by Davis Bunn
“I’ll . . . try.”
Connor stood there until she shut and locked her door. He walked over to where Porter stood by his car. “Thanks again for doing this.”
“No problem.” When they were both seated in the cruiser, Porter asked, “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“No.” Connor looked back to where the light framed Estelle’s window. “Definitely not.”
Porter started the engine and pulled from the lot. “Strange way for you to repay a kindness. Refusing to tell an officer of the law something he might need to know about.”
Connor responded, “What did you tell Sylvie that got her so upset tonight?”
“That was a highly confidential matter, and none of your business.”
Connor waited.
“Are you suggesting that the chief of police trade information with a man he knows to be operating under false pretenses?”
“Absolutely.”
Porter took the valley road out of town. “You first.”
“Her name is Estelle Rainier,” Connor said. “She’s Sylvie’s mother.”
The road dipped and weaved through the night. “I know I’ve heard something about that lady. . . .”
“Estelle abandoned them when Sylvie was a kid. They haven’t spoken in nineteen years.”
Porter swung the cruiser over the final rise, then descended into the farm valley. The fields stretched out to the distant moonlit hills. “Does Sylvie know the lady is here?”
“No. Estelle is afraid to approach her. This, after hiring a detective to find Sylvie.”
Porter glanced over. “How’d you get in the middle of that one?”
“I have no idea.”
Porter’s laugh was a soft, comforting rumble. “You’re here in town, what, all of . . .”
“Three days,” Connor replied. “Give or take an hour.”
“You got a job you don’t need—”
“I need it,” Connor corrected. “Desperately.”
“You’re in tight with a girl you definitely don’t need. . . .”
Connor knew Porter was waiting for a comeback, but he had no idea how to respond.
Connor’s silence only made the chief laugh once more. “Now the lady’s mother is all over your case.”
“She knows who I really am,” Connor said. “Estelle hasn’t said anything, but I’m positive she knew from the first moment we spoke.”
Porter’s laughter bounced around the car. “Carol is going to die, she missed all this.”
“You forgot getting rousted by the chief of police,” Connor said. “Sort of.”
This only made Porter laugh harder. “There ain’t no such thing as a sort-of roust. Not with me.”
“Your turn,” Connor said.
The chief went quiet, then, “You heard about them finding drugs?”
“Eleven keys in the fish,” Connor said. “I heard.”
“The detective handling the case is not high on my list of good people.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, well, he’s convinced the county prosecutor they should treat Sylvie as their prime suspect. He insists the trawler in question was using Castaways as a conduit for dealers operating around Santa Cruz and Paso Robles.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I wish. But given the restaurant’s history and Sylvie’s own past . . . Did she tell you about her upbringing?”
“A little.”
“Her dad was arrested a number of times for trespassing, probably parked that old camper on private property and left it there long enough for the owners to bring in the law. Sylvie’s got her own sheet—but because she was a minor, it’s all sealed. But the records do show how the county repeatedly tried to put her in foster care. There were a couple of court cases, finally dropped because she was fierce about staying up with her schoolwork.”
Connor rubbed the sore point over his heart. “She is one amazing lady.”
“You got that right.” Porter kneaded the steering wheel with two massive fists. “I’d like to wring that detective’s neck.”
“You told her tonight about the possible arrest warrant because you want her to go ahead and hire a lawyer,” Connor guessed. “Which Sylvie can’t afford.”
“That pretty much sums it up,” Porter agreed.
Connor looked back through the wire-mesh screen, out to where the road disappeared over the rise. “There’s too much of everything in your town.”
Porter glanced over, but he did not speak.
“Too much honesty,” Connor went on. “Too many raw emotions. Too many blows coming out of nowhere.” Connor turned back around. “Too many reasons to care.”
“Welcome to Miramar.” Porter slipped into the motel’s forecourt and cut the motor. “That’s my town in a nutshell.”
“Thanks again,” Connor said. “For everything.”
Porter jerked his chin toward the entrance. “Everything’s set up. They’ve accepted the same story as the Miramar guesthouse because it came from me. You’ve lost your wallet, you’ll be paying cash.” As Connor rose from the car, Porter said, “You have to tell Sylvie who you are.”
“I know.”
“And soon,” Porter insisted. “Sylvie needs to hear this from you.”
Connor shut his door, then said through the open window, “She’s lucky to have you for a friend.”
Porter took that as the farewell, nodded, and put the car into gear. Connor stood there as the cruiser pulled out of the lot.
Trucks rumbled along the highway, pulling him away from Miramar. All the people he was coming to call friends. Most especially a woman who deserved to learn the truth about the man she kissed. The mysteries and the questions. All of it belonged to a haven he wished he could stay in a little longer. And come to call his own.
CHAPTER 21
After tossing and turning for a futile hour, Connor rose from his Motel 6 bed and went downstairs to the guests’ laundry room. He had once found great comfort in sitting and watching the machines. Tonight, however, the steady rhythm only reflected his churning thoughts. He carried his clean clothes back upstairs and ironed the jeans and T-shirt he intended to wear for the journey south. Finally, around two, he lay back down and eventually drifted away. His dreams were fractured glimpses of a woman’s lovely gaze, and lips he probably should never have tasted. But which he yearned to kiss again.
Connor was in the Motel 6 lobby at a quarter to six. After so many disjointed nights, his eyes felt grainy and his thoughts muffled. The night clerk was handing over to his replacement, and their happy chatter drilled at his brain. He stepped through the sliding glass doors into the frigid dawn. He was wondering if he might wake up before he froze, when the car pulled into the lot.
The sight brought both clerks outside. The night clerk was hefty and the girl on dayshift was a slender waif, both were in their twenties, and both completely agog at Connor’s ride.
The guy said, “Is that a Rolls?”
“A 1956 Silver Cloud,” Connor confirmed. Kali’s people had selected it as the car to take her to church, and then launch them into their honeymoon.
The girl said, “That car is bigger than my apartment.”
The guy said, “I didn’t know they made cars that white.”
The girl said, “Are you, like, famous?”
The guy said, “When that cop dropped you off last night, I thought, you know, we had a serious criminal on our hands.”
The girl said, “Oh, come on. The Mafia comes to Miramar? Please.”
The driver rose from the car and asked, “Is one of you a Mister Smith?”
“That would be me,” Connor said.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.” The chauffeur scampered around to open his door. “We better get started. You’re due on set in less than five hours.”
As Connor slipped into the rear seat, the girl said, “Happy trails.”
CHAPTER 22
A script in the traditi
onal blue cover embossed with the CPP logo was waiting for Connor. The seat was softest ivory leather piped in gray. The carpet was matching gray silk velvet. There was enough legroom for Connor to stretch out fully. The front seat was backed by a full bar, each item carefully nestled in padded holders. Beside the sterling silver ice bucket was a rack holding bottles of single-malt whisky, signature vodka, Puerto Rican rum, and six hand-cut crystal glasses. The fridge held minis of soft drinks and fruit juices. Connor opened the panel next to the fridge and found a cheese plate, a fruit bowl, and seven sandwiches with rare roast beef and creamed horseradish on rye.
Connor selected one of the sandwiches and poured himself a mug of coffee from the silver thermos. He opened the script and began to read. He went through it slowly and finished in twenty-five minutes. There was a handwritten note on the last page that read, Phone as soon as you’re done, Gerald.
Connor asked the driver, “Can I borrow a pen?”
“There should be one in the armrest, sir. Along with a lapel mic and battery pack.”
“So there is.” Connor started over, this time working out his part’s tempo and emotional bearing. After the third reading, Connor was ready to make the call.
When Gerald answered, Connor said, “The bridal Rolls? Really?”
Gerald revealed a laugh like a stork. Ack-ack-ack-ack. “I so wish I could have seen your face.”
“At least you didn’t order them to tape white ribbons running along the hood.”
“I tried, believe me, but the company said the wind would tear them apart. I was very disappointed.”
Connor asked, “Did you write this script?”
“Well, I had to. What they sent over was such drivel.”
“This is actually very good.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“I’m serious. You’ve given me a solid set of lines here. The emotional cadence is steady and builds to a genuine crescendo. You ever want a job writing for soaps, let me know. I’ll introduce you to my agent.”
“Ha. Ha. This is me, not laughing.”
“Really, Gerald. Good work.”
The genuine compliment left Ami Chen’s assistant at a loss for words. He cleared his throat, then said, “Yes, well. There’s a downside to all this, I’m afraid.”
“Go on, then.”
“The episode is going out live.”
Connor leaned back in his seat. It all made sense now. The Rolls had been sent so he would show up for his final act in the limo that would have carried them from the ceremony. The script, the urgency, it all came down to this.
Gerald said, “Helloooo?”
Connor replied, “This is actually a very good thing.”
“I’m sorry. There must be a problem with this connection. I thought you just said—”
“It means we do this in one go. No outs, no reworks. I don’t have to repeatedly dredge up these emotions for all the takes Kali usually requires.”
“Ami said you would like it. I didn’t believe her. Kali’s people shrieked so loud they set dogs to howling in Tijuana.”
“I can imagine.”
“The cable people are swarming. But really, the attention this is getting. The Internet has been on fire.”
“I think I should go in raw,” Connor said. “No makeup, no hair, no rehearsals.”
Gerald mulled that over. “What are you wearing?”
“T-shirt, jeans, rope belt, canvas boots.”
Gerald played the stork again. Ack-ack-ack-ack. “Kali’s people will need oxygen and those paddle thingies to restart what passes for their hearts.”
“Tell them my rough state will heighten the impact of my lines. Also, it will show how we were never really meant to be together.”
“The perfectly groomed lady and the gardener.” Ack-ack-ack-ack .
“Is that a yes?”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but it will be a pleasure. You have no idea what a pain they have been.”
Actually, Connor knew all too well. “Gerald, I owe you big time.”
“I have a penchant for vintage champagne and lavender roses. Four dozen is a nice round number.”
“I was thinking,” Connor replied, “that it makes up for making me show up in this bridal boat.”
Ack-ack-ack-ack. Gerald hung up, still laughing.
CHAPTER 23
Sylvie rose early Saturday and went for another walk along the shoreline path. The lane was crowded today with weekend joggers and cyclists, many of whom puffed out greetings as they passed. Sylvie recognized the faces from her clientele. The day was crystal clear, the sky a pale wash of porcelain blue. Sylvie spent much of the walk telling herself that she should not miss Connor quite so much as she did. She tried not to worry over whatever mystery errand had taken him down to LA, or how it might keep him there.
When she returned home, Sylvie made a fresh pot of coffee and opened her treasure chest. The box had been a gift from Rick and Marcela to mark the restaurant’s first anniversary. It remained one of her most cherished possessions. The proper name was a Victorian travel writing desk, and it had been designed for use by adventurers exploring the world’s far-flung reaches. The top was slanted and covered with an inlaid leather pad. The front folded out to reveal an inkstand and letter holder. One interior drawer held recipes, the other articles on wines and spices. The larger central space beneath the lid contained ideas for redesigning the restaurant’s interior and menus from other restaurants she admired.
She had planned to spend the hours as she often did on Saturdays, leafing through her clippings and printouts of menus, working up a new rendition all her very own. She had a leather-bound notebook where she jotted down ideas, fashioning them over weeks and months until she was ready to spring them on her kitchen staff. Carl was the perfect sounding board. He listened well, remembered everything, and rarely commented with more than a nod. Then he would work through the idea and try it on the staff. Together they would incorporate these comments; and if it worked, they would present it as a weekly special.
Her mind kept returning, though, to that vile detective and the prospect of being brought up on charges of smuggling drugs. She hated the resulting sense of helplessness, how little of this was under her control. She had no choice but to wait it out, and hope for the best. The longer she sat there, the more the cloud grew, skulking dark and heavy on her mental horizon.
Finally she stowed away her half-formed recipes and touched the interior sidewall. It gave a little click and came free in her hand, revealing the box’s secret compartment. For the first time in nine months, Sylvie pulled out the bundle of pages folded and tied with a lavender silk ribbon. She had started this wish list as a child. Sylvie loved Miramar, and had no intention of ever living anywhere else. However, she was still her father’s child, and the urge to wander remained strong within her.
But she did not want to travel alone.
Her father’s company had made the road their friend. She wanted this again. She wanted to journey with someone who shared her hunger for new horizons. She wanted . . .
She unfolded one of the oldest items, a stained and faded pamphlet for Machu Picchu, the mystical ruins in the Peruvian Andes. The words were barely legible now, but it did not matter. She could recite the entire brochure from memory. She turned the fragile pages, and thought how nice it might be to share this dream with Connor.
As she retied her ribbon and refit the wooden sleeve over the secret compartment, Sylvie smiled over the recollection of Connor’s kiss.
Sylvie had been astonished by how good it had felt.
How rich the flavor of his lips had been.
How she wanted to taste him again.
How she could still feel the strength of his arms as he held her.
How much she wanted to have him hold her again.
And never let her go.
CHAPTER 24
Connor ran through the script a final time; then he stretched out on the backseat. He assumed
the dread prospect of what awaited him at the end of this ridiculous journey would keep him awake, but the interrupted nights and hard work and emotional upheaval that had led up to this moment served as a balm. He was asleep in the space of three breaths.
He dreamed of walking along the Miramar shoreline with Sylvie. It was the same as their time together, only much richer. In his dream, they had been doing this for years, sharing hundreds of dawns. Thousands. He talked about himself and his latest acting gig. He shared from one heart; she received with the same heart. They were that bound together.
He was jerked from the dream by the sound of his phone buzzing. Connor fumbled and pushed himself upright, then dry scrubbed his face and struggled to fit his fractured world back together. The luxurious Rolls-Royce and the silent driver and the script on the velvet carpet all seemed tawdry.
The phone went silent. Connor poured himself a cup of coffee. The dream had seemed so real; the loss of connection to Sylvie left his chest hollow. He tried to tell himself that it was impossible to miss this woman, especially with everything he had waiting for him in LA. However, the dream’s impact would not be denied.
When the phone started buzzing again, Connor saw Gerald’s number, hit the connection, and complained, “You just woke me from the best sleep of the week.”
“Don’t you dare take that tone of voice. Kali has been running around here screaming at people. I hate when people scream. That woman has such a voice.”
“Tell me.”
“And the language. Between her and the director and that Peyton, I was blushing.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Connor stated.
“Oh, all right. This is actually more fun than Mardi Gras. But don’t tell anybody I said that.” Gerald released another of his trademark laughs. Ack-ack-ack-ack. “When I told Tony what you were wearing, his shriek broke windows in Burbank.”
Tony was the show’s director. Peyton and Kali both adored him. The behind-camera crew referred to him as Tony the Toad.
Gerald asked, “How far away are you?”
Connor leaned forward and passed on the question, then told Gerald, “The car’s GPS says thirty-two minutes.”