Cape Perdido Page 2

  To Joseph, she sounded like the missionaries who used to come around to convert the coastal Pomos, a tribe with whom he had blood ties: cast off your heathen religion, accept our teachings, repent your sins, and the kingdom of heaven is yours.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Bernina glance at him, a frown that said she thought he was being inhospitable knitting her thick eyebrows. “Oilville coming up,” he said, too heartily.

  Jessie Domingo asked, “Why’s it called that? I don’t recall from my reading.”

  Bernina said, “It’s the site of one of the first oil fields in California. Most people think all the state’s oil wells are in southern California, but there was a short-lived boom here in the mid-eighteen-sixties. After the wells dried up, so did the town. Now that’s what’s left.” She motioned at the lone gas station and convenience store, the scattering of small frame houses that nestled in a clearing upon which the thick forest was slowly encroaching.

  The lawyer, Fitch Collier, hadn’t spoken or moved since they left the airport. With some concern, Joseph glanced into the rearview mirror. No, not dead, just sleeping.

  Bernina went on. “Cape Perdido is a different story. The lumber mill, first called Breyer’s, and then McNear’s, was built there in eighteen-sixty-three. The Cape became a doghole port, where schooners would take on lumber for transport south to San Francisco. Generation after generation worked that mill, but the decline in the lumbering industry forced its owner to shut it down five years ago, and now—well, you know from the press coverage about Timothy McNear offering to let Aqueduct Systems lay the pipe for their operation across the site. Anyway, the Cape’s managed to hang on economically because of tourism and recreational opportunities. And people like me, who enjoy the small-town atmosphere and natural beauty, are still moving there—

  although there’s no telling what’ll happen if those waterbaggers succeed in raping our river. And ‘rape’ is the right word for it. I can draw a lot of parallels between a violent sex crime and what that man, Gregory Erickson, wants to do here.”

  Please don’t start, Joseph thought. Not now. Let these tired people get settled in before you try to indoctrinate them.

  To turn the conversation in another direction, he said, “Bernina’s a real authority on our little piece of the earth, even though she only came out from Maine three years ago.”

  Immediately he regretted the way it sounded. Bernina’s eyes narrowed and she glared at him. “I suppose you’re an authority, even though you abandoned this ‘little piece of the earth’ twenty years ago?”

  He was not going to argue with her in front of strangers. “Oh, look, folks!” he exclaimed, pointing skyward. “There’s a golden eagle!”

  As they craned their necks to spot the nonexistent bird, he accelerated toward the turnoff for Cape Perdido.

  STEPH PACE

  Steph let the fishnet curtain fall against the front window of the Blue Moon. Anxiety tickled at the base of her spine like restless fingers.

  Get a grip, woman!

  Joseph and Bernina were checking the New Yorkers into the Shorebird Motel, across Highway 1. Once finished there, he would come over for his afternoon cup of coffee, and she didn’t want him to see her in this state. He’d notice that something was wrong—he noticed everything—and he’d ask what had happened. And then she’d have to lie—something she didn’t do very well to him—or else explain, which would open up the very can of worms that last week he’d told her to close and keep closed.

  If only Timothy McNear hadn’t chosen this morning to try out the Blue Moon’s breakfast special for the first time in the eleven years Steph had owned the café. He remembered her, though, and his dark eyes had bored into hers from under shaggy gray brows, their intensity belying his mild “Good morning, Miss Stephanie.” It was as if he could see into her mind and read the secrets hidden there, of which there were quite a few. One in particular she suspected he knew, and why he’d chosen to keep it to himself for two decades was a question whose answer she didn’t care to probe.

  What amazed her was that Timothy McNear dared to show his face in the village at all these days. Five years ago, when he’d shut down his family’s lumber mill, the public’s reaction had been angry, and McNear had stayed in his big house on the ridge for many months, until the anger gradually smoldered to resentment and then dissipated entirely. But now, when he’d committed the ultimate traitorous act of offering access across the mill site to those waterbaggers . . . Well, rage was too mild a term for the collective emotion directed at him.

  Stupid, Steph thought, for McNear to venture forth in a place where, to many of the residents, guns were a natural appendage to be exercised whenever the mood struck them.

  Stupid. Or arrogant. Or something else entirely.

  From the kitchen behind her, Steph heard the sounds of chopping as the cook prepared the last of the ingredients for that night’s fish chowder. An hour to go till the waitresses arrived; an hour more till the dinner service began. She could go home for the interim and avoid Joseph, who would be just as glad to chat up the cook while having his coffee. A nap or a bath might temporarily ease her anxiety.

  She raised the curtain again and looked out at the Shorebird. Standard motel: two stories of cinder block, its white paint weathered by the strong winds off the Pacific. A huge rusted anchor and chain lay in a thick patch of ice plant in front of the office; a rotting fishing dory in a similar patch in front of the near wing of units. Tourists traveling Highway 1 either found the place quaint and didn’t mind the plain accomodations, or went inland to Highway 101 or south to the better-appointed and AAA-recommended motels at Calvert’s Landing. Most days, the Shorebird’s vacancy sign was lit twenty-four hours, but today it had been turned off. The reason being visitors coming to town for tomorrow afternoon’s viewing of the type of water bag Aqueduct Systems planned to use to haul the river water, and the open forum where the company’s CEO would answer questions and present his case. A van from the county’s lone television station already stood before one of the motel rooms.

  Steph automatically glanced at the far wing, where Greg-ory Erickson, president of the North Carolina firm, and his staff were staying, then back at Joseph’s van near the opposite end of the building. At least the desk clerk had thought to place the New Yorkers as far away from the Aqueduct people as possible. Steph would caution her waitresses to do the same, should both parties show up at the same time for dinner. When local rivalries raised their ugly little heads, a delicate balancing act was required of Cape Perdido’s only real restaurant, but the simultaneous presence of the New Yorkers and the North Carolinians had the potential to spawn something far more serious than a small-town pissing contest.

  That particular combination was the stuff that small-town nightmares were made of.

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  Timothy eased into his big leather chair, set his glass of single-malt Scotch on the side table, and pulled the thick Hudson’s Bay blanket over his lap. Once settled comfortably—as much as a man of seventy-four who suffers from arthritis can hope—he trained his eyes on the line where sea met sky. It was not a pronounced line this evening, the day having been dull and overcast, but as always, it called out to him.

  For the past thirty-some years, it had been Timothy’s custom to climb the ladder to the loft above the kitchen of his rambling redwood house at precisely seven minutes before sunset. In the early days, the climb had been easy, and he’d had ample time to pour his Scotch and get settled before the show—or, as today, the lack thereof—began. Then, about ten years ago, he’d noticed a shortness of breath and the need of a few moments to regain equilibrium before the pouring ceremony; now sharp pains in his legs and back slowed his climbing, and he often put off handling the crystal carafe until he was seated, the blanket securely tucked around him against the gathering chill.

  Aging is a bitch, but I can still make it up here and get settled in seven minutes. The day I can’t is when I pack it in. There
are some things a man must not surrender to.

  The horizon was blurring now, gray melding into gray—a color appropriate to Timothy’s thoughts. Tomorrow he must dress in his best suit and go down to the point where McNear’s had once milled some of the finest lumber and railroad ties in northern California. Smile agreeably as the Aqueduct Systems delegation tried to persuade the townspeople that their plans would not put a blight on the coastline. Turn a brave face to the people he’d betrayed not once but twice.

  They don’t even hate me. They hold me in contempt.

  He’d seen it on the faces of Miss Stephanie’s customers when he’d entered her restaurant that morning. Seen it on the face of the waitress—one of the Puska twins; he couldn’t tell which. Most of the diners had paid up and left in a hurry. He’d spoiled their breakfasts, probably their lunches and dinners, too.

  So why had he gone there?

  Timothy took a sip of Scotch, contemplated the question as he watched the horizon disappearing.

  Maybe he’d just been curious: test the waters, see what was in store for him the next afternoon. Maybe he’d been in a masochistic mood: let them have at him beforehand. Or maybe he’d wanted to see if a different sort of contempt for him still lived in Miss Stephanie’s eyes, a contempt only matched by that he felt for himself.

  Well, if the latter was his true reason, he’d gotten what he wanted—and then some more. There had been fear in Stephanie Pace’s eyes, too. Why should she fear him at this late date? He was an old man, and he’d kept his silence.

  Miss Stephanie. Former live-in nanny to his grandsons. His only son, Robert, had brought the boys to live with Timothy twenty years ago, after their mother died of breast cancer, thinking a change of scene from the Bay Area would do them good. Robert continued working at his job as a graphic designer in San Francisco during the week, commuting on the weekends. Timothy, never good with children, struggled to be a surrogate parent to the troubled children, but it quickly became apparent he needed more help than his housekeeper could provide. So Miss Stephanie came to live in the big house on the ridge. And then began the series of events that had led to Timothy’s present predicament.

  All of that done and gone, years back. It shouldn’t matter now—to her, to me, or anyone else. Why can’t I face it and put things right?

  Timothy sipped Scotch and contemplated yet another difficult question as he watched the horizon disappear.

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  In the fading light of the afternoon, Jessie sat on the lumpy bed in the little motel room, throwing herself a pity party.

  Party? Try gala!

  It was the time of day that, in winter, always depressed her. Not only that, but the room smelled strongly of disinfectant, everything felt damp, the water tap dripped, and the yellowed shades on the lamps made the furnishings look so dingy that she’d turned the lights off. Through the wall she could hear Fitch, who had been horrified to find that his cellular provider had no sites on this side of the coastal ridge, on his room’s phone to one of his seemingly endless supply of friends. Jessie had tried to call Erin Sullivan, her roommate in New York, but had gotten only their machine. The thought of her announcement of her safe arrival echoing in the pretty, empty apartment, combined with the relative squalor of her present surroundings, had nearly reduced her to tears.

  Come on, Jess, the place isn’t so bad, and besides, this is an adventure.

  Some adventure.

  She had, of course, known that Soledad County was one of the smallest and poorest in California. Bordered on the north by Humboldt County and on the south by Mendocino, it stretched eastward beyond the boundaries of the Eel River National Forest and into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Historically, lumbering and fishing had been the mainstays of its economy, but with the decline of both those industries, the handful of small towns along the coast and inland on the Highway 101 corridor had turned to tourism for their sustenance. The prevalence of low-paying service-industry jobs kept the per-capita income and standard of living low. One report prepared for Jessie and Fitch by the foundation’s research staff had made a tongue-in-cheek reference to deeply entrenched marijuana growers and manufacturers of other controlled substances as the county’s aristocrats.

  And now this town . . .

  From the airstrip near the tiny settlement of Oilville, Joseph Openshaw had driven them along a winding road through a gap in the low, pine-forested hills and turned south onto Highway 1. The two-lane pavement ran along the top of a high bluff for some three miles before a cluster of buildings appeared in the distance. Huge rock formations, white with bird droppings, rose offshore, the waves smashing against them and spewing foam into the air.

  The town itself was nothing more than a wide spot on the highway. Many of the establishments—a post office, feed-and-surplus, general store, bank, insurance agency, and real estate office—were of wood, with false fronts, like a set for a Western movie. The motel was a pair of undistinguished cinder-block ells; across the street on the ocean side stood a bar and restaurant of weatherbeaten brown shingles. Private residences of all types lined unpaved side streets or were strewn about on the slope of the hill without any seeming plan. Everything looked shabby and unkempt. Maybe in better weather the town was pretty, but, my God, what did people do here? How could they possibly stand it? It was so far from everything, and so shabby, so . . . downscale.

  As her aunt on the Puerto Rican side of her family—her father’s—was fond of reminding her, Jessie was a bit of a princess when it came to the thread count of her sheets. Meaning Mom and Dad had spoiled their youngest child with creature comforts. Jessie appreciated the material gifts bestowed upon her and knew her life had been blessed in ways that many other people’s hadn’t, but she valued far more her parents’ other contributions: a solid work ethic, the encouragement to become her own person, the attitude that if she applied herself she could do whatever she wished.

  A person who defines herself that way should not sit in the dark feeling sorry for herself. Right?

  Jessie turned on the bedside lamp and went to get her briefcase so she could set up her laptop and once again go over her files and her notes on her conversations with Bernina Tobin. There was no data port in the room, but she jerry-rigged the machine into the phone, checked her e-mail—none of any importance—and set up a makeshift office on the small table.

  As she read the files and considered what she might accomplish here, all traces of Jessie’s homesickness vanished. The shabby motel room no longer depressed her, and she found herself looking forward to this evening’s dinner meeting with members of the Friends. This was the kind of fight she’d been dreaming of for years—a chance to dig in her heels and make a difference. A chance to finally prove she could succeed at something on her own.

  And maybe this time, I just might hit a home run.

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Joseph looked down the long table that the waitress at the Blue Moon had assembled for their party, and surveyed those seated around it. Bernina. The New Yorkers. Various Friends of the Perdido. Curtis Hope.

  Curtis Hope: ecologist, member of the tribal council of the local Pomos, friend of Joseph’s youth, now semi-estranged. That was what a certain type of shared experience could do to early friendships, and between them, he and Curt had far too much baggage.

  Bernina was in her element as she recounted for their guests the saga of the fight for the Perdido. Later, when they adjourned to her house for a general meeting, she would energize everyone as she outlined both ECC’s purpose in coming to Cape Perdido and the Friends’ plans for a protest at the public forum the following afternoon. The board members who had been invited to this dinner looked pumped up already; they’d spent long months passing out information on the water grab, updating the Friends’ Web site, contacting experts who might be willing to testify at the water board hearing, gathering signatures on petitions, and helping local property owners fill out protest forms for the state water resources control boa
rd. Mostly middle-aged or older, and veterans of decades-past movements, they were tired of those mundane but necessary activities, eager for action.

  Jessie Domingo seemed to have caught their excitement and was listening attentively to Bernina. Fitch Collier, on the other hand, seemed disengaged; his gaze skipped restlessly around the room, surveying with some scorn the Blue Moon’s nautical decor. Now and then his hand reached for his jacket pocket, then abruptly stopped. The man had nearly thrown a tantrum when he realized that his cellular phone service didn’t have sites in the area, and he seemed incapable of untethering himself from the device.

  Curtis must have noted the focus of Joseph’s attention, because he raised his beer bottle in a mock toast, a cynical smile on his dark, sharp-planed face. His old friend, Joseph knew, was not impressed by the attorney’s urbanity—would not be impressed were he sitting beside him in one of New York’s finest restaurants. Curtis had concerns other than the worldly, and while Joseph could surmise some of them, of others he hadn’t a clue.

  Joseph turned his attention to his steak, glancing up now and then and half listening to the conversation around the table.

  “That river is one of the treasures of northern California,” Bernina was saying. “And it’s the lifeblood of this town, too. Without the income from the campers and kayakers and sportsmen, Cape Perdido would dry up and blow away.”