What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One

by Mara Purl

  Research … one of my favorite things. She found herself drifting into a deliciously investigative mood. The conversation with Miranda had been a tidbit to whet her appetite. Now she wanted to see if she could find any more tender morsels. It’s a failing, my hunger for gossip. She sometimes admitted this to herself, but, just as quickly, justified her behavior by remembering that she used whatever she found to splendid advantage with her ability to mix unusual ingredients.

  I’m thinking in food metaphors … I must be hungry. I never did break for lunch. Pushing back from her desk, she walked to her kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. First she drew a small bottle of chilled Perrier from the door and unscrewed the top. Next she spotted a plate of cut apple segments along with a nice hunk of Brie that lay plastic-wrapped on the middle shelf. Grabbing it, she pulled away the clear wrap, got her cheese knife from the flatware drawer, and carried her small repast back to her desk.

  Sitting once again, she sliced a piece of cheese, balanced it on an apple slice, and munched a tasty morsel, washing it down with a sip of her drink. “Zackery Calvin,” she said out loud rolling the name around her tongue. From Santa Barbara. It sounded familiar. Of course, she almost said aloud. The name Calvin from Santa Barbara … and he was well dressed … he has to be part of Calvin Oil. So Joseph Calvin must be his father.

  Zelda considered this for a moment. She looked down at her hands. Polished nails are professional; long ones, gauche. She made a mental note to shorten her nails that night, and to redo her neutral-colored polish.

  I’ll have to do a little digging and see if Miranda’s done it again, she mused. It wouldn’t look good for my client to make more influential contacts than her representative finds. That girl did have a maddening ability for stumbling across the right people. Maybe it isn’t really stumbling. Maybe it’s in the genes.

  Zelda had met the formidable parents Miranda always seemed so eager to escape. Wealthy enough to understate their inherent sense of style, influential enough that people snapped to attention in their presence, they’d cut a wide swath the night they attended Miranda’s first major gallery show in San Francisco less than a year ago.

  Miranda had been effusive in her praise that night, giving Zelda all the glory for her brand-new success. And rightly so. I made all the connections, persisted with the right people, strategized the press, orchestrated every detail of the evening from canapes to Miranda’s wardrobe.

  It’d launched Miranda’s career—that night, that show. And for nine glorious months, both Zelda and her client had basked in the warm light of acceptance and admiration.

  At that point—and for a few years leading up to it—Miranda had very sensibly been rooming with her glamorous sister. That Meredith … she knows what side her proverbial bread is buttered on. Smarts, looks, goals—that young woman has it all. The convenient living arrangement had changed, though, as both sisters had begun earning more money. And somehow, while looking for a larger, more appropriate place to live, Miranda had gone off the tracks. Wish I’d been a fly on the wall during the conversation they must’ve had. Did Meredith want something upscale, while Miranda wanted to maintain her bohemian lifestyle? Did Miranda feel she had to run away from the limelight? Or did she feel she had to protect her precious pristine art from the pollutants of the big city?

  Whatever the case, the next thing Zelda knew, Miranda had announced she was moving to Milford-Podunk-Haven! I nearly had a fit. The stress that girl puts me through! Really, why do I risk my own health?

  She sighed. Nothing had been better than those glorious days of Miranda’s early success in San Francisco. First, there was the city itself: a richly textured, multi-ethnic fabric, woven from the scores of cultures that any great seaport would gather, sewn together by the threads of ambition and dreams.

  Then, there’d been Zelda’s own star rising in the afterglow of her young artist-client: luncheons with elegant and savvy gallery owners or gab-fests with gossip columnists; and, when she herself was feeling Bohemian, wine-and-cheese evenings in the diverse art studios that peppered the city. I do miss how eclectic the city is.

  Zelda still maintained a compact but well-appointed pied-a-terre in San Francisco, as well as the elegant suite of personal and professional rooms here in Santa Barbara. This “dual citizenship” suited her perfectly. She relished the pace and the glamor of the city. Yet this beautiful town had its own glamor, and in some ways gave her better opportunities.

  I can be a larger fish in a smaller bowl. Why not create a bigger splash right here? She chuckled, and looked around her office. Yes, and connecting with the Calvins could be the next piece of the puzzle. She picked up her Cross pen and began to doodle on a clean sheet of paper, sketching the outlines of jigsaw pieces as she often did when working on making connections.

  After a moment she wrote the name Joseph Calvin. She considered the parties or events such a man might logically attend, the charity boards on which he might serve, the clubs where he might play tennis or golf.

  Obviously, this is someone I need to know, and there’s no time to waste. She flipped open her Filofax to check her schedule. If things go my way, maybe I can get a meeting with Mr. Calvin, senior, before the end of the week.

  Cornelius Smith squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked them open to peer out his window at the nearly full moon with his practiced astronomer’s eye. It’s reached 87 percent illumination and is waxing.

  He felt somehow reassured to find it still hanging in the sky where he’d left it a moment earlier. What time is it? He glanced at his watch, which read two a.m. I should also be able to tell by the moon’s position. Let’s see. Here at Milford-Haven’s longitude and latitude the moon would be 25 degrees south of west at an altitude of about 23 degrees … lower than it would’ve been at eleven p.m., when it would’ve been at its highest—about 53 degrees.

  Though he’d only been back at his parents’ home since this morning—and had hardly spent any time in town as yet—somehow things seemed different. Is it my folks? Because they’re getting older? They’re in their seventies now. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t been home in a while?

  He looked around the small room that’d been his as a boy. A daybed sat pushed against the same wall where the bunk-beds had once stood. He remembered fondly that, though he was an only child, his parents had thought bunkbeds would be fun for sleep-overs with friends, or for creating forts.

  In its current reconfiguration, by day, the twin bed doubled as a sofa. By night, a quick removal of the attractive squared-edged pillows with their matching tailored comforter made it suitable for sleeping. His dad had replaced the boyhood study carrel with an oak computer desk. Probably to encourage me to come home more often. Hard to say which of them is more considerate. They always think of my comforts.

  Yet an eeriness seemed to hang in the air—not necessarily of their home, but of the town itself. Well, what do I expect? The moon’s nearly full, and it’s almost Halloween. There be goblins and ghosties about.

  Officially, he shouldn’t be working tonight. He’d come home to Milford-Haven to look in on his parents—his quarterly visit. Despite the subtlety of California seasons, his mother still maintained her life-long practice of switching things around in her home every three months. Though she’d managed with only Dad’s help all these years, now the two of them found some of the tasks difficult. And for her, life just wouldn’t be the same without putting away the summer greens and dotting their home with touches of autumn hues: pumpkins on the front porch; rust-colored throws on the sofas; a different set of sheets, coverings and decorator pillows on the beds. What does she call them? Russet? Amber?

  He’d helped her all day, then driven south to Cambria to pick up the meal his parents considered a special treat: fish-and-chips from the Main Street Grill. Hours ago, his folks’d toddled off to bed after watching Satellite News, though they’d been disappointed their favorite TV journalist Chris Christian had not broadcast one of her special reports. But for h
imself, the late-night habits of an astronomer proved hard to break.

  His career encompassed two primary activities these days: extra-solar planet-finding, and SETI. In simplistic terms, one focused outward, one inward. Seeing and being seen. Or maybe listening and being heard.

  As a member of the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence team, he worked on listening to and deciphering the spectrum of signals most people would call static that constantly traveled through space. Though plenty of folks in and out of government remained skeptical, if anything there was now more pressure to succeed because of the August “discovery.” He kept the clipping in his Day Planner as a reminder:

  August 6, 1996: NASA Uncovers Possible Ancient Life In Martian Rock. Scientists at NASA released a study describing possible microbe fossils found on a meteorite which was strewn from the planet Mars. This event marked the first scientific evidence for the possibility of extraterrestrial life.

  Classic situation that proves just because something is in print, doesn’t mean it’s true. Cornelius studied again the dog-eared piece of newsprint. I remember when I first saw them I was excited for a bit, he admitted. That is, until I noticed the scale. These features were about l/100th the size of terrestrial bacteria. It was like someone claiming to have found a fossil human skull, but it was the size of a pea. Most scientists doubted it even at the time, but the media had been set loose, the NASA administrator had called a press conference, and the President had given a speech. So there it was.

  Regardless of bad reporting, to Cornelius, using earth’s high-magnification eyes to be looking into the tapestry of the universe was every bit as important as using their high-tech ears to listen for potential incoming signals. So he scheduled days, weeks, and months to comb the heavens, collect bits of information, then make sense of it.

  He rotated his shoulders. I’ll keep at it till moonset. That’ll give me a chance to finish reducing my data. Though his regular job kept him most of the time at NASA Ames in San Jose, he’d done a run recently at the Lick Observatory. One of his favorite places, the enclave comprised a series of round, white buildings strung along the ridge of Mt. Hamilton. Rising suddenly to 4,250 feet above sea level, the range offered a distant glimpse of the southern tip of San Francisco Bay, and one of the most extraordinary coastal vistas in California.

  Astronomers, however, paid little attention to the Terran views, mostly sleeping during the day so they could be up all night gathering stellar data. Cornelius had spent his September observing-time searching for undiscovered planets.

  He’d managed to do some of his observation during a previous full moon, because his object-of-interest at the time was in a different part of the sky than where the bright orb blotted out the stars. Well, that wasn’t the only reason. I was doing spectroscopy. Much easier than photometry would’ve been with those cirrus clouds—especially with a full moon lighting them up.

  As usual, he’d gone back to Ames with so much raw data it would take him weeks, or maybe even months, to reduce it—making all the corrections for the atmosphere, the electronics, and several other factors, in order to get an accurate picture of what the stars were actually doing—like wavering in response to gravitational pull, which could indicate the presence of a planet. Data reduction was the kind of work he could do anywhere: at Lick, at Ames, or here, on the laptop he’d brought to his parents’.

  He continued for another hour, glancing out the window again to see that the moon had color-shifted to gold. Must be under 15°. That’s where the atmospheric effects really start to happen.

  In deep concentration, he didn’t look outside again until four a.m. I did say I’d work till moonset, and here it is. It’s setting just 3 degrees of due west … and setting in the constellation Aquarius.

  He shut down his computer, walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he’d shed his jeans, when something on the desk caught his eye. Oh, that’s right, I brought my mail but never opened it. Okay, here’s my bank statement, that program flier I requested from JPL, and … something unfamiliar.

  He changed into his pajamas—he never wore them at home, but at his parents’ it seemed polite. Then he settled himself in his cozy bed and switched on the reading lamp. The return address of the unopened letter indicated it was from Stanford Inn by the Sea in Mendocino. Probably just a sales piece, but you never know. He ripped it open. “Dear Dr. Smith … blah blah blah … wondered if you’d be interested in creating an evening star program for our guests.”

  Now they’ve got my attention. He re-read the letter from the top. The Stanford Inn designated itself an eco-lodge. He’d been hearing about these cropping up here and there in various parts of the world, and found the concept intriguing. Along with offering a vegan menu in their dining room, and biking and canoeing in the nearby Big River estuary, they also ran some educational events. The Inn had never offered an astronomy program, but would he like to discuss the possibility?

  Would I ever! I could design a star party! Something not too technical—but really fun.

  Ideas began to swirl in his mind as his eyes drifted closed. Soon visions of the star party blended with a dream of Aquarius riding a wave off Milford-Haven’s shoreline.

  Chapter 13

  Samantha Hugo squinted at the morning sun streaming into her kitchen window, pulled the chair-stool closer to sit at her high built-in table and inhaled from the fresh mug of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Shoving aside the teetering stack of fliers, postcards and catalogues—and careful not to disturb her collage of sticky-notes—she placed the steaming mug on the tiled top, picked up the morning newspaper and scanned the front page. Nothing unexpected there, just the usual: City Council arguing over water; funding tight for education.

  While she turned the next few pages, she took a first sip of the rich brew. But when a bright beam of sun spotlighted the center-page feature article, she nearly spit out her coffee. Samantha Hugo, Elegant Environmentalist. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “The article was supposed to be about the EPC, not about me!”

  She recalled her conversation with Emily Wilkins, who, until now, had always seemed a responsible journalist with the Milford-Haven News. They’d discussed the delicate balance between the need to keep their local economy healthy while maintaining a close watch on important environmental matters—not cutting down too many trees to clear the way for new houses; adhering to coastal erosion regulations; water conservation. Taking a deep breath, Samantha resumed reading.

  Ms. Hugo’s living room is a reverie of Art Nouveau. She seems to have chosen curvaceous objects that mirror her own lines, such as the graceful clock with pewter embellishments that sits on a large armoire.

  Her own coloring resonates through her home as well, her vibrant red hair echoed by furnishings of burnt orange and soft brown, ochre and dark chocolate. She appears to have a passion for autumn flowers, as evidenced by an arrangement that seemed to pulsate on her coffee table—orange lilies, bright yellow sunflowers, burgundy dahlias, red Hypericum berries and coral zinnias.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Emily calls herself a serious reporter, and she writes about my furniture?” Exasperated, Sam left the paper on the table and marched off to her bedroom to get dressed for the day. She’d showered earlier, and now slipped off her robe and put on brown slacks and a favorite mocha-and-cream paisley blouse. She’d pick up her suede jacket on her way out.

  I suppose I’ll have to read the rest of that article. Everyone else in town certainly will. This attention was the last thing I needed.

  In the bathroom, she applied her usual quick-but-careful makeup and combed out her short, upswept hairstyle.

  The phone rang. Now what? She grabbed her jacket and headed toward the kitchen. There were so many messages already filling up the cassette in her answering machine, that she hated to add yet another. Still, she let her machine pick up the call.

  “Hello, this is Samantha Hugo. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as pos
sible.” She only wished that were true.

  The instant the machine clicked over to accept the incoming message, her assistant’s voice—with an edge to it—boomed out of the speaker.

  “—antha, this is Susan at the office. I thought you said you’d be here by nine. But you’re working on a flower arrangement. In any case you have an urgent letter—it just arrived. You better get down here right away and see what it is.”

  Sam sighed. She’d obviously already read the paper. Susan with attitude? Why should today be any different? Not for the first time, Sam wondered whether it’d been wise to hire a twenty-one-year old, even though she came through the special program of the Chumash Tribal Council.

  But there was no time to worry about it this morning, not with an urgent letter waiting. She slipped into her jacket and began to pack her briefcase.

  Susan Winslow bent over to open a filing cabinet. With a sickening surge, blood rushed to her head and she leaned on the edge of the desk to steady herself. Stupid-number-one: coming to work with a hangover; stupid-number-two: leaning over when my head’s throbbing.

  She’d attempted to get the day off to a good start by coming early to the Environmental Planning Commission office. After unlocking the front door and flipping on the lights, she’d made coffee and managed to read some of the Milford-Haven News. “Geez, I didn’t know Samantha matched her own house!” she’d muttered, and just then the mailman had arrived. “Express Mail.” He handed her a thin package.

  “Thanks,” she’d said to his back. He must be a new guy. He’s kind of dorky, but he does have a cute butt.

  After he left, she checked the return address of the envelope: S.C.A.A.A. The first two letters probably stand for Southern California like they usually do. Don’t know what the three A’s stand for … not one of the regular agencies we deal with. But they must be government, because they used the Postal Service. And it does say “urgent.” She’ll probably be pissed if I don’t call her.