Wanda appeared from around the corner, her gaze like an owl’s behind her rhinestone 1950s cat’s-eye glasses, her bleach-blond hair stuck up in spikes.
“Oh!” Mari said, putting a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
Wanda scrutinized Mari’s face, then looked down at her bare arms and clucked her tongue. “What’s this? I want funky! You’re young, Marisol. You’re a pretty girl. Where’s that Latin flair? Arriba!”
“Sorry.” Mari shrugged. “I guess I didn’t bring it today.”
“You want my red lipstick?” Wanda offered, digging into the pocket of her apron. The alarming crimson shade had worked its way into the wrinkles above Wanda’s mouth, enhancing the yellow tint of her teeth.
“No thanks,” Mari said, dodging Wanda’s outstretched arm. “Looks like table four needs coffee. I’ll bring them some.”
Putting on a bright smile, she approached the red vinyl booth in the corner. Two girls sat slumped over, wearing hooded UC Santa Cruz sweatshirts and tight yoga pants, their blond hair tied up in messy buns.
“Good morning,” Mari said, holding up a steaming pitcher. “Coffee?”
“God yes,” one coughed, her voice as hoarse as a chain-smoker’s. Rings of mascara were smeared around her eyes. “Give it to me.”
“Ugh,” the other moaned, rubbing her temples. “I think I’m still drunk.”
Mari poured two cups, smiling sympathetically. It had been years since she’d woken up with a hangover. As a working, single mom, she had enough to worry about without the added pressure of nausea and a headache.
Chewing her lip, Mari remembered the last time she’d been really drunk . . . the summer of her graduation from UC Santa Cruz. She’d aced all her finals, made the dean’s list, and hadn’t seen the harm in throwing back a few (okay, several) tequila shots. That was the night she’d wound up pregnant.
Mari shook her head to clear away the memory. “I can bring you both some water too if you like. It’s good to stay hydrated.”
“Sure,” one of the blondes said. “Thanks.”
“Do you know what you’d like to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
“Hash browns and eggs,” the hoarse girl barked.
“And I’ll have the pancakes,” the other answered.
“Sure thing,” Mari said. “They’ll be coming right up.”
She made her way around the room to other tables, carried steaming plates laden with food from the kitchen, refilled coffee, wiped down countertops and called out orders to the cooks. When she returned with the order of hash browns, eggs and pancakes for the blondes, they were in the midst of a heated argument.
“Santa Cruz became a city in 1900,” the bossy one said with a flick of her fingernails. “A Spanish guy discovered it. He built the missions.”
“Are you sure?” the other blonde asked. “Because this test is in an hour.”
Setting down their plates, Mari counted to ten in her head. Don’t say anything you’ll regret. Let these two party their education away.
“There were just, like, a bunch of Indians here or whatever,” blonde number one continued. “The Spanish brought them culture.”
“Actually,” Mari said, her words tumbling out as she refilled both mugs of coffee, “Santa Cruz became a city in 1866. In 1848, following the Mexican–American War, Mexico ceded the territory of Alta California to the U.S. in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. California was the first portion of the territory to become a state, in 1850.”
The college students sat there slack-jawed, staring at Mari like she’d spoken in a foreign language. Her cheeks heating, Mari filled the awkward silence by spouting more facts. What was she doing? She didn’t know how to stop herself.
“And before the arrival of Spanish soldiers and missionaries in the late eighteenth century, Santa Cruz was home to the Awaswas people. They’re Native Americans, not Indians. The misnomer Ohlone is often used to describe the native people of the Santa Cruz area, but really it’s a generalized name for the many diverse tribes who lived in the region. They were also referred to by the Spanish as Costanoan.”
The blonde who’d seemed so sure of herself rolled her eyes, while the other pulled her slumped body upright and grabbed Mari’s hand.
“Can you take my test for me?”
Mari sensed Wanda watching her—or rather, felt the heat of Wanda’s glare.
“I wish I could,” Mari said, her voice quiet. If only she could rewind time to that night after finals . . .
But then she wouldn’t have Lily, her greatest joy in life. And wasn’t Lily the reason she worked as a waitress? Mari’s flexible schedule allowed her to pick Lily up from preschool and to be there when her daughter needed her.
In the bustling heat of the kitchen, Mari stuck meal orders on tacks and wiped the sweat from her brow. Wanda appeared, strong hands placed on thick hips.
“What did I tell you about talking to the customers?” Her eyes narrowed behind her pink cat’s-eye glasses, the rhinestones glinting menacingly.
“Keep the conversation light.” Mari lowered her head. “Wanda, I’m sorry.”
“If you’re not happy here,” Wanda said, leaning in so close that Mari could smell stale cigarettes on her breath, “just say so. I’ve got other employees who want more shifts. They would be happy to take your mornings.”
“Oh no, I—”
Mari’s cell phone vibrated in her apron pocket, and she resisted the urge to pick it up. But what if it was her mother, and something had happened to Lily at school?
“It’s okay,” Wanda said. “Take fifteen. You’re due for a break.”
Stepping outside into the sunlight, Mari took in a deep breath, letting the salty sea air fill her lungs. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she looked at the unfamiliar number flashing on screen. Mari sat down on a bench in the parking lot behind the café and kicked a cigarette butt away with the toe of her sneaker.
“Hello?”
“Is this Marisol Cruz?”
The woman’s voice was polished and crisp.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Hello, Marisol. This is Jane Anderson, lead curator at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History. I’m responding to your application for the customer service position working at our exhibit during the Beach Boardwalk Centennial Celebration.”
Mari sat bolt upright, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes?”
“We loved learning that your grandfather, Ricardo Cruz, was one of the famed Beach Boardwalk performers of his time. Of course, we were impressed by your résumé too, especially your graduating with honors in history from UC Santa Cruz. We would be thrilled to have an actual descendant of Ricardo’s teaching tourists about the legacy of the boardwalk. Do you have time for a quick phone interview?”
“Yes.” Mari swallowed, her mouth dry. “Of course.”
“Wonderful,” Jane replied. “Just to clarify your job duties, you would be selling raffle tickets and operating our museum booth showcasing the history of the Beach Boardwalk. This would be every Saturday and Sunday from June through August. According to your résumé, you currently work as a waitress . . . can you tell me more about that?”
Mari winced at the confusion in Jane’s voice. What was someone who graduated cum laude doing working in food service?
“I have a daughter,” Mari explained. “She’s four. I wait tables at Jupiter Café so that I can spend more time with her. I have a flexible schedule. And it won’t affect my ability to work at the exhibit. I have extensive customer service experience.”
“Well,” Jane said. “Fantastic! Can you come by at noon next Saturday? You’ll meet with the boardwalk archivist, Carol, above the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom on Beach Street. She’ll let you know more about getting started.”
“Absolutely,” Mari said, even though Saturdays and Sundays were her best-paying shifts. “Thank you so much.” She dug her nails into her palm, thinking about her lost tips. But hadn’t she wanted this job—gone out on a
limb to apply for it?
“Great. We look forward to seeing you then. Please bring your driver’s license, and we’ll have you fill out the employment paperwork. Goodbye, Marisol.”
“Bye.” Mari brought her fingers to her lips.
Working for the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History had long been her dream job. Yet in the last four years, Mari’s dream had gotten derailed. She’d lost her confidence to the responsibilities of being a mother—dealing with fevers, dirty diapers, dirty dishes and dirty laundry.
What about the girl who’d studied late into the night, who thought about going to graduate school, who wanted to work in the heart of a museum? She’d had a big smile and even bigger aspirations. Mari’s throat tightened, wishing she could hug her grandpa or hear his voice just one more time. She’d been thinking about him when she filled out the online application to work the Centennial Celebration, proudly telling his story.
She looked up at the sky and whispered, “Thank you, Abuelo.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked back toward the Jupiter Café. Taking this weekend job was a big risk—one that probably wouldn’t pay off in the way she hoped. The summer would end, and then what? Jane Anderson would see how smart she was and offer her something permanent and full-time? Ridiculous.
But hadn’t Mari’s grandpa always told her to be brave?
She closed her eyes, imagining the courage it took him to release his knees from the trapeze, and to plunge headfirst into the ocean. It had to be terrifying, but exhilarating too. Abuelo had always told her to reach for the stars. And she was going to try.
Chapter 3
Violet Harcourt
1940
Soapy water sloshed over my rubber gloves as I washed the dishes, my insides wound tighter than a music box. Last night, after the pageant, Charles squeezed my hand hard during the celebratory fireworks, and I’d been too frightened to breathe.
But Frank and Evie had been there with us, and Charles would never raise his voice to me among company. At home, after I’d taken off my girdle and put on my dressing gown, I’d braced myself for his words, sharp as shards of glass: stupid, selfish, whore, embarrassment. But they hadn’t come. Instead, Charles had turned his back to me in bed, lying stiff as a board, impenetrable. I’d gotten lucky.
I removed my dishwashing gloves, wiping my hands on my floral apron. Turning to the window, I watched as a burst of sea spray shot upward, while a large wave crashed against the cove. A bicycle bell jingled on the footpath. Our lovely Spanish-style bungalow on West Cliff Drive, overlooking the ocean, was the safe haven I had longed for. Yet, this home had become my prison.
The door creaked behind me as Charles entered the kitchen. He took his seat at the breakfast table. I swallowed, turning my gaze to the bacon sizzling in the skillet.
“Good morning,” I said, imbuing my voice with cheer. I turned off the gas and transferred the hot food to my husband’s plate. I touched the hollow at the base of my neck, then picked up the plate and carried it toward him. Charles unfolded the morning paper.
When I set down his eggs and bacon, he said nothing. But I felt something in the air, like an electrical charge before a thunderstorm. For crying out loud! I’d set the radio to a jazz station, and Charles would rather listen to the morning news. I ought to have known better. I wiped the perspiration from my temples.
My husband sipped his coffee, a deep crease dividing his brow. His voice came out harsh as he stared at the newspaper headline. “Norwich has been bombed. Civilians were killed.”
I felt it then. In my stomach. A tiny squeeze. But perhaps he was only upset with Hitler and the atrocities of the Luftwaffe? I looked at the photograph on the front page of the newspaper. In the grainy picture, Nazi planes flew against a darkened sky.
“That’s terrible,” I said, eyeing Charles’s untouched breakfast. I’d taken extra care to make the bacon crispy and the eggs soft, just the way he liked them.
Swift as lightning, he gripped my wrist. Hard. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t give a damn about politics, you stupid cow. What were you thinking, parading in front of those men in your bathing suit like a common whore?”
“Charles,” I breathed. “Let go of my arm. Please, you’re hurting me.”
His nails dug into the soft flesh of my forearm. He pulled me close, so I could feel his hot coffee breath on my neck.
“You are my wife,” he hissed. “You belong to me. Do you know how foolish you looked? How you’ve embarrassed me?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
When I’d learned that Charles’s first love, a woman named Caroline, had broken off their engagement, my heart had ached for him. Who could hurt such a kind, wounded man? Now I wondered if Caroline had understood something I hadn’t.
His deep brown eyes shone with rage. It was too late. My muscles tensed in readiness.
“You know my dream is to perform,” I said quietly. “You knew that when you met me. You used to like watching me sing.”
My mind conjured up a picture of that fateful summer day two years ago, the afternoon I’d been riding my bicycle up and down the boardwalk with Evie. We’d been carefree in our culottes and blouses, and we’d giggled when we’d noticed the handsome fellas who’d disembarked from the Suntan Special.
I’d turned my head, to make sure Charles was watching me. Then I’d sung along to “Heart & Soul,” while the beach band played the tune. He’d approached me afterward. “What a beautiful voice. May I have your name, little songbird?”
“Violet Sweeting.”
Charles had laughed. “An appropriate name for a sweet girl. May I take you out?”
My little songbird . . .
“Shut your mouth,” Charles said, rising from his chair so quickly it fell over. The crash brought me back to the present—popping the memory like a balloon with a pin. He pushed me hard, and I stumbled backward.
His hands clenched into fists. “Your duty is to serve me, and only me. And yet you stood up there half naked, without your wedding ring. You will let go of these ridiculous notions that you can flit off to Hollywood and let other men appraise your body. You never ought to have entered that goddamned pageant!”
My insides crumpled. I’d dreamed of doing a screen test for years. Success was so close I could see the Hollywoodland sign rising from the golden California hillside. Every pageant winner got an audition. How could I make my husband understand that this was the chance of a lifetime? I had the talent to sing and act in front of a director, to make an impression.
I braced myself against the countertop. “Charles, I’m terribly sorry. You see, it was Evie’s idea—only to get around the pageant rules. In no way does it diminish my commitment to you. I’d only be gone for a few days. You can come with me if you’d like. It’d be a nice vacation for both of us. Wouldn’t you like to travel to Los Angeles and then to Atlantic City?”
Charles grabbed the handle of the heavy iron skillet. He flung the pan at the wall with all his might. Droplets of hot bacon grease seared my flesh, burning the inside of my wrist. I screamed in pain. Splatters of fat covered my apron and pinafore. I shielded my face with my hands as the pan clattered to the ground.
“You will not go to Atlantic City,” Charles yelled. “Nor will you go to Los Angeles, to entertain your delusions of becoming an actress. You will never perform on any stage, anywhere. Do you understand? Now clean up this mess.”
Tears pushed against my eyelids. Throbbing, the skin on my wrist bubbled into a blister. That would leave a scar.
I turned on the tap, sticking my arm beneath the cool, running water, and winced as it cleansed the wound. As I felt the tension in the air slip away, I pictured Charles’s eyes unclouding and regaining their focus. Caring eyes. The eyes I had fallen in love with. He put his arms around my waist and I flinched.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It was an accident. You know I’d never hurt you.” He let his arms fall by his sides. “I’ll get th
e broom and dustbin.”
I turned off the tap and placed both of my hands on the edge of the basin. My breath shuddered as I let it out. Why did he have to wrench my heart from my chest? I loved my husband. And he loved me. But I was frightened for my life.
Lately, I had been able to sense when his episodes were coming. The air between us would crackle with static. Anything could set him off. I’d say the wrong thing, cook the wrong food or place a household item in the wrong spot. Careless, he called it. Absentminded. Or worse—I’d ask him how business was doing at the Oceano. This made him incredibly angry, as if I had intruded on a private matter.
And it was my fault. If only I’d been more patient or learned to hold my tongue. Yet, sometimes, I got so tired of stepping on eggshells around Charles that I’d deliberately set him off. I wasn’t Caroline! How could I prove to him that I wouldn’t ever leave him? But entering the pageant had been far too dangerous.
After our spats, when Charles felt remorseful, weeks would go by without incident. Heartbroken, he’d promise it would never happen again, and purchase beautiful gifts, like the pearls I’d worn yesterday. That necklace was more than an anniversary present. It was an apology for the broken rib no one could see.
This was only a bad fight. All couples fought.
I looked at the cream-colored walls, stained with bacon grease. Baking soda. I reached into the cabinet and removed the box, stirring three tablespoons of powder into a glass of warm water. I dabbed the corner of a tea towel into the mixture and began to scrub. The blister on my arm throbbed. Scrubbing harder, I clenched my teeth. Charles returned with the broom and the dustbin.
“Well,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I’ll take breakfast at the club. I trust this will be clean when I return.”
His eggs and bacon sat untouched on the breakfast table. With a war on in Europe, I’d heard about the bacon, butter and sugar rationing in England. Charles dumped the contents of his plate into the trash bin. All that good food wasted.
He placed his fedora atop his head. “Violet,” he said, stroking my cheek. “I love you, darling. Please don’t give me that look.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 2