Sunshine Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  She put on her pajamas, white flannel with red-and-black panda bears on them. She hadn't wanted to buy them, thinking they would be way too hot to wear in a beach town, but Detective Graham had insisted she should get them.

  "The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco," he had said, misquoting Mark Twain. "And that's true year-round. You're probably overestimating how hot the Central Coast is," he had added. "You're picturing palm trees; instead think Coast Redwoods and fog banks."

  She opened the French doors, feeling the onshore breeze from the bay cutting through the thick fabric. No fog tonight, though. Clear and cold, with no bright city lights to dull the blackness of the sky.

  She went out onto the balcony. Her bare feet on the wooden decking made her shiver, but she needed to see it again.

  The ocean was just a glimpse of reflected moonlight between the rooftops, dark blue against a black sky.

  But standing there in the chill, and appreciating the warm pajamas, she felt a sense of belonging that she had assumed those others who had watched the sunset with her had felt.

  This was her place now. Her ocean. She belonged here. The people in this town were people she'd met at the auction. She was like them. And she had something to offer this village just as they did.

  A movement caught her eye, closer, not far off like the sea.

  Down in the alley just across from the apartment a shadow moved in the darkness.

  She ducked back, knowing the white pajamas made her stand out on the balcony. What was it?

  A man. Surely it was a man, and not just a shadow?

  But then she heard voices, a man and woman, and the sound of footsteps in the street.

  Captain Ryan and Pamela walked by. He was carrying a flashlight to illuminate their path, though the streetlights made it almost bright enough to see the way.

  The flashlight lit the alley entrance, and there was nothing there. No monsters lurking in the shadows.

  The pair moved on, not looking up where she stood.

  She went back into the room and locked the door behind her.

  The built-in bed was cozy, tucked in under the eave opposite the French doors, with a reading lamp on the wall over her head, and a tiny casement window with a shiny brass crank that squeaked when she turned it to let in a bit of the cool air.

  She snuggled under the covers and looked at the books lined up on the windowsill. This was her definition of wealth. A collection of her very own books, and each one a gift, making it even more special:

  First was The Snowy Day, an old and battered children's book, the only book from her father. Where he'd gotten it she didn't know. When she grew up she figured out he had probably stolen it, but still, it had been his present to her when she was only five years old, and that made it precious. She would return to it, again and again, to read the beginner's book about a little boy playing in the snow, finding joy in the simplest things.

  She remembered her father's rumbling deep voice as he'd read it aloud to her, and how he glowed when she clapped her hands and giggled at each line of the simple text.

  The Snowy Day was the very symbol of what books meant to her: both an escape to a nicer, better world, and a connection to others who shared thoughts and dreams through their writing.

  The other books would become special, too, as she read them and learned what ideas they held inside their covers: True Tales From Pajaro Bay, the gift from Logan, with clues about his past. Searching for Jefferson Stockdale, from Robin Madrigal, a chance to learn more about the history of the old houses in the village. The works of Emily Dickinson, and the tattered paperback dictionary from Kim Kelly the librarian, in its own way the most precious of all, with all the words in the world tucked inside for her to learn. The Long Goodbye from Detective Graham, which brought a tear to her eye at the thought of him. And the last, the Harry Potter box set she'd won at the auction, an epic journey for her to enjoy again and again, and each time be reminded of the best night of her whole life.

  Her hand ran across each book, considering where she wanted to go tonight, after all that had happened in this day.

  She picked one, but she had only gotten two pages into The Long Goodbye before she fell fast asleep.

  She was in her favorite mini skirt and her red stilettos. She had loved those heels. They made her feel tall and lean and somehow invulnerable. Eye-level with the men she dealt with.

  It was just like all the other days, all the other times she'd gone out for a call.

  Usually she would try to be a bit more picky, but Mama had found the latest hiding place where she'd put the rent money. Now Mama was nodding on the sofa while the last of the heroin worked its way out of her system, totally oblivious to the fact that the landlord was threatening to evict them. So Teresa had written him a bad check and sworn to him it wouldn't bounce, but he was going to find out in the morning that she had lied, and she needed the cash in hand by then or they'd be on the street.

  So when the call came in around six that evening she took it. Closed her mind off like walling off her soul from the world outside, put on her favorite red shoes, pasted a fake smile on her face, and headed out for room 321 of the seedy little hotel downtown.

  She was so busy navigating her way down the dark, windowless hallway that she barely noticed the light spilling from the room ahead. Room 321. As she came closer, she could see the yellow lamplight leaking all around the edge of the door, framing it in light.

  She stopped in front of it and noticed the door was partly open, the light glowing, warm and inviting, beckoning her inside.

  Then she saw what was happening in the room, and froze, her fist just poised to knock.

  Another second and she would have knocked, would have made herself known to the man in the room. Just one more second.

  She stood there for what must have been only moments. But her whole life separated then, into the instant before she got to that glowing door, and the one after. Two parts, two different lives, really, though she wouldn't know that until later.

  The man was cool and methodical as he went about his business.

  She watched as he wiped down the nightstand, the wooden chair.

  As he picked up the gun that had fallen on the floor and stood with it for a moment, weighing it, comparing it to the one he already held in his hand.

  As he put both guns in his jacket pockets.

  As he bent down to the body on the floor, went through its pockets, pulled out the wallet, the keys, put those in his own pockets, ridding the corpse of anything identifiable, anything of value.

  As he rolled the body over and checked the other side, manhandling it as if it were an old rug lying there limp on the floor.

  All the time his face was cold, expressionless, like he did this kind of thing every day.

  She would never forget that face.

  And that was the problem. She was the only one there. The only one who saw that face. The only one who saw Vic Vicario, the head of the whole southside criminal gang, calmly wiping away the evidence of the murder he'd just committed.

  She finally pulled herself back from the terror that had frozen her like a statue with her fist poised an inch above the door, ready to knock and call attention to herself.

  She lowered her hand to her side, took one step back, took another, then another, continued to back away across the stinky, torn carpet that threatened to catch at her beloved red stilettos, back again, another step, then another.

  Still not turning around. Still not willing to turn her back on that glowing doorway and the ugliness taking place beyond it. Not turning her back on the horrible man who even now might be about to finish his gruesome work and leave the room.

  Finally she felt the wall at her back. She felt at it, felt for the open area where the stairs began. Found it. She bent down and, one hand braced against the wall, took off her shoes. Then, finally turning to face the stairs, she slowly, still slowly, still silently and carefully, made her way down thos
e seemingly endless stairs, her bare feet cold against the cracked linoleum steps.

  At the bottom her luck still held. She could see a flickering blue light coming from the little office behind the front desk, hear the murmur of the TV program on low. Then the creak of a chair as the clerk, somewhere back there out of sight, eased himself forward to take in all the details of Judge Judy's latest case.

  She crossed the dirty entry in her bare feet, then, one hand on the door handle, stopped to put her shoes back on.

  She eased that door open, slowly—oh, so slowly—making sure there was no creak of hinges or slam of latch to give her away.

  And then, finally, she was out.

  On the street all was normal. Noisy. Cars rushing past. Sky darkening to night. Streetlights clicking on as the dusk hit.

  She walked down that street like she owned it.

  She walked slowly. Not running. Not rushing. Slowly, calmly, her stilettos clicking on the sidewalk. Her hips swishing provocatively in her little mini skirt. Her head thrown back like she had nothing better to do than walk on that sidewalk in the growing dusk. Her face an impassive mask.

  And all the while the voice in her head repeated, Dios mio, Dios mio, Dios mio. Please God, please God, please God, in an endless scream for help that she didn't dare let anyone hear.

  She sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, the flannel pajamas and the cozy nest no longer safe, no longer fun at all.

  She switched on the light.

  It was still pitch dark outside, still night time. She wasn't going back to sleep, though. Not with the dream waiting for her to let down her guard.

  So she retreated to her comfort zone. A book. The Raymond Chandler book was on the bed where she'd dropped it when she'd fallen asleep. She'd put the postcard inside as a bookmark, and the sunshine and roller coaster seemed like another world, not a place mere blocks away through the dark streets.

  She put that book back on the shelf, and picked up The Snowy Day. She opened to the first page, and could almost hear her father's comforting voice soothe her as she read the familiar words and tried to forget the all-too-real nightmares in the world outside.

  Chapter Nine

  She woke to the sound of voices in the alley, and a metallic bang as someone dropped the lid on the dumpster.

  But the smells wafting in the little window by the bed were of cooking: eggs and chorizo frying on the stove, and the yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread making her mouth water.

  Her stomach rumbled, letting her know that the dinner from the auction last night was just a memory, and some heavenly breakfast pastries were waiting for her down in the little store below.

  She realized that without her phone she had no alarm clock. That would have to be the first thing she bought at the market downstairs.

  Her stomach rumbled again. The second thing, after breakfast.

  She dressed quickly.

  In the bathroom she set all her toiletries on the counter. The Dermablend was there, and a travel-sized spritzer of hairspray.

  She quickly dabbed the Dermablend on her hand tattoo, followed up with setting powder, then the hairspray to keep it all in place. By last night the tattoo had been showing through the makeup. She needed to make sure she did a better job of it today.

  She waved her hand in the air, then gave the spot a gentle pat with a finger to make sure it wouldn't rub off. It was set. No sign of the three little dots marking Mi Vida Loca, the symbol of gang life that transcended all the different gangs and cities and neighborhood affiliations, the sign that screamed out to others, "I'm part of that life."

  No one in Pajaro Bay would know what the dots meant, probably. The cops would. Little Caleb's father would, with his piercing eyes that said he knew well that this little village was not like other places, and that he was determined to keep it that way.

  She brushed her hair, put on her glasses, and gave herself a final check in the mirror.

  She was Teri Forest, wholesome literacy tutor in a cute little beach town, and she was heading in to her first day of work.

  "You can do this," she whispered.

  "Oh! The fireplace!" Teresa said when she walked into Logan's office.

  The boxes in the corner of the "gentleman's study" had been moved, and sure enough, there was a fireplace there, much like the other two she'd seen, complete with an image of the little blond girl at the beach.

  This version was possibly the prettiest of them all. The little girl was facing outward, with an angelic smile that looked so much like Logan's that she would have guessed her to be a relative even if she hadn't already known the truth.

  Logan, on the other hand, was not smiling. He was nearly hidden behind the stacks of papers on his desk, and when he didn't acknowledge her, she soon realized it was because was listening to someone ranting on the phone.

  "Yes, Mrs. Rutherford," he finally said, repeating his agreement several times, each one louder than the last. "I agree that having so-called ruffians in the community center could be a problem. However, the village council agreed that keeping the kids off the street and involved in productive activities would be better for everyone—"

  He was clearly cut off again, and leaned against his desk, head in hands, and listened to the caller for another couple of minutes.

  Finally he admitted that Mrs. Rutherford was of course entitled to take her concerns up with the village council, and of course if the others agreed with her he might find himself out of a job, and of course it was important to maintain the image of the town, and of course the business owners in the village had an important role to play in such decisions.

  He smiled wanly at Teresa.

  She waved to him and left the office.

  Out in the hall she heard soft flute music coming from the ballroom and headed that way.

  She saw there was a class just wrapping up, and stood in the doorway for a minute and watched.

  The students were moving, some gracefully and some not so much, in patterns that appeared to be some sort of slow-motion martial art. This must be the tai chi chih Pamela had mentioned on the bus, because she was at the front of the class and guiding them through the movements like she'd been doing it for years.

  Logan came up to stand next to her. "What's up?"

  She turned to him. "Finished with your call?"

  He chuckled softly, then they moved away from the open door so they wouldn't disturb the class. "That's our town grump. She didn't want me to get this job. I thought I'd won that fight, but apparently she wants to go another round."

  "Are they really going to keep kids out of the community center?" she whispered, looking around to make sure none of them were around.

  "No way. That's what we're here for."

  "What are we here for?" asked Pamela, coming up to join them in the suddenly crowded hallway. The class must have let out.

  "I didn't know you were teaching a class," Teresa said.

  "I'm in town for a couple of weeks, so I thought I'd keep busy."

  "Captain Ryan recommended her," Logan said. "We're glad to have her. And we can't beat the price."

  Pamela laughed. "If you paid me, I'd have to report it on my taxes. If I donate my time, I get a free workout every day I'm in town."

  "I'm not complaining," Logan said. "We're over budget already."

  A couple came up to see Pamela, and she turned to talk to them about the best exercise for improving balance.

  "So I've got your student list here," Logan said. He handed Teresa a signup sheet. There were only a few names on it.

  They talked a bit about how she could advertise for more students, and maybe fill in with the after-school general tutoring sessions that were starting next week.

  She wanted to tell him she wasn't qualified to tutor students, but she had that fake community college degree to maintain, so she just nodded along and tried not to look lost.

  "I don't know how you are going to get the kids to read, though," he said at one point.

  "The
thought of not wanting to read is so alien to me," she admitted.

  "You really love it," he said. "What got you into it in the first place?"

  "My father used to read to me. When I was little. It's one of my favorite memories of him now that he's gone."

  "Gone?"

  "He passed away a couple of years ago."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  She shrugged it off. "And then there was a librarian who mentored me. So I read all the books in the library."

  "All the books?" He laughed. "Not literally, of course."

  "Yeah, literally," she said, feeling kind of silly. "All the children's books. I read the whole school library, which was really small. And then I read the whole children's section of the public library. So they finally let me start reading the adult books."

  "Sounds like you were born for this job."

  "Maybe," she said. Putting it that way, skipping all the ugly parts, and the dropping out of school, and scrambling to survive, yeah, maybe this is what she was meant to do. Maybe.

  He clapped his hands together. "So. Are you ready to get started? Need a cup of coffee or anything?"

  "I'd love a cup."

  They ended up in the kitchen, which was half-demolished but still had room on one side for a big coffee urn and a couple of boxes of doughnuts from Santos' Market.

  "We go through about five boxes a day," Logan said. "Coffee and doughnuts are the lifeblood of the community center."

  "I already had breakfast," she said, gazing longingly at them. "I really don't need anything else."

  "It's important to eat a healthy breakfast," Pamela said, grabbing a creme-filled doughnut from the box.

  "That's healthy?" Teresa asked with a laugh.

  "Oh, I already ate breakfast hours ago," she said. "Muesli and almond milk with fresh raspberries from the garden. What about you?"

  "I did pretty well," Teresa said. "I had a fresh blueberry muffin with cream cheese from Santos' Market."