Derrolyn Anderson - [Marinas Tales #1] - Between The Land And The Sea

by Derrolyn Anderson

  Reason failed this time so he went to work on my conscience.

  He looked across at me, his eyes solemn, “Honey, I can make a big difference for some people that really need the help.”

  Dad had an annoying way of putting things into perspective. Though his work didn’t always attract the same sort of attention more glamorous scientific research did, I knew how vitally important it was. An expert in the field of agronomy, my father pioneers new agricultural techniques, helping farmers to increase production and improve their crops. It sounded like a small thing, really, but countless lives had been saved from poverty and starvation as a direct result of his research.

  And now he was going to risk his life in a remote and primitive country in yet another sincere effort to help even more people. A flood of shame and guilt washed over me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, managing a convincing smile, “I’ll just miss you.” We sat there for a few minutes, watching the surfers ride the waves. I noticed a small group of girls gathered by the parked cars, and I studied them. Boldly wearing miniscule bikinis and flipping their sun-streaked hair in the warm breeze, they laughed as though they hadn’t a care in the world. They were all so tanned and healthy I felt like I was looking at a summery perfume ad in one of Evie’s fashion magazines.

  When their faces all turned to us I realized that Evie’s shining silver Rolls Royce was starting to attract attention. They elbowed each other and pointed as I slumped down in my seat, hiding behind my sunglasses. Evie loved causing a stir with all of her fine things, but their open stares made me uncomfortable.

  “Let’s go now, dad,” I said.

  We followed the coastal highway until we reached the Aptos exit. As we neared the shoreline I caught a whiff of spicy Eucalyptus leaves mingled with briny sea air. The scent was at once exotic and familiar, and I felt a small ache of fresh sorrow mingled with nostalgia.

  “Here we are,” announced Dad, “Boy, has this town grown.” We slowly cruised through a quaint seaside village with a smattering of charming little shops. The main street led to a long sandy beach with a fishing pier connecting to an old wrecked ship that sat on the ocean floor.

  There was a gas station, burger joint, and a little convenience store that sold ice and flip-flops to tourists.

  I vaguely remembered the area, but because of our traveling we hadn’t made the drive down in years. Dad seemed to want to avoid this place, saying he wasn’t a person who liked the seaside. As a result, I’d spent my life living on either rustic farmland or in cosmopolitan San Francisco, and hadn’t seen my aunt and cousin since they’d been up to the city several years earlier.

  We turned down a narrow lane that led to a row of small houses on a bluff overlooking the beach. My aunt had lived here for as far back as I could remember, transforming a ramshackle vacation cottage into a cozy home surrounded by a lush garden. Over time, all the little bungalows that used to sit empty in winter had been snapped up and remodeled. To her surprise, Aunt Abigail found that she lived in a very desirable area. All around the neighborhood apartment buildings and condos vied for the ocean views, but her little street stood out like an oasis of charm and tranquility amongst them. I started to relax, thinking maybe living here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  We pulled up to my aunt’s house and parked behind an ancient yellow Volvo. She was waiting out front, perched on a small bench on her porch. The front of the house was festooned with wind chimes, hanging planters, and hummingbird feeders. She was waving and smiling brightly. I felt a peaceful wave of calm pass over me.

  “Martin! Marina! Welcome!” she cried, and reached out to embrace us one after the other.

  She was tall and tanned, with a slim build like my father, and her long blonde hair gleamed in the bright sunshine. She moved with a graceful flowing gait due to her years as a yoga instructor.

  She had the wrinkles around her friendly blue eyes of someone who smiled a lot, and spent a considerable amount of time outdoors. She was beautiful.

  “Thank you for letting me stay with you Aunt Abigail,” I said.

  “Oh Marina, it’s my pleasure– just look at how grown up you are! It’s been much too long since you were last here! My Goodness... you’re so much like–” she paused and flashed a glance at Dad, making a sour face, “He’s the only one that calls me Abigail. Please always call me Abby.”

  I looked up to see my cousin Cruz standing awkwardly in the doorway. He had grown at least a foot since I’d last seen him. His hair was styled in a shaggy fringe that swept over his eyes, which were rimmed with smudged black eyeliner. He had an assortment of silver metal piercings in his ears and eyebrows and was dressed in interesting clothes, all varying shades of black. In contrast to his mother, he had the pallor of someone who rarely saw the sun, let alone went outside.

  When our eyes met I could see despite his new look he was still the same sweet, shy Cruz I remembered. I had seen much more extreme punks in San Francisco. I rushed over to give him a big hug.

  “M-Marina,” he stammered, “You grew up!” We both started laughing and any tension in the atmosphere dissolved immediately.

  “Martin, I hope you’ll stay for dinner,” Abby chimed in, beaming with happiness.

  My father explained that he had to leave right away in order to make his flight, but promised to take us all out to the best restaurant in town when he got back. So, with a flurry of apologies and multiple trips unloading suitcases and boxes, we gathered to say our final goodbyes. I fought to hold back tears as we hugged tightly. Dad stepped over to Abby and pressed an envelope into her hands.

  “That’s not neces-” Abby protested.

  “I insist,” Dad said firmly. He gave me a final hug and a kiss on both cheeks. We stood and watched as he backed the Rolls out and drove away.

  There was a chill in the air and I looked up to see a massive wall of fog creeping towards the sunny little house. It looked like a fluffy block of gray cotton about four stories tall, advancing in little wisps and puffs that swirled all around us like smoke.

  “I hope you don’t mind fog,” sighed Abby, “Aptos is one of the foggiest spots on the coast.”

  “I think you’re forgetting where I just came from,” I teased her with a sideways glance.

  Now the dense gray cloud fully encased us and the temperature dipped noticeably. The air was heavy with moisture and smelled of saltwater and seaweed.

  “Brrr! Let’s go in and get you settled,” Abby said, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms.

  I was shown to a tiny room with a window looking out onto a jewel-box of a garden. The walls were painted a soothing aqua, a color that Evie favored me in, and I decided to take it as a good omen. A single bed with a white down comforter dominated the room. A fat orange tabby cat slept curled into a ball in the center of the bed, making a crater in the puffy blanket. A tiny desk with a bright blue wooden chair sat in the corner.

  There was no closet, but a metal clothes rack on wheels stood against one wall filled with empty hangers. There was a full length mirror mounted opposite the window that reflected the lush plantings outside. My pile of suitcases made the room look even smaller than it already was.

  “Charlie!” Abby screeched when she noticed the cat. “I’m sorry Marina, I’ve been trying to keep him out of here, but he seems to think we fixed up the room for him.” Charlie looked up nonchalantly and croaked out a rusty meow.

  “I love cats!” I exclaimed. Because of our traveling I had never been allowed a pet of my own. Evie said that her dogs might as well be mine since I was the only other person they liked, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t the same thing. “He’s welcome to sleep in here anytime he wants,” I said, scratching him under his chin. He purred like a jet engine and started to drool a little bit.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Abby said with an anxious look, “I know you’re probably used to a little more space.”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, and I really meant it. The bedroom w
as small, but it had a cozy feeling.

  It was odd, but I had the strangest sensation the room already knew me.

  “OK, there are clean towels in the hall closet and I’ll have dinner ready in about half an hour,” Abby beamed. “I’ll leave you to get settled in.” She turned to go, her eyes shimmering with emotion, “It’s really good to have you back.” She closed the door softly.

  I began to unpack, feeling more at ease as I settled in. I put my laptop on the desk and plugged it in. Unpacking a box of books and magazines, I made a stack I could reach from my bed. I assembled a portable easel and arranged it in the corner with my art supplies under it, satisfied it would be a good spot to work. Drawing, painting and reading have always been my main pastimes, and being both solitary and portable, they perfectly suit my independent nature and traveler’s lifestyle.

  I used my suitcases as drawers, and since Evie had insisted that I take her vintage Louis Vuitton set and they actually looked quite handsome arranged under the metal rack. I stashed my sandals, flats and multiple pairs of boots and pumps under the bed. My shoes alone took up half the room. I hung up all the dresses and jackets I could fit on the rack and left the rest folded in the cases. Charlie the cat yawned and reached out a lazy paw to bat at a stack of purses.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “Um, it’s like, dinnertime Marina.” Cruz’s voice was much deeper than I remembered.

  “I’ll be right out,” I called, and hastily threw a cardigan on over the summery tank I had slipped on in the morning. San Francisco seemed like a million miles away.

  “I hope you’re okay with vegetarian,” Abby smiled as she pulled out a chair. Even with the fog outside, the yellow kitchen was bright and cheery. The tidy blue tile counter hosted several baskets filled with fresh fruit and summer squash. There was a colorful bouquet of flowers on the table.

  “Mom’s gone all vegan on me,” complained Cruz with a roll of his warm brown eyes. “We even had to have tofu turkey last Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s not all that bad!” Abby protested. She turned towards me, “Vegan food is good for your health, and Cruz likes the soy milk...”

  “Mom, I practically live on cereal,” Cruz groaned sarcastically.

  “Well,” I said as I took my seat at the table, “last Thanksgiving we were in southern India and we didn’t eat a bite of meat for five whole months. I didn’t miss it at all.” Abby smiled with satisfaction and began to fill our plates with slices of pale fried tofu and bland brown rice with lentils mixed in. It didn’t look at all like the highly seasoned and fragrant dishes that our housekeeper in Kerala had prepared for us. I looked up and into Cruz’s now triumphant eyes. He smirked at me.

  “Dig in guys,” chirped Abby.

  I began to see what Cruz was complaining about as I picked at the tasteless mush. I had nothing against tofu– far from it. Dad and I subsisted almost entirely on take-out in the city and ate foods from all over the world. I thought about the pillows of silky tofu in Japanese miso soup, and the spicy fried tofu from our favorite Chinese place. Abby’s tofu was the kind of tofu that gave tofu a bad name. She passed me a bowl filled with beautiful fresh greens and I heaped my plate with them.

  Abby beamed approvingly, “I see you’re a salad eater. You’re gonna love the weekly farmers market. I’ll take you this Sunday.” She lit up as she described how small farmers from the area set up stands with all kinds of organic foods and produce. I began to have some hope that I might not starve.

  After we ate, Cruz and I cleared the table and Abby started to wash the dishes.

  “Let me do that,” I said, remembering my dad’s admonishments to help around the house.

  “Not tonight honey,” said Abby, “Cruz is going to take you for a walk and show you what’s new in town.”

  Cruz and I ventured out onto the foggy street. It was a mid-August evening and still light out, but the fog made it seem darker and later than it was.

  “Can we go to the secret stairs?” I asked, suddenly remembering. When we were children the stairs leading down to the beach had seemed like a magical spot. Every weekend tourists drove in, parked in a lot up on the bluff and had to schlep their coolers and umbrellas down a cement path to the beach. From our little neighborhood there was an older, better way down.

  As we walked Cruz told me all about the high school and how miserable he was there. He described the cliques of surfers and stoners, rich kids and football players. Sensitive and artistic, Cruz felt like a misfit. I could relate. He told me about his best friend Megan, and how they liked to hang out at the local coffee shop and surf the internet for new music.

  I confessed that I was nervous about going to high school, and Cruz assured me that he’d be there to hang out with and show me around campus. I told Cruz that I’d never attended a “real” school and didn’t think now was a good time to start. He commiserated with me when I complained that I’d never really meshed with kids my own age.

  He frowned, “Nobody I know really gets me,” he said grimly.

  “Well, I don’t even know anybody... so there,” I said, making him laugh.

  As we talked I learned more about Cruz. Like me, he spent much of his time drawing. He told me he designed clothes, and liked to sew. He was overjoyed that I could discuss the nuances of fashion with him in detail.

  “I didn’t know you were into clothes!” he exclaimed.

  “I didn’t know you were either,” I said.

  We had an easy camaraderie, discovering that we truly had a lot in common. I found our similar artistic and independent natures comforting, evidence of a connection I didn’t realize I was missing. Both of us had been brought up in a family of two, for we’d each lost a parent when we were just infants– a big part of ourselves that we had no memory of. Cruz’s father was killed in an auto accident before he was born, and my mother died just after delivering me.

  Her name was Adria, and that’s about all I knew about her. She was gone, her ashes scattered at sea, all traces of her erased from existence. I didn’t have so much as a picture, and when I pressed my father he finally admitted that we looked very much alike. He never spoke of her, and whenever questioned he dodged the subject, bribing me with a treat or a trip somewhere special. He became melancholy if I pressed the point, and the pain evident on his face and in his voice made me uneasy. It’s always been a little scary for me to see my father unhappy, so I simply gave up asking.

  Whenever I started to dwell on thoughts of my mother I swear I could hear Evie’s eternally upbeat voice in my mind, urging me to put the past away and focus on the future with all of its unlimited possibilities. She’d say, “Yesterday is history, but tomorrow is a mystery!” her blue eyes flashing with spirit. I missed her already.

  “I noticed you have a ton of cool clothes,” Cruz said, bringing me back to reality.

  “My Aunt Evie is a fashionista,” I explained, “She likes to shop for me.”

  “You’re so lucky!” he moaned, “I wish I lived in the city.” Cruz told me that he hoped to be a fashion designer someday. He was working part time at a local silkscreen shop printing souvenir shirts, saving his money, dreaming of attending design school in San Francisco. We chatted about our favorite labels and I told him what shopping with Evie was like.

  “She has a sixth sense about when new inventory arrives,” I smiled, imagining her pouncing on the hottest new designer. “Sometimes she’ll call ahead and have a personal shopper pull racks from the latest shipments in our sizes.”

  “Wow,” he said solemnly, “Must be nice.”

  “It’s much nicer in the private dressing rooms,” I laughed, “Otherwise the salespeople all descend upon us like a swarm of locusts.”

  “I like the way you talk,” Cruz sighed, “like you’re older, and not from around here. I can’t wait to get out of this town. There’s nothing to do around here but surf,” he complained.

  I walked right past the entry to the stairway.

  “
Marina!” Cruz was standing next to a huge climbing rose with his arms crossed.

  He held back the overgrown vines while I ducked under the arbor. There was a narrow uneven brick path that wound through dense foliage, shaded with pine trees and slippery with fallen needles. We descended a flight of steep wooden stairs that led to a small landing with a bench. From this perch in the trees we could look down to the beach. We picked our way down the remaining stairs, clinging to the rickety handrail until we made it onto the sand.

  To our right was a vast expanse of shoreline that ended in a rocky point jutting out into the sea. On our left was the famous cement ship, an old war relic that had been scuttled; pressed into service as a spot to enjoy the panoramic bay views. The ship was an oddity, made out of concrete during a wartime steel shortage almost a hundred years ago.

  The wooden pier that led out to the ship was peppered with people fishing the incoming tide, and the air was filled with the brackish smell of saltwater and seaweed. To the left of the pier was more beach, and Cruz pointed out the prime surfing territory that was usually crowded with local surfers. We walked along the path that led up the hill into town.

  Most of the businesses in Aptos existed to cater to the weekend and summer tourist trade.

  There were little gift shops and restaurants lining the street, and almost every storefront had souvenir tee shirts hanging in the windows. We stopped to look in a few places, Cruz pointing out the restaurants he liked and describing the food.

  “Eat out a lot?” I teased him.

  “Every chance I get,” he answered, tongue in cheek.

  We ambled on, and he talked some more about his job as we rounded a corner. On the sidewalk ahead of us a group of teens were hanging out in a cloud of clove scented cigarette smoke. They had staked out a pair of benches, and were lounging insolently, blocking the walkway with an air of defiance.