“HOW WAS YOUR first day working for the museum?” Paulina asked, rinsing the last of the dinner dishes. “I forgot to ask you about it yesterday.”
Mari reached for the plate, rubbing the edges dry with a towel. Their dishwasher had broken last week, much to the horror of Mari and her mom. The culprit had been one of Lily’s hard plastic toys—a pony, lodged in between the spinning gears. A replacement dishwasher would cost four hundred dollars, which they couldn’t afford right now.
“It was good. I like talking to people about the museum artifacts and telling them about our local history. I sold a lot of raffle tickets too.”
“Mija, that’s great! So tell me, why do you look so sad?”
Mari threw the dish towel on the counter. “The mayor made an announcement at the centennial celebration. He’s approved a development of luxury condos to be built on the beach. They’re going to tear down the old gazebo, where Abuelo and Abuela had their wedding reception. Didn’t they meet there, at a community dance?”
Paulina wrinkled her brow. “Yes, they did. Luxury condos? What kind of people does the mayor think live here? It won’t get past city council.”
“It already has. He gave a speech about bringing in money from the tech industry—making Santa Cruz some kind of hub of innovation. The condos will block the view of the ocean for all the locals. Just one more thing they’re taking away from us.”
Paulina sighed. “That’s why we can never stop fighting.”
“What are we fighting for?” Lily asked, skipping into the kitchen. Her brown hair, streaked with honey blond, had come free from her ponytail. She clutched a Barbie doll in her right hand.
“To get this dishwasher working,” Mari said, tickling her daughter. “Did you apologize to Abuela for sticking your pony in there?”
Lily hung her head. “I’m sorry, Abuela. You can use my allowance to fix it. But he wanted to go swimming!”
Paulina smiled, guiding Lily by the shoulders. “It’s going to take more than your allowance to fix, mi amor. You have to be careful with our things. They aren’t easily replaceable. Now why don’t you get ready for bed, and we can give your mama a little break? She’s had a long day.”
After Lily had scampered down the hallway, Mari frowned, meeting her mother’s eyes. “Once the gazebo is gone, I won’t have anything to remember Abuelo and Abuela by. It’s like their history is being erased.”
“Marisol,” Paulina said. “I’ve kept Abuelo’s things upstairs in the attic. If you feel like poking around up there, you’ll find pictures from their wedding reception. That way you can always remember them.”
“Really? Thanks, Ma.”
Pulling down the hook to release the trapdoor, Mari found the rickety ladder leading to the dusty crawl space that served as their attic. Climbing the ladder rungs, she sneezed, and then let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
A leather trunk sat wedged beneath a pair of stilts that had belonged to her grandfather. He’d taught Mari how to walk on them when she was a little girl. How she loved to hear his stories about the boardwalk and the performers who’d been his friends. Walking on those stilts, Mari pretended she’d been a boardwalk performer too.
She tugged the trunk from the corner, disturbing a cloud of dust. She sneezed again, and then wiped her nose. Prying the lid open, Mari looked inside. Though the leather exterior had peeled with age, the faded red silk lining had preserved all of Abuelo’s things as they’d been nearly seventy years ago.
Mari lifted a black-and-white photograph. Her grandparents stood in front of this very house, both so young. Abuelo’s hair shone with pomade and Abuela’s fell to her shoulders in perfect curls. Abuelo’s face lit up with pride. It meant a lot for a Mexican family to put down roots here, to own something of value.
Beneath the photograph, Mari found a postcard of a funny-shaped restaurant, like an old-fashioned hat. The caption read, “The Brown Derby, Hollywood CA, 1940.”
Mari turned it over and looked at the neat cursive—a woman’s handwriting.
Dear Ricky,
I’ve made it here safely. I have to pinch myself to believe I’m really in Hollywood! I’ve never done something so reckless, and I’m a bit terrified. But you’re the reason I was brave enough to come here. Sure, I’m a fool for trying to make it as an actress, but I’d be crazier not to try, isn’t that right?
I apologize for heaping my troubles on you that night at the party. You’re wise beyond your years, and I’m lucky to have you as a friend. Thank you for giving me the courage to follow my dreams. Oh, and did you know, Clark Gable and Carole Lombard have been spotted here at this restaurant? They really do have the best Cobb salad. If you come to visit, you have to try it. I’ll write again soon. Take care.
—V
Mari scrunched her brow. Did Abuelo have a sweetheart before he met Abuela? If so, he’d never mentioned her. She smiled. Her grandpa had inspired this unknown woman to pursue her dreams—a dream of stardom in Hollywood. That was so like him, always helping others. Whether this “V” had been a previous girlfriend or just a friend, Mari hoped Abuelo had helped her find a better life.
Chapter 7
Violet Harcourt
1940
So it’s done, then?”
“Yes. I told Evie to go in my place. She’s quite excited.”
Charles locked his eyes on mine and I stayed as still as an animal caught in a bright light. Beneath the covers, I gripped my thumb.
“Good,” he said, his dark brows pulled together. “You were never meant to enter that pageant in the first place.”
“It was very foolish of me,” I said, pulling my thick cotton nightgown more tightly around my body. If he so much as touched me, I would be done for. My heart began to beat faster.
Charles yawned, his eyelids heavy. He placed his tumbler of scotch on the bedside table, the ice cubes rattling in the glass.
“Turn off the light, will you?”
“Of course,” I whispered, reaching for the switch. With one click, darkness enveloped the room. I lay on my back, rigid as a board. Then I turned my head, watching the soft rise and fall of Charles’s chest. He was a sound sleeper, and after a few scotches, not even an air horn would wake him.
I swallowed, hard.
Withdrawing from the Miss America pageant had been my apology. Tomorrow, the old Charles would return. He’d compliment me on my cooking, and we’d dance slowly in the living room while we listened to Bing Crosby on the Victrola. I’d bury my face in his sweater, drinking in his bergamot-scented cologne.
Perhaps Charles would humor me and we’d get lunch with Evie and Frank at Miramar Fish Grotto, enjoying the view of the ocean from Fisherman’s Wharf. We’d have cocktails and laugh at Frank’s off-color jokes, while Evie would say she wanted a floral gown identical to the one Vivien Leigh wore when she accepted the Oscar for Gone with the Wind.
But as much as I wanted a life in Santa Cruz with Charles as my doting husband, I knew he would hurt me again. Which is why I’d already made my painful choice.
My eyes darted to the clock on the bedside table: 10:03 P.M. I needed to act now, before I lost my nerve. Leaning slightly toward Charles, I stared at my husband’s face in the darkness. Stubble peppered his square jaw, and a snore escaped his mouth, which hung open, relaxed. He looked so peaceful like this. I felt the urge to wrap my arms around him one last time, to hug the man I married.
Blinking back tears, I slowly eased the covers off. Carefully, I set one bare foot down on the carpet, and then the other. I stood, placing my hand over my racing heart. If Charles were to wake . . .
I clenched my hands. By golly, I could do this. Being told that I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t amount to anything, only made me more determined. I would prove Charles and Mother wrong. I was meant to be somebody.
Carefully reaching into my robe, I pulled out the note that had been tucked against my breast. With shaking fingers, I unfolded it, placing it on the bedside table. I’d deliberated for
months now about leaving this message for Charles, but I’d always lost my nerve. After tonight, there would be no repairing my marriage.
I’d tried to find the right words so many times. Fear told me to burn this letter, as I had the others. Instead, I left the note for Charles to find in the morning, my cursive sure to carve a mark on his heart, sharp as a razor blade.
Charles,
I cannot pretend to be happy any longer. I’ve tried to be the best wife I can, but my best isn’t enough for you. I want a divorce. I have given this careful consideration. I do not want your money. You may keep the house, your car, and your assets at the Oceano. All I ask for is my freedom. Please do not search for me. I will have a lawyer mail you the divorce papers. I am so sorry to leave you this way. Forgive me.
Love,
Violet
Tiptoeing toward the door, I stopped abruptly when I heard a change in Charles’s breathing. Was he coming to? My own breathing came in rapid gulps. If he woke, I would be done for. My stomach tightened, imagining his rage after reading the note. But within a moment, Charles’s snoring grew louder. It was now or never.
Placing one foot in front of the next, I walked out of the bedroom, then through the kitchen, until I stood at the front door. The kitchen clock ticked down the minutes, puncturing the silence. Would Harry’s party still be going at this hour? I let out my breath in a shudder. If I stepped over that threshold, there would be no turning back.
My eyes lingered on the cast-iron frying pan. Once again I felt the bacon grease burn my skin, and saw myself crying on the floor. It was all I needed. Taking a deep breath, I twisted the door handle and stepped outside.
The cool damp air, carrying the scent of ocean brine, heightened my senses. I crouched among my red roses, which had come into full bloom. I couldn’t risk being seen by the neighbors. I admired the rose petals, illuminated by the moonlight. Their beauty disguised the ugliness that took place inside this house.
Carefully scooting the terra-cotta flowerpots to the side, I retrieved the duffel bag I had packed earlier. How I’d wished to take more of my things—my dresses, jewelry and shoes. But that wasn’t possible. Instead, I’d packed my favorite green gown, hopefully to impress a casting director, my saddle shoes and my best pair of heels.
Slipping my bathrobe from my shoulders, I stashed it inside the duffel bag. I smoothed my blue dress over my stomach, noting that the belted waist had become a bit tight. I would need to lose a few pounds to have a real shot at Hollywood stardom. Retrieving my saddle shoes from my bag, I slipped them over my stocking feet. Thanks to the loose fabric of my robe, Charles hadn’t noticed my dress beneath it.
“Goodbye,” I whispered to my rose plants. “Wish me luck.”
Without a second glance, I hurried down the path, making my way along West Cliff Drive. If I walked fast enough, I could be at the Boardwalk Bowl in fifteen minutes—in time to catch the tail end of Harry Goodman’s party.
THE CRACK OF bowling balls against the pins caused me to jump. I clutched my duffel bag tightly against my chest.
“Violet, you made it!”
Ricky walked toward me, a grin on his face. “What are you doing here so late? Your fella let you out of the house to see us lowlifes?”
I couldn’t manage a smile. Immediately, Ricky’s eyes grew concerned. He gently touched my shoulder.
“Is everything all right?”
I shook my head. “I need a drink.”
“Sure thing,” Ricky said, turning toward the bar. “I’ll bring you a cup of rum punch. Take a seat. The party’s winding down, but Harry’s over there in the corner booth. You missed Stella, but Dot’s still here.”
“Thanks,” I said, my palms sweaty. Beneath the bright lights of the bowling alley, I felt exposed. There would be no turning back now—too many people had seen me here. What if I’d made a terrible mistake?
“Vi!” Dot cried, spotting me from across the room. Her drink splashed on the floor as she stood. Pushing her short blond curls out of her eyes, Dot hurried toward me, still wearing her waitress uniform. She wrapped her arms around me, the scent of fried chicken clinging to her clothing. My shoulders sagged with guilt. After I’d taken up with Charles, I’d dropped my waitress pals like a hot potato.
“By golly, I never thought I’d see you here tonight, Violet. Ever since you got married, you’ve all but disappeared. Then yesterday I watched you win the pageant, and you should’ve heard my cheer! I turned to Stella and said, ‘Told ya Violet would be famous one day.’ You ask her. We miss you, doll. We’re so happy for you.”
“Thank you, Dot,” I said, holding back my tears. “I’m so sorry I haven’t stopped by Mary’s Chicken Shack to see you and the old crew. Married life has kept me busy.”
Dot smiled. “It’s all right, doll.”
She looked so much older than her twenty-six years, and so thin. She was probably scraping to get by. And yet she managed to remain upbeat, bringing smiles to customers’ faces with her jokes. She gestured toward the booth.
“Sit down, why don’t ya? Harry will be over the moon. We never expected you’d come to the party, but we’re sure happy you’re here.”
She ushered me into a leather booth, oblivious to the duffel bag I clutched in my hands. I looked beneath the booth, eager to stash it out of sight.
“Violet!” Harry exclaimed. “Holy cow!” His jolly face shone even redder than usual, and he lifted his Hawaiian shirt, fanning himself. “Whew. It’s hotter than Hades in here. Or maybe it’s just the company?”
Dot rolled her eyes. “I hope the Los Angeles crowd is kinder than we are, because your jokes stink.”
“Oh hush,” Harry said, jiggling his gut. “I’m like Santa Claus, sweet and harmless. Now who wants to sit on my lap?”
“No, thank you,” Dot said. “Santa has had a few too many martinis.”
Ricky appeared, holding a cup of rum punch garnished with a paper umbrella. He handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, gratefully taking a sip. The sweet mixture tasted mostly like fruit juice, but with the pleasant burn of alcohol.
“Look who’s here,” Harry bellowed, turning to Ricky. “Soon we’ll be listening to the radio, to see if this old gal of ours has won the Miss America pageant. And to think she started as a waitress, right here on the boardwalk.”
“Say,” Dot said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Where’s your fella? Isn’t it awfully late for you to be out alone?”
“He’s—uh, a bit under the weather with a dreadful cold,” I stammered. “But he told me to catch up with my old pals. He didn’t want me to miss the party.”
“Ain’t that swell,” Dot said, slurping the rest of her drink. “I wish I could find myself a nice fella like that. Does he have any friends?” She shook her head. “Never mind. Those folks from the golf course wouldn’t give a girl like me a second glance.”
“Oh Dot,” I said, placing my palm atop hers. “That’s not true.” I dug into my purse. “Here. Put on a swipe of my crimson lipstick.”
I handed her my powder compact and watched as she tried the shade on. It brightened her face considerably, and she beamed at herself in the little mirror.
“Look out, Vivien Leigh.” Harry whistled. “There’s a new star in town.”
Dot punched Harry on the arm, but she held herself a little straighter.
“Keep it,” I said. “It looks lovely on you.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you!” Dot said. “That’s awfully kind. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies’.”
“Good idea,” Harry mumbled, hoisting his hefty body upright. “I’ve got to piss like a racehorse.” He braced himself on the edge of the booth.
As he and Dot disappeared toward the loo, I turned to Ricky, who’d been eyeing me silently while the others chatted.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he said. “Does your husband really know you’re here?”
Taking a deep br
eath, I let it out with a shudder. “No, he doesn’t. I withdrew from the Miss America pageant today. Charles didn’t want me to compete.”
Ricky’s eyes held mine without any judgment.
Finding his silence encouraging, I continued, “He doesn’t think it’s proper for me to dream of stardom. Perhaps he’s right. But I’ve tried to quench this fire inside me and I can’t.” A tear slipped down my cheek. “I’m leaving him, Ricky.”
Ricky handed me a napkin.
“Thank you,” I said, dabbing at the corner of my eye. My gaze darted to the doorway; I was expecting Charles to walk through it. I didn’t want to tell Ricky the truth of how bad things had gotten. I buried my face in my hands, fear and shame washing over me. “Oh, I’m so foolish. I ought to go home and burn that note before he wakes.”
Ricky placed a comforting hand on my back. His eyes locked on mine. “Breathe . . . Tell me something. How many years have we known each other?”
When I first started working at Mary’s Chicken Shack, Ricky was newly arrived at the boardwalk, fourteen years old and scrawny—a year younger than me.
“Five.”
“And how long have you been talking about how you’d make it in Hollywood as an actress someday?”
“But I was merely a silly teenage girl . . .”
“How long?”
I sighed. “Five years.”
Ricky smiled. “Sometimes we have to follow our hearts, even if it means leaving those we love behind. Did I ever tell you how I came to the boardwalk?”
“I don’t think so.”
In my memory, Ricky had just suddenly appeared. With his infectious smile and daredevil acts on the trapeze, he’d always been part of our Beach Boardwalk family.
“My parents and I came here from Mexico when I was ten years old in search of a better life. We found work on a strawberry farm in the Central Valley.” He grimaced. “In the burning-hot sun we worked ten-hour days, sometimes twelve, without bathroom breaks, food or water. My hands bled from picking the berries. Instead of being paid fair wages, we barely made enough to eat.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 5