Derrolyn Anderson - [Marinas Tales #1] - Between The Land And The Sea (3 page)

I began to unpack, feeling more at ease as I settled in. I put my laptop on the desk and plugged it in. Unpacking a box of books and magazines, I made a stack I could reach from my bed. I assembled a portable easel and arranged it in the corner with my art supplies under it, satisfied it would be a good spot to work. Drawing, painting and reading have always been my main pastimes, and being both solitary and portable, they perfectly suit my independent nature and traveler’s lifestyle.

I used my suitcases as drawers, and since Evie had insisted that I take her vintage Louis Vuitton set and they actually looked quite handsome arranged under the metal rack. I stashed my sandals, flats and multiple pairs of boots and pumps under the bed. My shoes alone took up half the room. I hung up all the dresses and jackets I could fit on the rack and left the rest folded in the cases. Charlie the cat yawned and reached out a lazy paw to bat at a stack of purses.

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Um, it’s like, dinnertime Marina.” Cruz’s voice was much deeper than I remembered.

“I’ll be right out,” I called, and hastily threw a cardigan on over the summery tank I had slipped on in the morning. San Francisco seemed like a million miles away.

“I hope you’re okay with vegetarian,” Abby smiled as she pulled out a chair. Even with the fog outside, the yellow kitchen was bright and cheery. The tidy blue tile counter hosted several baskets filled with fresh fruit and summer squash. There was a colorful bouquet of flowers on the table.

“Mom’s gone all vegan on me,” complained Cruz with a roll of his warm brown eyes. “We even had to have tofu turkey last Thanksgiving.”

“It’s not all that bad!” Abby protested. She turned towards me, “Vegan food is good for your health, and Cruz likes the soy milk...”

“Mom, I practically live on cereal,” Cruz groaned sarcastically.

“Well,” I said as I took my seat at the table, “last Thanksgiving we were in southern India and we didn’t eat a bite of meat for five whole months. I didn’t miss it at all.” Abby smiled with satisfaction and began to fill our plates with slices of pale fried tofu and bland brown rice with lentils mixed in. It didn’t look at all like the highly seasoned and fragrant dishes that our housekeeper in Kerala had prepared for us. I looked up and into Cruz’s now triumphant eyes. He smirked at me.

“Dig in guys,” chirped Abby.

I began to see what Cruz was complaining about as I picked at the tasteless mush. I had nothing against tofu– far from it. Dad and I subsisted almost entirely on take-out in the city and ate foods from all over the world. I thought about the pillows of silky tofu in Japanese miso soup, and the spicy fried tofu from our favorite Chinese place. Abby’s tofu was the kind of tofu that gave tofu a bad name. She passed me a bowl filled with beautiful fresh greens and I heaped my plate with them.

Abby beamed approvingly, “I see you’re a salad eater. You’re gonna love the weekly farmers market. I’ll take you this Sunday.” She lit up as she described how small farmers from the area set up stands with all kinds of organic foods and produce. I began to have some hope that I might not starve.

After we ate, Cruz and I cleared the table and Abby started to wash the dishes.

“Let me do that,” I said, remembering my dad’s admonishments to help around the house.

“Not tonight honey,” said Abby, “Cruz is going to take you for a walk and show you what’s new in town.”

Cruz and I ventured out onto the foggy street. It was a mid-August evening and still light out, but the fog made it seem darker and later than it was.

“Can we go to the secret stairs?” I asked, suddenly remembering. When we were children the stairs leading down to the beach had seemed like a magical spot. Every weekend tourists drove in, parked in a lot up on the bluff and had to schlep their coolers and umbrellas down a cement path to the beach. From our little neighborhood there was an older, better way down.

As we walked Cruz told me all about the high school and how miserable he was there. He described the cliques of surfers and stoners, rich kids and football players. Sensitive and artistic, Cruz felt like a misfit. I could relate. He told me about his best friend Megan, and how they liked to hang out at the local coffee shop and surf the internet for new music.

I confessed that I was nervous about going to high school, and Cruz assured me that he’d be there to hang out with and show me around campus. I told Cruz that I’d never attended a “real” school and didn’t think now was a good time to start. He commiserated with me when I complained that I’d never really meshed with kids my own age.

He frowned, “Nobody I know really gets me,” he said grimly.

“Well, I don’t even know anybody... so there,” I said, making him laugh.

As we talked I learned more about Cruz. Like me, he spent much of his time drawing. He told me he designed clothes, and liked to sew. He was overjoyed that I could discuss the nuances of fashion with him in detail.

“I didn’t know you were into clothes!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t know you were either,” I said.

We had an easy camaraderie, discovering that we truly had a lot in common. I found our similar artistic and independent natures comforting, evidence of a connection I didn’t realize I was missing. Both of us had been brought up in a family of two, for we’d each lost a parent when we were just infants– a big part of ourselves that we had no memory of. Cruz’s father was killed in an auto accident before he was born, and my mother died just after delivering me.

Her name was Adria, and that’s about all I knew about her. She was gone, her ashes scattered at sea, all traces of her erased from existence. I didn’t have so much as a picture, and when I pressed my father he finally admitted that we looked very much alike. He never spoke of her, and whenever questioned he dodged the subject, bribing me with a treat or a trip somewhere special. He became melancholy if I pressed the point, and the pain evident on his face and in his voice made me uneasy. It’s always been a little scary for me to see my father unhappy, so I simply gave up asking.

Whenever I started to dwell on thoughts of my mother I swear I could hear Evie’s eternally upbeat voice in my mind, urging me to put the past away and focus on the future with all of its unlimited possibilities. She’d say, “Yesterday is history, but tomorrow is a mystery!” her blue eyes flashing with spirit. I missed her already.

“I noticed you have a ton of cool clothes,” Cruz said, bringing me back to reality.

“My Aunt Evie is a fashionista,” I explained, “She likes to shop for me.”

“You’re so lucky!” he moaned, “I wish I lived in the city.” Cruz told me that he hoped to be a fashion designer someday. He was working part time at a local silkscreen shop printing souvenir shirts, saving his money, dreaming of attending design school in San Francisco. We chatted about our favorite labels and I told him what shopping with Evie was like.

“She has a sixth sense about when new inventory arrives,” I smiled, imagining her pouncing on the hottest new designer. “Sometimes she’ll call ahead and have a personal shopper pull racks from the latest shipments in our sizes.”

“Wow,” he said solemnly, “Must be nice.”

“It’s much nicer in the private dressing rooms,” I laughed, “Otherwise the salespeople all descend upon us like a swarm of locusts.”

“I like the way you talk,” Cruz sighed, “like you’re older, and not from around here. I can’t wait to get out of this town. There’s nothing to do around here but surf,” he complained.

I walked right past the entry to the stairway.

“Marina!” Cruz was standing next to a huge climbing rose with his arms crossed.

He held back the overgrown vines while I ducked under the arbor. There was a narrow uneven brick path that wound through dense foliage, shaded with pine trees and slippery with fallen needles. We descended a flight of steep wooden stairs that led to a small landing with a bench. From this perch in the trees we could look down to the beach. We picked our way down the remaining stairs, clinging to the rickety handrail until we made it onto the sand.

To our right was a vast expanse of shoreline that ended in a rocky point jutting out into the sea. On our left was the famous cement ship, an old war relic that had been scuttled; pressed into service as a spot to enjoy the panoramic bay views. The ship was an oddity, made out of concrete during a wartime steel shortage almost a hundred years ago.

The wooden pier that led out to the ship was peppered with people fishing the incoming tide, and the air was filled with the brackish smell of saltwater and seaweed. To the left of the pier was more beach, and Cruz pointed out the prime surfing territory that was usually crowded with local surfers. We walked along the path that led up the hill into town.

Most of the businesses in Aptos existed to cater to the weekend and summer tourist trade.

There were little gift shops and restaurants lining the street, and almost every storefront had souvenir tee shirts hanging in the windows. We stopped to look in a few places, Cruz pointing out the restaurants he liked and describing the food.

“Eat out a lot?” I teased him.

“Every chance I get,” he answered, tongue in cheek.

We ambled on, and he talked some more about his job as we rounded a corner. On the sidewalk ahead of us a group of teens were hanging out in a cloud of clove scented cigarette smoke. They had staked out a pair of benches, and were lounging insolently, blocking the walkway with an air of defiance.

“Let’s get moving,” Cruz muttered under his breath, his body tense, “Just don’t look at them.”

They had taken notice of us and were openly staring and talking excitedly as we neared. I heard the muttered words “Rolls Royce” and knew that at least one of the surfer girls I’d seen today was in their number. I looked up directly into faces both curious and guarded. The boys were posing with their chests thrust out, trying to seem tough. The girls looked openly hostile. I followed Cruz’s lead and started to walk faster, giving the group a wide berth.

“Hey Cruzie boy,” a girl’s voice called called out as we passed by, “Who’s the new hag?” I spun around, uncharacteristically confrontational. Startled, most of them looked away or down. One tall blonde met my gaze with hard eyes and a defiant jut of her chin.

“Let’s just
go
Marina,” pleaded Cruz.

I held my tongue and turned away. We continued down the street in silence until we were on our own little lane.

“Sorry about that,” Cruz sighed. “Those guys are total jerks.”

“Were those the stoners or the surfers?” I asked.

“Those were the stoned surfers,” Cruz replied. We burst into laughter and joked about them the rest of the way home.

I fell into bed that night, drained from the events of the day. I could hear the surf pounding away on the beach like a distant war being waged between the land and the sea, and I had the strangest feeling that my life would never be the same. My father and I were no longer a pair of intrepid adventurers, charging out to save the world side by side. Destiny was taking us on separate paths, and it felt frightening and liberating at the same time.

I opened my eyes and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. I had the sensation of floating in a warm sea, buoyant and weightless. A scratching sound brought me fully awake and I looked up to see Charlie sitting by the door, staring at me with golden eyes.

“You want out buddy?” I swung my feet onto the cool bare floor. Charlie had demanded to be let in late last night and refused to leave my room; I finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, listening to his rumbling purr drown out the sound of the surf. I cracked the door open and smiled, watching the orange fur-ball slither out.

I felt rested, and was eager to explore my new neighborhood. A little shiver of happiness ran down my spine for no particular reason. I quickly dressed for the cool gray day I saw dawning outside and made for the kitchen. A note left on the table explained that Abby had left early to drive Cruz to work and run a few errands. There was a set of house keys for me and instructions to make myself at home. I opened the pantry doors and found a shelf stocked full of assorted breakfast cereals. I chuckled to myself when I remembered poor Cruz and his dietary woes.

The kitchen opened up to a small living room with a picture window facing out on a riot of flowers in the front garden. There was a comfortable looking denim couch and a small television set perched on a stack of old leather suitcases. A couple of rolled up yoga mats were leaning in the corner, along with several brightly colored bean bag chairs. A rag rug scattered with cat toys softened the hardwood floor. One whole wall was devoted to a brick and board bookshelf, sagging with the weight of hundreds of books. The room had the kind of homey, lived-in feeling that my San Francisco apartment lacked.

I took my new keys, packed a tote bag with some art supplies and set out for a walk on the beach. This time I found the stairway easily and made my way down quickly. As I descended, I scanned the empty stretch of sand.

“Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh no...”

I looked around for the source of the distressed voice. A very small, extremely old woman seemed to be having a panic attack at the bottom of the stairs. She was pacing back and forth at the base of the bluff, looking up into some large clumps of pampas grass that clung precariously to the cliff-side.

“Are you alright?” I asked her as I neared the sand, “Can I help?” She looked up at me with panicked eyes, “I can’t find my Freddy...”

“Freddy?” I asked, thinking she must have lost a dog, “What does he look like?”

“Oh dear...” she drifted off. She was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes that looked like they might have been selected randomly in the dark. Yellow rubber rain boots were topped off with what looked like a square-dancing skirt and a thick knobby sweater. She wore an odd crocheted hat that had panels of what looked like aluminum cans knitted into it. I would have taken her for a homeless person if she were anywhere near a shopping cart.

A little tabby cat poked his head out from under the landing midway up the stairs.