by Mary Feliz
Max poured wine, sliced bread, and put the soup on to heat while the boys filled him in on the latest news and I stashed the groceries in a fridge, freezer, and cabinets designed for smaller appetites.
“Beach before dinner?” David asked. I looked at Max and nodded.
Originally I’d envisioned a hearty hike, but the emotional strain of the day’s events had left me exhausted. Max and I decided in favor of the beach. We also sheepishly defied the rule against glassware and alcohol on the beach. We spread out a vivid Mexican blanket woven in colors that could stand to fade and plopped ourselves down, wine glasses in hand, to watch the boys skimboard along the shoreline. Belle gleefully chased both boys and the waves.
“So…” Max touched my hand and lifted his eyebrows.
“We’ve only been here a couple of days. I’m already overwhelmed.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, as a gull approached slowly, hoping we were serving cheese and crackers. I scowled.
“No, really, I mean, tell me about it. I’m inviting you to unburden yourself, my dear. My statement was not an attempt to shift the conversational focus to me as I beg for sympathy and regale you with a list of the ways my life is so much worse than yours.” He lifted his glass to mine. “Tonight is all about you. And maybe developing a plan to make things a little bit better tomorrow.”
I felt my shoulders relax and I wiggled my butt in the sand to create a custom recliner. “Where do I start?”
“You okay? The boys?”
“Did I pass along the news that I contacted that lawyer, Nell Bevans? She took notes and will confer with Forrest. I can’t remember who I’ve told what. The law firm is sending someone down soon with a plan for handling the media and the legal issues. I’ve got calls in to Jason, to see if he’s got local contacts who could help out.
Max stroked his chin, which needed either a shave or a commitment to growing a full beard. “Good idea. We haven’t run into a problem yet that the dynamic duo of Jason and Stephen couldn’t help solve.”
I nearly spit out my wine, laughing at Max’s description of our friends. Stephen, whom Max referred to alternately as the caped crusader or the ninja marine, was a veteran who’d been injured in the line of duty. Now a VA hospital volunteer working with discharged service members both canine and human, he had contacts all over the Bay Area that would put any covert operation to shame. His husband, Jason, also a marine veteran, headed our local police force along with a volunteer team of officers and first responders who could be deployed to disaster areas to support local emergency personnel. Their commitments to serve hadn’t ended when they left the armed services. They’d put their impressive protective net of experienced ex-soldiers at our disposal more than once.
“What?” said Max with fake innocence as he handed me a napkin. “You know it’s true.”
“But too on-the-nose for me to keep a straight face.”
“We called out the cavalry. We’re waiting to hear hoofbeats. What’s next on the agenda?”
I thought for a moment, looking for wisdom in my wine glass and wishing we’d brought the cheese and crackers the gulls coveted. “In no particular order, I need to…” I settled my glass in the sand and counted off on my fingers. “We need to help the boys maintain their confidence and hold their heads up when they run into anyone who has heard and believed the Petersons’ accusations. I need to help Renée get her office in order and develop a proposal to the board for the money she needs to make the plan succeed for all the stakeholders.”
“A tall order.”
“Especially since it may require resolving child care issues and other problems she’s got managing three foster kids she’s taken on.”
“Taken on?”
“Long story. I don’t think she was expecting them, or in any way prepared for fostering. Friends and family are chipping in to get her all the baby goods she needs to care for them.”
“What happened to their mom, dad, granny, aunts, or other family members?”
“Some sort of immigration status glitch involving ICE. Renée hasn’t had time to fill in the details. But if she wants me to work my magic on her offices, I’m going to need a lot more of her time than she was able to offer me today.”
“What about daycare?”
I smiled. “How quickly you forget. Three kids. Twins under two and an infant. Renée could barely get out a syllable. Forget any follow-up questions I might have had.”
“Can the boys help?”
“My thoughts exactly. I hope they see it the same way. Renée’s got more than enough work to keep them busy in the office even if she doesn’t need support looking after the children.”
Belle ran up, tongue lolling and coat dripping. “Wait!” I ordered. She obeyed, but then shook her entire body as only the loose-skinned retrievers can, transferring most of the water and sand from her body to ours. Laughing, we stood, spit out sand, shook the blanket, and plucked up our wine glasses. If I couldn’t tolerate a little sand in my adult beverages, I wouldn’t have brought my golden retriever to the beach. But as any golden retriever lover knows, there is nothing on earth quite as contagious as the joy of a water-loving dog on an ocean beach with her family.
Max leashed Belle and trotted with her to a hose in the condo building’s common area. I toted the rest of our belongings.
Max put his fingers to his lips and whistled to the boys. Words would have been lost in the wind billowing off the waves, but the shrill tone cut through the beach sounds, and he pointed toward the condo. “I’ll whistle them up again when Belle’s clean. They may lose track of time.”
I turned away and reached for the door between the beach and the building’s inner courtyard.
“Did you see that?” Max called in a voice mixed with excitement, alarm, and disbelief. “Right there. Did you see?” He pointed toward the beach, and I was almost afraid to look. The boys were there. Yesterday, the unexpected had resulted in a young man’s death.
I heard the boys call out in tones echoing Max’s. Max grabbed Belle’s leash and sprinted toward the boys. I followed, visualizing the worst.
“What is it? Max. Just tell me. What’s happening?” Nearly a foot shorter than Max, my field of view was smaller than his, particularly when it came to seeing whatever was going on just beyond the dunes.
“Blue!” said Brian. “A blue whale. Do you know how rare they are? Who’s got a phone?”
I squinted into the glare from the setting sun, seeing nothing but the bay’s mirror-flat surface beyond the breakers. But then what looked like a small island emerged from the sea and slowly disappeared. I gasped, overwhelmed with reverence and awe. Nothing in life or imagination had prepared me for this moment. I took Max’s hand and felt the boys and Belle press close to me. We watched the sea for several minutes more, saying nothing, then all breathed out as one when the whale spouted a plume of condensation that dissipated into the mist.
Chapter 9
On one vacation, we met a family with an inexpensive inflatable beach toy. They were about to fly home and passed the toy along to us for the rest of our stay. We passed it to another family when we left. It was a great way to foster friendships, teach the kids about generosity, and save luggage space.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Wednesday, June 19, Morning
We began the day with the hike we’d skipped the night before, hoping to spot more whales and other marine wildlife. Max wanted to inspect the spot where Jake Peterson’s aircraft had gone down—where the boys had struggled to save him.
Tiny shorebirds, rare snowy plovers, dotted the beach, moving between waves and sand like a troupe of dancers or ping-pong balls blown in the wind. Day-trippers hadn’t yet arrived, and most of the campers at Sunset Beach were still waking up. A few families with early rising small children buil
t sand castles or roads for tiny construction trucks.
Dunes hid tents and campers from view, but we could smell the cozy scent of wood fires and bacon as we walked by. Just beyond the camping area, the headland rose abruptly to a couple of hundred feet. I’d been sure the spot of the dramatic rescue would be obvious to all of us, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Brian and David each thought they knew exactly where the events had played out, but they disagreed on the location.
“Let’s take the stairs this time.” I pointed to a rough series of railroad ties that formed steps in a path that zigzagged up the cliff. The beams reduced trail erosion and restored vegetation, but they also created a navigable staircase. And I was all for selecting the most straightforward path. Or at least one that was less grueling than our earlier mad scramble. Without the aid of adrenaline, even the gentle risers took my breath away. But so did the view from the top.
The entire Monterey Bay stretched before us, from Santa Cruz to Pacific Grove. If the bay was a backward “C,” we stood at its apex. Sailboats and fishing craft with draped nets dotted the ocean surface. The blue whales must have moved beyond the horizon in search of krill. If they’d been within the confines of the bay, we’d have seen them. It’s difficult to hide when you’re the largest mammal on the planet.
Behind us, the view of the inland valley was nearly as mesmerizing. Santa Cruz and Monterey counties are home to some of the richest farmland in the nation. From our hilltop we spotted fields of strawberries, lettuce, artichokes, each being harvested by hunched farmworkers.
The slough system of wetland habitat snaked between the fields and Highway One.
Max was more interested in the ground underfoot as he walked through the sandy soil and scrub brush on the ridgeline. Every few moments he’d stop to scuff his feet through the dust.
“Here, boys?” he asked, then pointed out landmarks Brian and David had mentioned in their retelling of the tragic adventure. “There’s the road out to the highway. And the parking lot and barn.”
The boys looked at each other and nodded in agreement. To the right, a chain-link fence separated us from the farmland. Through the mesh, we could see furrowed plastic-covered rows of strawberries, a decrepit barn, and metal tanks marked with insignia that we couldn’t identify from this distance.
“Do you know who owns this property?” Max asked. “I’d love to get in there and check it out a little more closely. Could Jake have seen something no one wanted him to report to the appropriate authorities? Could the barn be hiding something he shouldn’t have witnessed?”
“Like what? Those look like ordinary propane tanks to me,” I said.
“But why would they need propane way out here?” Max asked. He was right. Other than the small development of mostly vacation homes to the north and the state park below us, there were no dwellings that would have required heat, light, or hot water. Strawberries don’t require much processing.
“Unlicensed housing?” I asked. The kids then shouted out a series of colorful suggestions.
“Meth lab?”
“Pesticides?”
“Sex trafficking?”
“Sweat shop?”
“Gang headquarters?”
“Secret government lab?” said Brian, finishing up the list that could have been ripped straight from the pages of a graphic novel. I reached out to ruffle his hair and then pulled my hand back, knowing he hated the gesture because it felt demeaning to him. Though it was a habit I’d developed out of love and affection for his unruly curls, I tried hard to respect his wishes and dominion over his own person.
“Enough wild speculation. We’re way off in the weeds,” I said. “I wonder if Renée would know who owns this land.” I pulled out my phone, took a photo, and sent it to her with a brief text. Max turned toward the farm. “And what about that one?” he asked, pointing to a field south of the barn. While the strawberry furrows looked similar, they were covered with a different color of plastic. “Are they owned by different farmers? Does the plastic tint indicate one is organic and the other isn’t?”
I had no idea, but it was a good question that led to several more. How would a farmer keep his organic crops pesticide-free if his fields butted up against a traditionally managed farm? “I’ll call Renée later and see if we can get a tour ‘round here tomorrow.”
Max’s stomach growled, and he glanced at his phone. “If we head home we’ll be back in time for lunch.”
“Home home or condo home?” asked David.
“Condo home.” I zipped up my sweatshirt against the freshening breeze. Whitecaps marked the previously mirror-flat surface of the bay. Breakers crashed against the sand.
David grinned at Brian. “Race you?”
They were off.
Max and I descended the cliff more gingerly, choosing our steps. Belle dashed between the boys and us, barking. From headland to sand took one hundred and twenty steps. I counted. But descending via the staircase was still easier than sliding through the prickly scrub on my rear as I had last time.
As soon as the sand leveled out and I felt it was safe to take my eyes from my feet, I looked up to see Belle wagging her tail, standing over Brian, who sat hunched on the sand, within sight but out of earshot. I ached to turn down the volume on the waves so I could hear Belle and the kids. Max and I picked up our pace as David leaned down as if to help Brian up. Brian half rose and then sank back onto the sand. David looked back, spotted us, and stood, waving both hands frantically. Not again. What had happened now? Now, when we were almost back in our condo. Almost safe.
By the time we reached the boys, David had helped Brian hop down to the ocean to wash sand and blood from a gaping slash on his shin. I glared at the wound as if it would obey a stern parental look and heal itself on the spot.
“Aw, come on, Mom,” Brian said. “It’s not that bad. A few Band-Aids should fix it, right?”
I glanced warily back toward the dry sand without answering. If you’d asked me what I searched for, I wouldn’t have been be able to tell you. Perhaps I had some idea that my kids had been attacked and I was ready to defend my offspring from any threat. But there were no sword-wielding ninjas or other enemies anywhere in sight. “What happened?” I asked.
David shook his head. “Wasn’t me. I heard him yell. I looked back, and Brian was on the ground.”
“I didn’t yell. I tripped. It wasn’t until I took a few steps that I realized it hurt. I must have hit a broken bottle or something.”
Max combed the beach, examining the sand for whatever hazard had removed most of the skin from Brian’s left shin. He looked up, shaking his head. “There’s a giant steel spike pounded into the sand. Could have been there a day, a year, or more than a century. I can’t tell.”
“There used to be a shipping pier and a dance pavilion out here back in the Victorian era,” I said. “Maybe it’s part of the old structure? Part of the foundation or a tie-down for a boat?”
“Who knows? But that slash needs a doctor’s attention, a tetanus shot, and a good cleaning.” Max peered at the wound, pushing the sides of it together as Brian winced. “Maybe some stitches. Shins take forever to heal.” He reached out a hand to help Brian up. “Come on, tough guy.”
Brian sighed and stood. Slinging one arm over his father’s shoulder and the other over his brother’s, he limped over the soft sand toward the condo, where I stopped just long enough to pick up a dish towel and ice pack. My family never goes anywhere without a good supply of icepacks. When we weren’t using them for sprains, strains, bruises, or burns, we employed them to fight the migraines that Max and David often endured. The kids teased Max all the time about his flashlight collection, though it was an obsession that had helped us all on more than one occasion. My thing was ice packs.
* * * *
At the hospital, I dropped my guys off and drove the few miles to downtown Freedom to pick up tak
e-out sandwiches, coffee, and water for the boys. Cookies and fruit rounded out our impromptu picnic. I had no idea how long we’d wait in the emergency room, but I was prepared for a major siege. At the checkout, I grabbed a year’s supply of disinfectant gel to help me get over my heebie-jeebies related to eating in a hospital. I wasn’t really a germophobe but, despite efforts to sanitize everything, I knew medical facilities to be among the grungiest places on earth.
Back at the emergency room, David was alone in the waiting room with his phone. He barely looked up when I plopped in the chair next to his.
“Doing research?” I asked. “Has Brian been seen?”
“He’s getting stitched now, I think. Dad’s with him. At first, they hustled Brian off into a room all his own to make sure Dad hadn’t been trying to kneecap him with a lead pipe. Brian must have convinced them things were okay, but then they took Dad off alone to make sure Brian wasn’t hurting himself. Then they interviewed me.”
“I’m glad you all passed the test. Think I should risk running the gauntlet?”
“Only if your conscience is clear,” he said in a dour tone. He couldn’t hold his face straight for long, though.
“Sandwich?” I waved it in front of him. He set down the phone.
“I was checking out who owns the farms on the top of the ridge, and whether they’re organic.” He tilted his screen so I could see the Google Maps satellite display of the area. “Kevin Rivers owns this property. It’s organic. You were right. He’s some kind of relative of Renée’s. I found a picture of them both at a birthday party for Renée’s grandmother.” He took a bite of his sandwich before continuing.
“Hmm. Good. Thanks, Mom,” he mumbled as he chewed. “This farm here,” he pointed at the screen to a property adjoining the one owned by Rivers. “It belongs to Diego Baker, and it’s not organic. Not certified organic by the state, anyway. They could be working the farm organically and awaiting certification, but they could also be using traditional pesticides.”
“Can you tell whose property the barn sits on?” I asked, squinting at the screen.