. “I was unfit company. Forgive me? The good reverend must — it’s in his contract — but you may choose a different door.” He craned his head back, looking vulnerable and chastened. He must have flogged himself the whole route.
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