Boardwalk Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  He pushed his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table. "Anyway, Zac is a dreamer—in the best sense of the word. He has a vivid imagination and sees romance in everything. His main thing is history—family history, the history of this area, from the days of the Ohlone Indians to the conquistadors and cowboys and California dreamers right up to the present day. Even at fifteen, he already knows more than anyone around about all of this—even Windy." He nodded out the window at the sparkling shoreline. "He can probably tell you who lived in any one of those old cottages at any time in the past hundred years."

  Hallie looked out the window, eyes wide and wondering, as if her mind was filled with images of dusty cattle trails and strange, proud people gazing out across this same land in distant centuries. She shook her head. He watched her pull her imagination back, tamping it down again. "But what's he going to do with it?" she asked.

  "Do?"

  "For a living."

  "He's only fifteen. He can explore and dream now. Eventually—"

  "—He'll find his calling in life," she finished.

  Kyle laughed and shook his head. "You say it like it's a curse. Okay, you win. Practicality makes much more sense. Let's go home and find you someplace practical to sleep—I think I've got some old boards in the barn that'll make a no-frills bed."

  The bed turned out to be of wrought iron, piled high with an overstuffed mattress and antique quilts. It had been a Spanish general's traveling bed, Kyle had told her when he showed her the tiny attic bedroom. The room's walls were like all the rancho's, thick adobe blocks painted cream. Unlike the clutter downstairs, these walls were bare except for a carved figure of a saint nestled in a niche above the door, and some shelves of gnarled wood in one corner. The only furnishings were a small trunk of dark-stained wood with Chinese-looking carvings, and the amazing bed.

  The bed had a canopy of curved metal pieces that arched up to brush against the room's ceiling. "How on earth did you get it in here?" she'd asked, looking skeptically at the room's low door, and the single deep window under the eaves.

  "Zac'll tell you all about it when you meet him tomorrow," Kyle had said before leaving her to unpack.

  Every time Kyle mentioned "his kids," there was so much pride in his voice. He was so at home here, running the ranch and caring for the kids. She felt a knot in her stomach—what was that like? To have someone consider you important? To have someone proud of you?

  She opened up her two boxes filled with everything she owned in the world. Her few clothes fit easily into the small trunk. She lifted her last sweater out of the box, and there underneath it lay a dappled grey pony.

  She picked up the little wooden figure and felt the tears spill down her cheeks. Wow. She'd thought she was done crying over it. But the day had been long, and exhausting, and she didn't have the strength to hold back the tears now.

  The pony was the only one of her carvings to survive the last night of her marriage. She clutched it to her chest, stroking the smooth wood with her scarred hands.

  A dreamer, Kyle had called her, not realizing what an insult that actually was. Her foolish dreams had led her to think her life could be a fairy tale.

  She wondered what her life would have been like if someone had believed in her like Kyle believed in Zac, Chris, and Windy. She thought of her own life at fifteen. That last foster home.... She closed her eyes, as if that would shut out the echoing in her ears. You worthless brat! Get back to work!

  Aging out of the foster care system had seemed like the key to freedom. Once she turned eighteen, she was on her own, without a backward glance—and without a soul in the world to root for her or even care if she lived or died. And yet she'd thought she'd live happily ever after anyway.

  She looked down at her hands. She'd run from one mess right into another. If only she'd had the good sense back then to be practical. If she'd just been logical, kept her head down, and concentrated on surviving, everything would have been different.

  She wouldn't have fallen for David Cooper.

  He had seemed like her prince charming when he'd come into the restaurant where she worked. He'd flattered her, complimented her, then offered her a way out, an escape to a better life. He had used her dreams to trap her, offering security and promises of love to a scared teenager. It had been years before she'd realized the promises he'd made were a trap, and that the only dreams he cared about were his own.

  She had lied to herself for so long—David could be so kind when he wanted to be—that somehow she'd been able to dismiss it when he swore that one day he'd break her the way he broke the furniture during his jealous rages.

  She looked down at her scarred hands. She knew better now.

  Hallie carefully placed the little horse on the corner shelf, and took a deep breath, wiping away the last of her tears. She was the new Hallie Reed. She was logical, and practical, and would never give in to her weak desire for magical fairy tales. Never again.

  She spent a long time by the room's only window, gazing out into the night. The windowsill was set deep into the adobe wall, and the foot-thick sill provided a nice perch for sitting and watching the darkness. It had been such a long day; it was no wonder her nerves were on edge, and the tears came when she'd thought she was all cried out.

  Some moonlight shone through the fog, and as she watched the misty darkness she felt herself gradually relax. After a while her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she could make out the shape of the barn about a hundred yards from the house, and the tips of treetops beyond that. Far away, down the mountainside, she could see a glow that might have been the town of Pajaro Bay itself, but she wasn't sure.

  Something moved by the barn. She watched for a while. Yes, there it was again: a bird, no, an entire flock of them, winging their way out from under the eaves of the barn, and heading off into the night. They looked like swallows, but she wasn't sure. That's funny, she thought. Except for one foster home on a ranch, she'd spent all of her life in cities, so she wasn't an expert on country wildlife, but she had never imagined flocks of swallows flying around at night.

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Come in."

  Kyle popped his head in. "All settled?" Her hair was loose, he noticed, and the dark curls and her wide, dark eyes made her seem even more ephemeral and delicate than ever.

  "Yeah. I'm just looking at these birds. They're fascinating." She seemed to find everything fascinating, he noticed, in spite of her claims to practicality.

  Kyle came to look out the window where she pointed. He chuckled when he saw what she was looking at. "I don't know if you can take this after the day you've had," he said. "But those aren't birds."

  "What are they?"

  "Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make." He laughed ghoulishly. He noticed her confused look. "Never heard the quote? Bela Lugosi as Dracula. I guess you're too busy studying to watch the late-late movies. It's a good hobby when you have little kids. They keep you up a lot walking the floor, and later they keep you up waiting for them to get home."

  "But those aren't birds?"

  "Nope. We've got bats in our belfry—in our hayloft, actually."

  "Ugh."

  "No, really, they're harmless. And they eat bugs, so they're good for the crops. We've never been able to get rid of them, so we've decided to say they're a good thing."

  She pulled the drapes shut, shaking her head. "I've had enough ghouls for tonight."

  Kyle laughed. "Wait'll you meet Zac. He's got more ghost stories than even Windy."

  He looked around the room. "This is nice, with all your stuff in here. It adds some personality. Hey, look at this." He picked up the little horse off the corner shelf. "Windy collected these things when she was a kid, too. I guess a lot of little girls love these plastic horses." He frowned. "Oh. It's not plastic. Wow." He ran his hands over it.

  The horse was polished smooth, and colored a subtle dapple gray, but he could see the wood grain beneath the paint. "This is h
and carved." He turned it over. "HR." He looked up at her. "You did this? You did this yourself?" He ran his hand over it again, and looked at it more closely, noticing the arch of the neck, and the way the mane seemed to be flying back in the wind. "Windy said you were an artist, and a good one at that, but I had no idea."

  She shrugged her shoulders. "In one of my foster families the father was big on woodcarving. He taught me. I used to do it to pass the time. I made that when I was eleven."

  "Eleven? Wow." He glanced at her hands. "I'm sorry." He set the horse back down. There was a looseleaf sketchbook on the shelf next to it. "May I?"

  She shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

  He flipped through the book: page after page of sketches, all of animals in various lifelike poses—starting with simple drawings of kittens and a battered-looking old dog, and progressing through a variety of styles, to final studies of racehorses and jockeys in expertly shaded charcoal. He wouldn't know a Van Gogh from a Picasso, but it didn't take an expert to see that this was more than just something to pass the time.

  He realized he had sat down on the bed. She still stood across the room, not looking at him. "You can't use your hands anymore?" he asked quietly.

  She pulled open the curtains again and stared out the window. "It doesn't matter," she whispered, but he caught it.

  "But... I know it's none of my business, but…." He didn't know how to ask.

  "What?"

  "Why are you majoring in math, of all things?"

  "What do you mean, why?" she said, still talking to the window. "There's a shortage of math teachers in the state of California, and I have a B-plus average."

  "I'm sure you do, and I'm sure there's a need." He plunged ahead. "But come on, Hallie, really. Why are you playing with numbers when you can do this?" He held up the sketchbook.

  "You've got something against playing with numbers?" There was a definite edge to her voice, and he knew what he was saying was pushing her buttons, but he really wanted to know.

  "I don't think there's anything wrong with playing with numbers," he said. "Not if that's your calling in life."

  She turned back to face him, and he could see she was angry. "Maybe I don't have a calling. Maybe I just have an overdrawn checking account."

  "Come on. I'm serious."

  "So am I. Wanna see?" She grabbed her checkbook off the shelf and tossed it across the bed. "I suppose you think I should major in art," she said the word contemptuously. "I just made little animals, I don't know anything about art." She spat the word at him again. "Real art is all that abstract stuff they have in museums. What I did doesn't qualify as art." He wondered who had told her that.

  "Besides," she said, "even if I could major in that, even if my hands worked well enough to carve or draw or paint again, I'd end up just as unemployable when I finished as when I started. No thanks. I'm not going to depend on anybody else to support me."

  He looked at the carved pony again. Eleven years old? He hadn't been able to draw a straight line at eleven. This horse reminded him of a Remington bronze he'd seen once at an art show. How could she not want to make more like this one? "But if you can do this—"

  "Could. Past tense."

  "But—"

  "Loss of fine motor skills," she said bitterly.

  "But—"

  "But what? I have a mission in life? Yeah, well, sometimes things don't work out that way."

  "But I've seen you open doors, open a sugar packet for your coffee. You fight your way through the pain every day for little things. But not this? This—this is worth fighting for."

  She glared at him and he knew he was going too far, but he couldn't stop himself. She was an amazing woman, and she was holding herself back. "Even if your hands aren't as good as new, your mind, your heart... You have a gift, Hallie. You can't waste it. This is too important."

  Maybe too important, he thought. He saw the bitter, uncomprehending look in her eyes. Maybe it was too important to try because the pain of failure was too much for her. He was lecturing her and he had no idea what she was going through. He felt like a jerk. His attempt to make things better just hurt her.

  Instead of telling him off, yelling it was none of his business—as she had every right to—she just quietly said, "No." There was a story behind that quiet little no, but she sure wasn't going to tell him.

  She took the carved pony and sketchbook from Kyle and put them in the trunk, and shut the lid. "I don't need anybody to support me any more," she said firmly. "I can take care of myself. I'm not going to be a failure any more."

  Hallie sat down on the bed and put her head down in her hands.

  He hesitated, then put his arm around her shoulders. He wanted so much to help her, but felt so helpless to do anything to make it better. She sat there silently, and he could have sworn she leaned closer to him. But only for a moment.

  She pulled away from him and abruptly stood up. "I'm tired," she said. Again he was reminded of her feline namesake. If she'd had claws, he imagined she'd have scratched him before turning away.

  Kyle stood. He longed to put his arms around her again, but she shied away from him. He shouldn't have pushed her, but it killed him inside to see her pain.

  Why couldn't he mind his own business? "Hallie, I'm sorry. I was out of line."

  "Forget it," she said firmly. She escorted him to the door. "I just want to go to bed."

  He stood in the open doorway, trying to muster some of the lightheartedness that usually came so naturally to him. "I'll say goodnight then," he said cheerily. "Unless you'd like me to tuck you in?"

  The door was shut silently in his face. Hallie pressed her palms against the smooth wooden door.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  Chapter Three

  "Just—one—more—twist!" Windy whispered. She almost had it. There. The last zip-tie holding her to the chair slipped through the crack in the wood and she was free.

  Well, almost.

  She stood up, then wobbled and had to catch herself on the chair when her legs gave out. She had been sitting in that cramped position for what seemed like hours. She had slept some, off and on, but now she was wide awake. She kept hearing weird sounds above her. Where was she? It was pitch black, now that the man had left, but she was sure something was going on. There were sounds like a train over her head, and a lot of rhythmic muffled pounding like a stereo with the bass turned up too high.

  She had to work quickly. She had managed to get herself free of the chair, but her hands and legs were still bound by the ties, so she could only hobble around in the darkness.

  But it was a start. Whoever this guy was, he was up to no good, and she was not going to hang around in this hole until he came back.

  She heard footsteps above her. She was out of time.

  Windy heard noises getting closer outside, near the basement room. The guy was coming back. A light was switched on outside, and the door to her little prison was outlined by the light peeking through the cracks. She hopped over toward the wall next to the door, positioning herself to make a break for it when the guy opened the door.

  Then she thought better of it, and went back to the chair, dragged it over to her spot next to the door. She reached out and felt the doorknob, then took a step back to position herself just right.

  She heard the man coming with a shuffle of footsteps, held her breath as the sounds grew louder and louder, then heard the key in the lock.

  She lifted the wooden chair up high, struggling to hold it by the rungs with her bound hands.

  The door creaked open and she swung the chair as hard as she could toward the shape silhouetted in the light.

  Hallie woke in the morning to a feeling of uneasiness. It was nothing, she told herself. Just the disorientation of waking up from a vivid dream to find herself in an unfamiliar room.

  A very vivid dream. Hallie pushed away the bedcovers and went to the window. She pulled aside the curtains, only to be greeted by a sea of fog. There was no es
caping it, she thought. All night she'd chased an emerald-eyed prince on a white stallion through drifts of clouds like the ones outside her window. But when she'd reached out to touch the shimmering knight of her dreams, she'd found that she had no hands, and could do nothing but stand and watch while he disappeared into the mists.

  It didn't take a rocket scientist to see what her subconscious was obsessing about. She shook her head to clear the last of the fog that still clouded her brain.

  She padded down from her attic room to the second-floor bathroom and washed her face. Pots and pans clattered somewhere downstairs, so she dressed quickly and then let the sounds lead her through the still-unfamiliar house to the kitchen.

  Kyle was busy stirring scrambled eggs and warming tortillas on the griddle.

  "Have a seat. It'll be ready in just a minute." His glance took in her white cotton long-sleeved tee shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. "I see Windy told you the dress code. Did she give you the other stuff?"

  Hallie held up the blue sun visor and vest with a large white bird and the word "STAFF" printed on them. "Windy took care of that, too."

  "So, um," he said, "how're you feeling this morning?" His smile seemed a bit sheepish.

  "A little tired, that's all." She sat down at the table and watched him work. He'd exchanged the polished armor of her dreams for jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. His hair, still damp from the shower, was combed back, and one tendril curled at the nape of his neck. She felt the urge to go stand behind him at the stove and run her fingers up his spine to that lock of hair. She frowned. She couldn't escape this man, awake or asleep.

  "Sore muscles?" Chris stood in the doorway. "You were frowning," he explained. He came and sat down at the table.

  "Are you feeling sore this morning?" Kyle asked. His brow furrowed.

  She shook her head. It wouldn't be a good idea to tell him what she'd been thinking about.

  "I can give you some stuff to rub on 'em," Chris said. "I went through gallons of it last spring playing basketball."