He already knew there would be no answer at her door, and he trotted over to the garage to peek through the small glass windows. Her car was not inside.
Pacing the front porch, he wracked his brain for an idea. Perhaps there was a clue inside.
As he paced, his eyes fell upon the window box, its small geranium plants long dried up. Quickly he felt around the hardened potting soil, his fingers eventually discovering the key pressed deep within. The key Mac had told him about, the night Devon was born in this very house.
Without hesitation, he turned the key in the lock and swung the heavy front door open. He had to hope she had not set the alarm.
He toured the house, fighting off the memories as he walked. It was, after all, Mac’s house, and Dane could clearly feel his presence. The more he looked, the more knotted his stomach became.
In Jessica’s bedroom, he determined that she had packed a suitcase; a smaller one lay discarded beside the bed. Drawers were hastily closed, the closet door still open, clothing obviously missing.
Devon’s room reflected the same.
In the kitchen, he found a note to the housekeeper about supplies. Dane sighed in exasperation. He went to the phone, but couldn’t think of anyone he had not already contacted. Even Jessica’s mother had politely claimed ignorance of her daughter’s whereabouts.
He started to go, but the tiny blinking indicator light on the answering machine caught his eye. His finger paused only a heartbeat before punching the ‘play’ button. The first two messages were only himself, casually suggesting she call him back. He grimaced at the sound of his own voice; he detested answering machines. The third message, however, was much more interesting.
"Hey Jessie, it’s Brian. I am so glad you’re coming up! I can’t wait to see you, it’s been much too long. Hope you haven’t left yet, I just wanted to tell you I’ll meet you at the light around 6:00 p.m. with that bottle of champagne we talked about. If I don’t talk to you before then, drive safely, if you take Highway 1 be really careful around Big Sur, it’s pretty twisty. See ya."
Dane played the message several times, trying to decipher the message. "Light. 6:00 p.m. Big Sur." Dane rubbed his forehead. "Light? Big Sur, Highway 1, Coast. Light?"
He locked the house and got back into his car. Driving back to Malibu, he considered his options, and once home, he dug out a California map and spread it on the kitchen table.
"Six p.m., a light north of Big Sur." Squinting close to the map, he scoured the coastal town names and circled the possibles in red. But there were too many towns large enough to have traffic lights. "Wait a minute…" he said aloud, hurrying into the living room where his notebook computer sat on the small coffee table. He flipped it open and turned it on.
California lighthouses, he typed into the search engine and waited. He was soon rewarded with a clear map of the beacons guarding the Pacific coastline. He focused on those above Monterey.
Grabbing a notepad, he scribbled down the names. "Big Sur. Point Pinos. Santa Cruz. Pigeon Point. Point Montara. Point Surrender. Point Bonita. Point Reyes." 6 p.m. She couldn’t have made it much farther than the Bay area if she had driven, and for some reason he was quite certain she had gone by car.
Dane looked at his watch. It was just after 11 a.m. He had to get moving. After a quick stop at his ex-wife’s house, he was on his way.
As he drove, he thought about what he might be walking in to. A lover’s tryst? A secret boyfriend? He shook his head, trying not to clench his teeth. Why a lighthouse? If, in fact, the term "light" did mean lighthouse. What was there to do at a lighthouse? She’d taken Devon, another fact of which he was certain.
Touring lighthouses might be fun if he was not so completely freaked out by Jessica’s disappearance.
And who was Brian? Brian… Brian Winslow. The night of the masquerade ball, the silent auction donation made by Jessica and someone named Brian Winslow. A weekend… bed and breakfast weekend.
Bells went off in his head. An L.A. Times Travel article, a few weeks ago, reviewed a bed and breakfast established within a lighthouse! Excited at this new angle, Dane pulled off the freeway and opened the file folder on the passenger seat. Quickly he scanned the information sheets he had printed off of the Internet websites.
East Brother Lightstation, San Francisco Bay area. That had to be it. Putting that page aside, Dane glanced over the next few pages and discovered that Point Arena was also considered a hotel of sorts, with three full sized homes adjacent to the famous white tower.
"…as seen in the Mel Gibson romance classic, Forever Young…" the advertisement stated. He kept reading, finding that even Point Montara was a youth hostel often rented out for weddings and special events.
Dane stared out the windshield, pondering this new dilemma. If he were to drive straight to San Francisco, he could take inland routes and get there faster. But if it turned out that East Brother was the wrong place, he would have missed the other, less likely spots.
He’d stick with the coast.
He stopped for a meal in Monterey. Despite the tension with which he had been living for days, the drive was definitely doing him good. Time to think, to examine his feelings and motivations. Parked in the lot behind a Burger King, he chewed his chicken sandwich slowly and thought about what he would say when he found her.
Because he knew he would find her. He only hoped it was not too late.
Twelve
Point Surrender
It was early evening when Dane passed the city limits of Newburg, California. His eyes were straining against the sunset and approaching dusk, and he turned the Mustang into the gravel parking lot outside a diner promising the best ribs on the coast. He wasn’t really hungry, but he was looking for a good shot of caffeine.
"What can I get you?" The waiter had practically followed Dane to the corner table, pad in hand. He was a big man, with tired but kind blue eyes.
"Coffee, please."
"Gotcha. Cream?"
"No. Where am I, anyway?" Dane asked with a slight grin.
"This is Riley’s, I’m Riley, and you’ve been on the road awhile."
Dane nodded as the proprietor went for the coffee pot. When he returned, Riley filled Dane’s cup and sat down in the booth across from him.
"On up the road there is Newburg. Flea spec of a town, don’t blink."
"Is there a bed and breakfast around here?"
"Hastings House, in town. But I think she’s all full up this weekend."
"No, I’m sorry, I meant to say, is there a lighthouse around here, like one you can stay in?"
"Well, there’s a lighthouse, but it’s a private home. I think Brian might rent it out now and then, beings he moved back to the city last year."
"Brian Winslow?"
"You know Brian?"
"Not really. But we have a mutual friend, and I think she’s staying at the lighthouse. I wanted to pop in while I was in town."
"Oh. Well, Point Surrender is just across the highway, down a piece on the left. Can’t see it from the road and there’s no sign, you just gotta know it’s there."
Dane wet his lips and nodded slightly. "Thanks. I appreciate the information."
"No problem. Any friend of Brian’s--or Brian’s friends--well, you know."
He found the turnoff with no problem. More gravel, and a newly constructed garage on a bluff. He parked beside the closed garage and walked out to the edge of the cliff, looking out at the ocean below. What he saw nearly took his breath away.
A lighthouse was perched on an outcropping below, its white tower rising from the center of a small one-story house. There were lights burning inside the house, casting a warm glow on the chilly night. Looking around him, Dane could see a stairway built into the side of the bluff, leading down to the front door of the house.
He hesitated. It was certainly a private looking residence. What if he was wrong?
In the dim light emanating from the front window, he could see the outline of a child’s tric
ycle parked against the house.
He shook his head, looking first back to his car, the locked garage, and then to the house again. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket, he started down the steps, knowing, and yet hoping with all his might, that Jessica was inside.
~ * ~
It wasn’t luxury, but it was charming. Brian had seen to everything she could possibly need, even a box of Devon’s favorite breakfast cereal. After spending only two nights in the lighthouse, Jessica felt she had been there at least a week. Devon seemed better, but was still exhibiting regressions she did not expect.
Time. Time was what they both needed, time to settle their problems and get on with life. One day at a time.
The house still smelled of chicken nuggets and French fries, and Jessica smiled as she quietly closed Devon’s bedroom door. He’d gone down early tonight after a full day of romping on the beach, chasing seagulls and digging for sand crabs.
She was tired, but less stressed than when she arrived. She put the baking sheet into the sink and half-heartedly rinsed it off, then dried her hands and went to her own bedroom. Even though it was still early, she would not be going out so decided to dress for bed.
Despite recent renovations, the house was still on the drafty side for Jessica. Pulling on her nighttime sweats, she glanced around for her book and remembered seeing it on the small roll-top desk in the alcove off of the living room. She went to retrieve it.
Folding her legs beneath her, she curled into the big padded rocking chair before the fireplace and opened the book. How long had it been since she had indulged in the luxury of reading a good book? Or any book, for that matter, written for someone older than four years old?
But try as she might, she found herself reading the same passages over and over, like listening to a conversation with only one ear. Finally she closed the book with a little sigh and stared into the fire instead. She had come to one decision since the great escape from L.A., and that was to sell her house. She had really hoped she could keep it, that she could put the memories aside long enough to move forward. It just wasn’t happening. Memories hung on the house, throughout its rooms and hallways, like great cobwebs, catching on her as she moved about.
So a call to a Realtor was now on the agenda.
She would have to find a new house, a house without a history, without ghosts. Fantasizing, she imagined a smaller home decorated in a rustic style, with at least three, no, four bedrooms. She’d need one for Chet.
Because she was determined to adopt Chester MacKendall, to raise him as her own. A little brother for Dev. It would be good for them all.
She replayed in her mind the call to the hospital so far away, made on her cell phone yesterday; Baby MacKendall had done well in surgery and was expected to make a full recovery. And with the memory came an unpleasant thought: what if the baby’s heart had failed while in her care? With dizzying regret she imagined sitting in the director’s chair while her tiny nephew suffered in his crib.
She would give up filmmaking. Aside from the fact that there would be no time, she would no longer want to make movies after Chet came to live with them, right?
Jessica sighed. She had never been so confused in her life, never more unsure of her future. Even back in the early days, when she didn’t know where her next rent money would come from, she wasn’t so dispirited. All that would change, she was certain, when Chester arrived.
Damn Roxanne and her preachings. Chester was not, nor would he ever be, the answer to her loneliness. He would not be the substitute for a man in her life, would not fill the emptiness left by her husband’s death.
But he would be loved. He would fill a need, and she would be a wonderful mother to him and Devon. Her eyes grew misty at the thought of the two boys playing together, Devon with his golden ochre hair and Chet with his shining blue-black locks.
Still, there was something missing from the picture. A missing piece to the puzzle her life had become. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Jessica had to admit to herself that there would never be a new man in her life. And she could live with that, if only…
Her reverie was shattered by a brisk knock at the door. Her heart instantly began to pound, so complete was her shock at the sound. She nearly leaped from the rocking chair, running to the door before the caller had the chance to knock again and possibly wake Devon.
Against her better judgment, she pulled open the door without inquiring. The sight of Dane standing on the porch was an even greater shock than the fact that she had any visitor at all.
They stared at each other for several moments.
She was suddenly aware of the chilly, swirling fog creeping into the house, and she motioned for Dane to come inside. Before she could gather her thoughts, he posed the first question.
"Are you alone?"
She stared at him for another moment, then gestured toward the closed door just beyond the fireplace.
"Devon is sleeping."
Dane nodded, some of the apparent tension leaving his face.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked softly. "I only have champagne."
"That’s all you have? I was hoping maybe you had some hot chocolate." He rubbed his hands together, looking around the small living room. "The heater is out in my car."
"Oh my gosh. Come into the kitchen, it’s warmer in there."
She put the teakettle on the stove and pulled a canister of instant cocoa from the cabinet. Dane sat down at the kitchen table.
"This your place?"
"No. It belongs to a friend of mine."
"Brian Winslow."
Jessica paused, a mug held in each hand. "You’ve become quite the sleuth."
Dane would not meet her eyes. Slouching in his chair, hands in his pockets, he looked more like a stubborn adolescent than a grown man.
"I had nothing better to do," he muttered at last.
"I see." Now, Jessica pulled another canister from the shelf, opening it and placing it on the table. "Dev and I baked these yesterday. Help yourself."
Dane plucked a cookie from the can and stuck it into his mouth, giving her a "thumbs-up" gesture.
Waiting for the kettle to heat, Jessica peered toward the kitchen window facing the sea. Instead of the broad expanse of the Pacific, she saw only her own reflection gazing back: stringy hair, drawn cheeks, pallid complexion. And worse, no make up. The realization of how she must look only added to her misery.
"Dane, if I had known you were coming," she began, a fluster threatening to tangle her words. "Would you watch this kettle? I’ll be right back."
In the bedroom, she sat at the small antique vanity and peeked into the mirror with a groan. As irritated as she was at his hunting her down, she couldn’t bear for him to suffer her looking this bad. She grabbed her hairbrush and began fighting with her hair, her free hand rummaging through her train case for her make-up bag.
Five minutes later she returned to the kitchen. Dane looked up from where he stood pouring hot water into the mugs.
"Sorry. It’s been just me and Dev for a few days, I haven’t bothered, you know…"
A half smile turned only one side of his mouth, an amused expression that made her blush.
"I forgive you," he said softly.
She was moving things around inside the refrigerator, hoping to hide her embarrassment until her face recovered. Finally, returning with a can of whipped cream, she turned to him.
"Okay, so tell me why you’re here. This better be good." Her tone was serious, as was her expression. She tilted the whipped cream can over his mug and depressed the nozzle. Whipped cream exploded from the can, over-filling the mug, spattering the table, the wall and Dane’s chin.
"Holy shit, woman, I can think of better ways to get even," he said with a grin.
"Oh! Oh, I am so sorry…" Jessica grabbed a paper napkin from the counter and hastily wiped up the mess from the table, and then tossed the napkin into the trash. Looking back at Dane, she saw th
e small traces of whipped cream on his face. Without thinking, she reached across the table and wiped them away with her finger.
His eyes locked on to hers just as his fingers wrapped around her hand, pulling it slowly back toward his face. Helpless against his power, unable to deny him, Jessica sat mesmerized while Dane pulled her fingertip into his mouth, gently sucking the whipped cream from it before slowly releasing her.
"Yum," he told her, now licking his lips and lifting the hot mug. "Now, you were saying? Or would you like me to spray this time?" He took a quick sip of the steaming cocoa, then picked up the whipped cream can. "This could be fun."
Jessica swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly in response to his actions.
"No, I--I think maybe I’ll just use marshmallows." She got up from the table and went back to the cabinet. For the third time in fifteen minutes her face was burning. In fact, she was burning all over. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
Back at the table, she dropped three or four miniature marshmallows into her mug, then looked directly at her unexpected guest.
"You were just about to tell me why you are here. You went to an awful lot of trouble to find me."
"I was in the neighborhood." He propped his elbows on the table, holding his mug close to his lips with both hands. "By the way," he added, before she could protest his dodge. "Do you know just how many lighthouses there are between here and L.A.?"
Jessica could not help a small smile.
"And do you know, my dear, how comfortable a ‘66 Mustang convertible with bad struts and no heater is in the dead of winter?"
Jessica now covered her eyes with her hand, trying hard not to laugh aloud.
"But I got you this." From the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled a postcard, its edges slightly curled. The picture of Mel Gibson posing before Point Arena bore a pre-printed autograph.
She couldn’t help but giggle, pressing the postcard to her chest in glee.
"He’s married," Dane reminded her sardonically. "Got about fifty kids, too. ‘Course, that didn’t stop you from coming after me, did it?"
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