Miramar Bay

by Davis Bunn

  Estelle sipped at her glass of white wine and observed, “For seventy thousand dollars, I’m surprised the buyer didn’t ask for a teacup to match old Phil’s.”

  “You knew about this,” Sylvie realized.

  “I might have heard something somewhere.”

  “You didn’t think it might be worth mentioning? Since that one bid covers my entire legal bill?”

  Estelle had the remarkable ability to sip her wine without lowering the level in her glass. “Why did you leave the silent auction Monday evening?”

  “Why . . . You know full well. I ran away. And don’t change the subject.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing any such thing.” Estelle pointed at the door. “You have customers.”

  * * *

  On Thursday afternoon, Phil Hammond’s attorney called to say he was stopping by, and that he needed ten minutes of her time. Sylvie was tempted to put him off, but she decided she’d rather hear the bad news now, rather than have another reason to fret through a sleepless night.

  Harold Rhemus arrived an hour later, during a tidal wave of early clients. Phil’s attorney appeared both nervous and sweaty in his suit and button-down blue shirt and the restaurant’s only tie. She seated him at the long front table, and then was surprised when Estelle and Marcela and Rick shifted over to surround her. At first, Sylvie thought they had come to offer support, but then she saw smiles being stifled. This only added to the confusion.

  Sylvie asked, “Can I get you something?”

  “I’m not staying, thank you.” It was only when he adjusted his spectacles that Sylvie realized Rhemus was trembling. Regardless of how her staff was almost dancing in place, Sylvie knew Phil and she knew this lawyer. They had no connection to good news. Whatever had brought him here, it had to be bad.

  “Mr. Hammond has elected to withdraw all participation in food services,” Harold said. “As a result, he wishes to divest himself of his interest in Castaways.”

  “I-I’m sorry . . . What?”

  Rhemus opened his attaché case and drew out a manila folder. The tremors rose to his voice as he went on, “Mr. Hammond understands that he has run up quite a large bill. He is offering you his share in Castaways in exchange for all outstanding . . .”

  The attorney was halted by Estelle and Rick and Marcela, who were entering into a somewhat clumsy three-way jig. He cast them a dark glance, then slid the folder in front of Sylvie. “It’s all there in black and white. Sign both copies with a notary as witness. Return both to me for Mr. Hammond’s signature.”

  Aubrey popped the champagne cork just as the attorney fled from the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 59

  Connor took the week at a steady and unhurried pace. The canceled three-week honeymoon left a very convenient hole in his schedule. His new home had not been lived in for almost a year, and he found a multitude of problems that needed urgent attention. Every day was filled with work, sunup to sundown, but he set the pace. He listed the next day’s chores over his solitary dinners. He spent his evenings watching all the old Bond films, right back to Goldfinger. He also intended to study at least three movies by each of the current stars and the director and the cinematographer. Each night he went to bed early, slept well, and rose ready for more of the same.

  Saturday was Porter’s day off. He drove Carol and Celia over, selected a deck chair on the rear veranda, and lost himself in one of Lisa Jackson’s suspense novels. Estelle arrived a half hour later and joined mother and daughter in a thorough housecleaning. When Connor offered to help, he got three versions of the same tirade, which he basically translated as, If Connor was any good at cleaning up, they wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  Connor retreated to the rear patio and asked the police chief, “Why do I get the impression they’re not telling me something?”

  Porter shook his head without taking his eyes off the page. “Nope. I am not getting volunteered again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You want answers, you go ask the ladies.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Porter glanced over the top of his half-moon reading glasses. “And I am telling you that for once I am not re-upping.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Watch carefully.” Porter turned the page. “This is me enjoying my day off. Now, unless you’re going to offer me a fresh cup of coffee, I’d appreciate your not aiming another word in my direction.”

  * * *

  Almost half of the patio’s flagstones had become dislodged, probably from some tremor the town had slept through. Time and the previous weekend’s foot traffic had crumbled some of the corners. Connor refit them with a special cement the Home Depot guy had said was blended for flexibility. He worked through one bucket, long enough to grow completely hot and bothered. Porter ignored him with a cop’s stony intent. Finally Connor gave up and walked back to the sliding doors leading to his bedroom. The ladies had already finished up in there, so he showered and dressed in clean shorts and T-shirt.

  When he entered the kitchen, he found the trio arrayed against him, all lined up behind the counter.

  Estelle said, “We have some news.”

  “I sorta figured that.”

  Carol pointed him to one of the stools on the counter’s other side. “You’re going to want to sit down.” When he did, she went on, “Your private concert has been bought for seventy thousand dollars.”

  Connor looked from one lady to the next. Behind him, he heard the sliding door open. He asked, “Is this a joke?”

  Celia asked, “Do we look like we’re joking?”

  “How long am I supposed to play? A year?”

  Carol said, “Sol Feinnes bought it.”

  “I don’t . . . Wait . . . Sylvie’s lawyer has refused payment?”

  “He didn’t refuse anything,” Porter said. “He’s given it back.”

  Carol said, “Here’s where you ask about Sol’s one condition.”

  Celia said, “We should have a drumroll for this next part.”

  Carol said, “He bought the concert so you would play for Sylvie.”

  Celia brought her hands together. “And cymbals.”

  Carol said, “This was Estelle’s idea.”

  Celia said, “Correction. Her brilliant idea.”

  Estelle said, “You’re too kind.”

  “No she’s not,” Celia said.

  Carol said, “Sol is making the donation on the condition that you play for Sylvie.”

  Connor replied, “Sylvie won’t want that.”

  Estelle smiled. “You just leave that with me.”

  CHAPTER 60

  The tectonic plates beneath Sylvie’s world continued to shift right through the weekend. As she was planning Saturday’s specials, Porter entered the kitchen and made a slow circuit, shaking everyone’s hands and speaking a few friendly words. Any other season of her life, Sylvie would have found a gentle gratitude in how Miramar’s chief of police could be so comfortable around two convicted felons and her other miscreants, including herself. Sylvie Cassick’s own record was clean only because her juvie files remained sealed.

  However, given the fact that she was just days removed from her delayed felony trial, all Sylvie could manage was to keep her lunch down.

  When Porter finally arrived at where she stood frozen to the kitchen’s polished concrete floor, he said, “Let’s go up front.”

  Only when he took hold of her arm was she able to move. As she passed through the doors, she glanced back in time to watch Bruno and Carl exchange high fives. Sylvie considered the action almost treacherous.

  Porter led her over to the bar and said to Aubrey, “Give us a few minutes.”

  “No problem.” Aubrey added her own disloyal smile to the day’s strangeness and departed.

  Porter then surprised her by pulling his phone from his shirt pocket and punching in a number. He watched her intently as he waited. Then he said to the phone, “We’re g
ood to go.” Porter passed over the phone and said, “It’s for you.”

  She needed two hands to lift the phone. “Yes?”

  “Sol Feinnes here. I’m happy to inform you that all charges against you have been dropped.”

  Sol continued to talk for a while about papers and such. She tried hard to listen, but the mist over her eyes had somehow managed to affect her hearing as well. When he went quiet, Sylvie made a total hash of her thanks. Then she handed back the phone, took a few unsteady breaths, and finally managed, “Is this really real?”

  “As real as it gets.”

  “But what if, you know, they come back?” She knew she sounded like a nine-year-old asking about the boogeyman, but she could do nothing about it.

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here.” Porter shifted his lumpish bulk on the stool, leaning closer still. “The sheriff’s detective has been reassigned. He’s now on guard duty at Lompoc Men’s Prison.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there are a lot of others who are very upset about the case against you ever having gone anywhere near a courtroom.” Porter was clearly enjoying himself enormously. “The prosecutor has been reassigned to the lovely desert resort of Barstow. And this morning, the judge in question announced he’s taking early retirement.”

  Sylvie gave a very tight sigh, a quick in-and-out breath, like she was recovering from a wound and needed to see how far she could stretch the scar tissue.

  Porter liked her silence enough to ease off his stool, lean over, and kiss her on the cheek. He pocketed his phone, patted her on the shoulder, and left without another word.

  CHAPTER 61

  On Sunday evening, Miramar’s mayor and half the town council stopped by Castaways with the auction’s official tally. The events had run up a surplus of 104,000 dollars.

  “That’s not possible,” Sylvie told them.

  “I absolutely agree.” The mayor was a rawboned woman who ran one of Miramar’s two veterinary services. It was said she could still a bucking horse with one bark. “But I’ve gone through the numbers myself. Twice.”

  They were seated at the long front table. Behind them, the restaurant was filled with the normal weekend clamor. Her staff rushed about, borderline frantic. Sylvie had a dozen things that urgently needed her attention. But just then, all she could accomplish was to sit upright. “What do you want from me?”

  “We met with Estelle this afternoon. For all intents and purposes, she’s the woman responsible for the whole shooting match. She agrees with us that the money is yours to do with as you please.”

  “I don’t . . . No. Absolutely not. You’re not handing me that mess.”

  “I absolutely am.” The mayor’s seamed features rearranged themselves into a vast grin. “It’s not every day I get to argue with somebody about writing them a check.”

  “I can’t accept that money!”

  “Nobody expects you to. You just need to decide which local charities are getting an early Christmas.” The mayor rose from her seat. “One thing can’t wait. Estelle is still out twenty thousand dollars. She’s making noise about how she doesn’t want anything paid back. I need you to talk some sense to that lady.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Sylvie found a brief quiet moment and phoned Estelle. To Sylvie’s surprise, when she insisted that Estelle take back the funds, her mother simply asked, “Are you sure?”

  “About this, absolutely.”

  “All right. I just want you to know that I was glad to be there when you needed me.” There was a shaky breath; then she added, “This time.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Late Monday morning Estelle walked along Miramar’s central avenue, down past Castaways and on toward the sea. She exchanged greetings with a few people, but she refused to allow anyone to slow her progress. She did not have much time, as she had agreed to volunteer at the animal shelter and there were still a few details to complete regarding the day’s main event. But before all that she wanted a few moments in her little seaside haven. And like any good penitent, Estelle felt a need to arrive there on foot.

  When she reached the beachfront road she turned left and climbed the gentle slope. She crossed the parking area and took the path through the clifftop park. There was a breathless hush to the air, neither any wind nor the faintest ripple to mar the ocean’s surface. The Pacific stretched out in blue-gold majesty to join with the cloudless horizon. The air was a mix of sunlit heat and the water’s biting chill. The result was a champagne headiness to her every breath.

  Estelle retreated to the open-fronted chapel and was pleased to find it empty. She seated herself and stared at the sunlit vista and silently acknowledged the true significance of the day’s events. More was at work, she knew, than her being accepted by the town her daughter called home. More too than helping Sylvie reunite with a man desperately seeking to become someone who deserved her daughter’s love.

  Miramar had granted Estelle what she could not have brought herself to even ask for. Her past was full of reasons why she should never be granted her silent wish. She remained fully aware of all her many wrongs, including the fractured prayers she had formed while seated right here.

  Even so, Estelle had come to discover this town’s secret gift. And not just her. Miramar had offered it to three people who yearned for this above all else.

  A second chance.

  When she was ready, Estelle rose from the bench and whispered the shortest prayer of all.

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  On Monday, Sylvie finally reached the decision she had been working toward since the moment Connor had arrived onstage. Only she had needed this long to accept the truth.

  She was going to see Connor again.

  The question was, how should she make that first huge step?

  Her decision only strengthened the whispered refrain of wanting it all to just go away. Simply because she had realized that she needed Connor did not erase the mental arguments. The fears brought up worries for which she only had one answer. She really, really wanted to see him again.

  Even so, the internal conflict kept her from taking the desired step. Sylvie went through the motions all through her Monday. Sylvie pretended that she was going to have a normal evening off, eat her usual solitary meal, and join Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in their safe black-and-white world. She puttered about the apartment in cutoffs and a raggedy T-shirt. Why shouldn’t she? After all, nobody at Rick’s Café in Casablanca would care what she wore.

  But the lonely hours only clarified the truths she had wrestled with all week. She had fled the auction precisely because she had known even then that she was going to take this step. She was going to invite Connor back into her life.

  Nothing about this was safe, or easy. There would be no half step with this man. How could there be? She was already in love with him. Now that she was coming to terms with this undeniable fact, it felt as though she had loved him since the very first moment he had walked into Castaways. And stood there in the doorway, staring blindly about, lost to the song and the chance that they might together actually fly to the moon.

  She ran herself a hot bath and spent time on her makeup, though she had no idea what to do with herself once all the preliminaries were out of the way. Thankfully, just as she finished dressing, Estelle phoned and asked, “Are you busy?”

  “I have no idea.” Sylvie found herself wanting desperately to tell her mother about her growing desire to start anew with Connor, or at least try. If only she knew how. That, of course, meant admitting that Estelle was becoming her friend. Another incredible component of this amazing week. “Is there any chance we could meet?”

  “That was actually why I called. I have something I need to talk with you about. I’m volunteering at the animal shelter. The woman who’s supposed to be on duty has sprained her hip. Could you come up here?”

  “Why don’t I just wait until you’re finished?”

  “Becaus
e . . .” Estelle’s giggle sounded like an excited young girl’s. “Because of a hundred different reasons. Marcela is on her way over to pick you up.”

  Sylvie started to ask what Marcela had to do with anything, but then she heard a car’s horn through her front window. She glanced down and said, “Marcela is already here.”

  * * *

  When Sylvie appeared in the front door of Castaways, Marcela greeted her by saying, “What took you so long?”

  “I was down in ten seconds flat.” Sylvie watched Marcela do an excited two-step by her car door. “You look like a child at Christmas. What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

  Sylvie set the alarm and locked the door and complained, “I hate surprises.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Marcela slipped behind the wheel and started the car. “Get in. This one won’t wait.”

  “I need a week off,” Sylvie objected. “Calm, no explosions.”

  “And you’re going to get it,” Marcela promised. “I have you down for early next year.”

  They drove a mile farther from the ocean and parked in the lot behind the county buildings. They rose from the car and crossed the street, heading for the town’s animal shelter. Sylvie asked, “How did Estelle even hear about this place?”

  “This is the mayor’s number one project,” Marcela replied. “They got to talking about using some of your money for renovations.”

  “It’s not my money,” Sylvie countered. But she could see Marcela getting ready to argue the point, and waved it aside. “All right, yes. It’s my money until I give it away. So the mayor and my mother know each other now.”

  “Your mother’s become the second most popular person in town, after you.” They entered the shelter and asked the volunteer on front-office duty, “Where’s Estelle?”

  “Seeing to our newest arrivals,” the woman cheerfully replied. “Second door on your right. Hi, Sylvie. Prepare to have your heart stolen right out of your chest.”