Ocean Waves

by Terri Thayer

  Buster pointed out the first star that came out. “Make a wish,” he said.

  Stay with me tonight, I thought. I didn’t want to complain, but the idea of going back to my room alone was hard.

  “You should start for home,” I said instead. “I don’t want you exhausted for tomorrow.”

  “It won’t take long to get back to San Jose at this hour,” Buster said. “I’ll be fine.”

  He nuzzled my ear, and let his lips dip lower. “Or I could stay with you until dawn and go straight to work from here.”

  “In those clothes?” I said, faux-horrified. “The same clothes you wore today. As if, you’d ever …”

  “I could wash out my unmentionables in your sink,” Buster said. As distracted as he was by the slightly freckled skin between my breasts, the man could still think laundry.

  I laughed. His head came up, nearly hitting my chin. I ducked away.

  “Are you deliberately trying to wreck the mood?” he asked, rubbing the side of his face with his big hand. He looked tired. I was going to send him home.

  “The mood?”

  He pouted. “I drove all the way here to see you.”

  I turned into his embrace and kissed him back. I opened my mouth to his, our tongues playing. His kisses grew more urgent. He slipped my shirt off my shoulder, baring it. His lips smoothed the goosebumps away and I shivered. His arms tightened. I felt him grow beneath the zipper of his pants. The bulge excited me, and I felt myself moisten.

  I undid the buckle of my belt and Buster took over, finding the snap and zipper with one skilled hand. He pushed my shirt away from my waistband, bending over to kiss the soft skin of my belly. I felt myself suck in, as his lips hit my cold skin. The hot and cold sensations were too much to bear. His mouth was moving closer to my tenderest spot. I gasped as he licked my belly button.

  His hands shimmied my pants down, and I grabbed at his. He leaned me hard against the wood railing. A splintery piece of wood stabbed my lower back, the skin vulnerable. Buster misunderstood my gasp and redoubled his efforts, moving his fingers inside my pants. His tender administrations were too hard to resist. I didn’t feel the rough wood anymore.

  The frog protested, but I smelled wild blackberry and the musk on Buster’s neck, and I let him in.

  It was after ten when Buster and I got back to Asilomar. A raccoon scooted out of a barbecue pit as we passed. Chicken bones and garbage were strewn around the bricks.

  “Dirty bastard,” Buster said. I looked at him in surprise. He was more tired than he was letting on.

  He frowned. “They’re scavengers,” he said. I got the idea he wasn’t telling me something. Buster had been on plenty of body identifications. I suddenly wondered what else raccoons might have gnawed on.

  The parking spot Buster had found was in the underground garage all the way across the campus from my room. I walked with him, already missing him.

  Once there, Buster kissed my cheek, and opened his truck door and got in. I climbed up on the step and kissed him back, letting my hand trail over his cheek.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said.

  “I’ll drive you back to your room,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No thanks, I could use the walk.”

  I waved as he took off. I started in the direction of my room.

  After a few minutes, I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice. It was dark now, and street lights were far apart. The paths of Asilomar were meandering. Right now I wished for a straight line back to my dorm—a well-lit straight line.

  The asphalt path was cracked and uneven. I could hear the unstoppable ocean and imagined wave after wave coming to shore. The moon was in and out of the clouds, leaking a teasing brightness that was impossible to follow. I picked my way carefully. I heard a rustling in the small clearing and remembered the mountain lion. My feet stopped of their own volition.

  The rangers warned us about going out at night. And here I was. Alone.

  I felt silly and scared and missed Buster already. Could the cat smell me? Ina had a standard warning for beginning quilters that their sewing machines could smell their fear, so they had to act like they knew what they were doing, even when they didn’t know their feed dogs from their take-up hook.

  But how was I supposed to behave in face of a mad mountain lion? Act large, wave arms about? Yell and scream. Tony had told me about singing in the meadows of Yosemite to keep the grizzlies away. He said they hated anything by Barry Manilow.

  I couldn’t think of any Barry Manilow songs. I couldn’t think of anything, really.

  A long shadow crossed my path. I nearly screamed, but my voice wouldn’t come out. The shadow was low to the ground, and definitely had four legs.

  My heart stopped for a moment, as a deer crossed my path, ten feet away. I took in a deep breath and tried to restore my heart to its normal rhythm.

  The path ahead of me suddenly brightened. I could see light spilling from the open door of Merrill Hall. As I got closer, I could see groups of quilters lingering outside. Most were in heavy sweatshirts and sweatpants against the night chilled air.

  “What’s going on?” I approached the first group.

  “We’re not being told anything,” Sherry said. “Mini-Mer said to get over here pronto.”

  “Mini-Mer?” I asked.

  “Mercedes’ assistant. She’s a clone of her boss. She came around, banging on doors and telling us to meet in Merrill Hall. But they won’t let us in.”

  “I, for one, don’t appreciate missing my beauty sleep,” Harriet said. She was wearing pajamas with tiny moons and stars and alarm clocks on them. Her feet were in pink sheepskin slippers. I was surprised to see her, but glad she hadn’t gone home.

  Others must have been sewing—their clothes were sprinkled with threads, and some of them carried small scissors.

  “You’d have to sleep for a hundred years to get to the beauty part,” Red said, stepping into the light. Harriet threw a soft punch in her direction which Red dodged and then gathered her into a reconciliatory hug. “You know you’re gorgeous,” she said.

  “Another mandatory meeting?” I asked. I hadn’t considered that Mercedes might have bed checks. Good thing Buster hadn’t actually made it to my room. My face flamed, and I was glad it was too dark for everyone to see.

  The main doors to the hall opened and we were directed inside. The space was similar to the chapel, with over arching beams of timber and tall skinny windows, but it was much bigger. The crowd didn’t fill a fourth of the floor space.

  There was no sign of Mini-Mer, just Mercedes and the sewing machine tool expert, Nan. Both looked gloomy. Nan had put distance between herself and Mercedes, standing on the opposite side of the stage.

  Freddy and Quentin found me as we filed into the room. Quentin was dressed in pajamas with matching corduroy slippers and a monogrammed robe. His several hairs were laid carefully over his bald pate. He was only missing a pipe, which I was sure he would have had if Mercedes allowed smoking on the premises.

  I waggled an eyebrow in Quentin’s direction at Freddy. He glanced at his outfit and smiled slightly, but he was clearly not in the mood to dish on his friend. My need for a joke to break the ice was not forthcoming. I rubbed my upper arms.

  I’d missed the dinner chat. Had there been any mention of Ursula being swept out to sea? Maybe that’s what this was about.

  “Please find a seat,” Mercedes said. “Quickly and quietly.”

  A woman swathed in a scarf, topped by a wide-brimmed hat, stepped onto the stage and whispered in Mercedes’ ear. The woman had her hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized sweater, looking like Mother Superior. We were clearly the novitiates.

  Mercedes’ voice rang out in the spacious hall: “There is a thief among us.”

 
Mercedes’ dramatic statement hung in the air. All talking ceased abruptly as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

  She didn’t need the microphone. Her voice projected across the large room easily. Probably an architectural trick—the acoustics were really good in here. “I’m sorry to report two of the precious antique sewing kits have been stolen.”

  A gasp went up from the crowd. People stood, some trying to see Nan’s distress more closely. Freddy emitted a low whistle.

  Mercedes looked grave. “If any one of you has something to tell us, please do so now. We will wait. I would like to give the thief a chance to return the boxes.”

  Mercedes said nothing further. Her assistant faded into the darkness of the stage. Nan wrung her hands, her expression pleading.

  “Is she planning on keeping us here until someone confesses?” I whispered to Freddy. I resented the idea.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts administering lie detector tests.”

  “I guess we should be grateful we’re not being waterboarded,” Quentin said.

  “God, don’t give her any ideas,” Freddy hissed.

  For a few moments there was silence, interrupted only by the rustling of bodies shifting uncomfortably. Mercedes looked out at the crowd as though expecting some kind of miraculous revelation. I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were ready to confess.

  I raised my hand. I’d been involved in real police interrogations. I would move this process along. Mercedes acknowledged me.

  “When were the kits last seen?” I asked. “And where?”

  “Go, Sherlock, go,” Freddy said.

  “I prefer Nancy Drew,” I said, under my breath. “Or Pippi Longstocking.”

  “Even I know she wasn’t a detective,” Freddy whispered. I hushed him.

  Mercedes was willing to play along. “In the chapel, which has been locked up tight since Monday night.”

  Nan looked heartbroken. She had taken a seat at the edge of the stage, swinging her legs nervously. She swiped at her eyes from time to time. She was trying to hold it together.

  “Which kits are missing?” I asked.

  “The Rose Box,” Mercedes paused for effect, “and the German Cross.”

  A wave of chatter went through the room, everyone reacting with horror.

  Eyes turned to Harriet, who blushed deeply. She pushed up roughly from her seat and stood up. She started to speak, but the whispers grew so loud, she couldn’t be heard. Harriet, struggling to look dignified in her pink pj’s, walked to the front of the room.

  She took the microphone and turned it on.

  “I did not steal that abominable piece of work. I would not sully my hands by touching it. I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I hope that the thief has dashed that horror into a million little pieces on the rocks.”

  The quilters looked at her in stunned silence. Harriet held my gaze until she finally looked at Mercedes with disgust. “I hope it has washed out to sea.”

  Nan looked stricken, the idea of her precious collectible being swept out to sea too much to bear. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body.

  Harriet left the microphone on the podium and walked out the side door. Sherry and Red got up and followed her. Mercedes watched them leave.

  Her eyes raked the crowd.

  “If you’re trying to punish me, I assure you that I will in no way accept responsibility for the stolen kit.”

  Nan looked at her, a strangled look on her face. Her voice, soft at first, grew in volume and anger. “This is your responsibility. You assured me my things would be safe here. You guaranteed me that my …,” her voice broke, and her words were unintelligible until she breathed out the last word in a huge sigh, “Safe.”

  Safety. What we all wanted.

  Mercedes silenced Nan with a look. “I insist that you all remain here until the kit is returned.”

  I settled back after Harriet’s friends left. The rest of the quilters were not eager to confront Mercedes.

  What would this do to her reputation? Part of the draw of Sewing-by-the-Sea was the international teachers she’d attracted. Many of them brought their most valuable quilts, valued in the tens of thousands of dollars. They were on display for all to see, hanging in the classrooms the entire week. I’d recognized Cinnamon’s pieces as prize winners. What if one of those got stolen?

  I looked around. I didn’t see Cinnamon, my teacher, or any other teachers except Freddy. He was practically humming with excitement. His birdlike head kept twisting, trying to see all parts of the room. I’d meant to ask him what the hubbub was at the dining hall earlier. He’d wanted to borrow the boxes. Which ones?

  Quentin, next to him, was very still. He sat with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

  After twenty minutes of no activity, I was getting angry about being accused. I had nothing to do with this and I wanted to crawl into my bed. My body ached with fatigue.

  Being kept until nearly midnight for this bogus inquiry began to wear on the rest of the crowd, too.

  A woman in the middle, dressed in a pink seersucker robe and matching curlers, stood. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. Several women stood in her row and headed for the door.

  “The doors are locked,” Mercedes warned.

  The processional stopped.

  Enough. I jumped up. “Unlock them,” I said. “You can’t keep us in here. There are laws against unlawful imprisonment.”

  Mercedes stared at me with an imperious glare. She didn’t move for a minute. I returned her look. Finally, she moved to the door and unlocked it with a key she produced from a pocket. She stood outside the door, scrutinizing each person as they left.

  Mercedes stopped me, as I passed her, giving me a proprietary jab on the arm. “I’m watching you,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “I know what you’ve done. You’ve stolen the sewing box just to stir the pot. You’re a troublemaker of the highest order. I will not take this quietly.”

  People began to stop, listening to Mercedes’ accusation. My face reddened. I could think of no snappy comeback. Freddy pushed me from behind, past Mercedes and her accusations.

  The next morning at breakfast, the conversation was all about the missing sewing boxes. I felt queasy from the upset the night before, and I was glad Harriet was not at breakfast.

  I let the talk wash over me, without really listening, wondering if anyone had heard anything about Ursula. I decided to ask around.

  Over a glass of chocolate milk, I asked Sherry, “Did you know Ursula Wiggins? She used to come here to the seminar.”

  Sherry searched her memory, but came up empty. She shook her head. “Maybe if I saw her,” she offered. “Why, do you think she stole the sewing kits?”

  It was my turn to shake my head. “No.” I didn’t want to ruin her breakfast by telling her about the suicide. We were all unsettled by the thefts and Mercedes’ heavy-handedness.

  “What about the Ghost?” Red asked as she joined us. “Maybe the Ghost was the thief.”

  “I doubt it. I think the Ghost is a woman who just enjoys her downtime,” Sherry said.

  “No torrid romance?” Red wondered.

  Sherry laughed. “You know as well as I do, when you get to our age, an empty bed can be more alluring than a stiffy.”

  I gave up on turning the conversation to Ursula. The atmosphere was one of determined levity. No one wanted to be reminded of the seriousness of the theft.

  I heard a roar of laughter come from a table across the room. Freddy was standing, shaking his hips and moving his hands in a way that suggested a hula. The women, and Quentin, were clapping in unison as Freddy strutted. He segued into a Mick Jagger chicken walk. Someone whistled appreciatively.r />
  I had time before class so I decided to walk out to the ocean where I’d first seen the VW bus parked. I walked to the water’s edge and stood on a rock.

  I spread my arms out, Titanic-style, like Ursula had, and felt the wind waffle through the sleeves of my sweatshirt. It was cold, and wet, feeling like a dog’s kiss. I shivered and my arms came back in to cradle me.

  “Why here?” I asked. I looked up and down the coast. Why at Asilomar?

  She could have killed herself with carbon monoxide in her garage, in the house she shared with her abusive husband. She could have taken pills and died in her bed. She could have shot herself in the head. Instead she flew halfway across the country and jumped into the ocean. Why?

  The answer had to be at Sewing-by-the-Sea. Paul had insinuated as much. It was the only thing that made sense.

  I walked back toward Asilomar along the road. Again, the berm was covered with cars. Just like yesterday morning.

  Only one group of people was out as early as I’d been yesterday. Surfers. Maybe one of them had seen or talked to Ursula.

  They sat on the side of the road, alone, or in groups of two or three, talking quietly, waiting for the surf to grow. Right now the waves looked gentle. Several surfers could be seen paddling out.

  “Hey guys,” I said.

  “Good morning, missy,” a pony-tailed veteran said, flashing a smile that was missing a tooth. His now-dry wetsuit hung below his flabby belly. On his feet were neoprene slippers. He looked like a fish out of water.

  Several other surfers looked my way. One brought a cereal bowl up to his mouth and noisily slurped. Another held his cigarette behind his back. I could smell pot. I sniffed the air. I had to shake off a sensory memory of a college soiree.

  “Were you out here yesterday?” I asked.

  “We’re out here every day,” the grizzly man said. “We’re hardcore.”

  Just like the quilters.

  “I figured,” I said, trying to make it sound like a compliment. “I saw a woman down there yesterday.” I pointed in the direction of the cliffs, a quarter mile up the beach. The coastline curved right here, and the cliff where she went off was not visible.