Where the Heart Lives, page 33
He’d been curious as to why Milford-Haven had only this pseudo-light … realistic enough to fool the eye, but without the powerful beam that would be visible from the sea. So, after a long morning run and a session at the gym down in Morro Bay, he’d gone home to shower, shave and dress in some pressed chinos and a chocolate blazer. Then, out of uniform for once, he’d driven to the Tavern to introduce himself.
As he’d pulled into the parking lot, he’d been unsure whether he’d find a tourist trap or a quaint coastal gem. As it turned out, he liked Michael Owen. The owner looked him straight in the eye when he talked, and seemed devoted to the culinary craft, sharing details of the special he was preparing for this evening’s menu. Owen was also apparently a successful businessman, as his restaurant had the reputation of drawing both tourists and locals.
Sipping wine at the bar that offered a view into the kitchen, Del asked about the history of the building, wondering why what appeared to be a real lighthouse was not being used as such. According to the story Michael recounted, if Aberthol Sayer—an entrepreneur from Milford Haven, Wales in the 1880s—had succeeded with his ambitious plan, the American Milford-Haven would’ve had its own lighthouse.
Sayer had moved to California in 1975, the successful owner of a small shipping firm. Taking stock of developments on the Central Coast, he couldn’t help but notice what a bustling export center the Piedras peninsula had become for the region. Convinced that Milford-Haven’s smaller point of land slightly farther south posed a treacherous landing point for fishermen, Sayer had believed that by having its own light, the area could develop a profitable fishing industry. He’d thus gone to the trouble and expense of having a defunct lighthouse on the coast of Wales dismantled and transported on one of his ships across the Atlantic, then cross-country by rail from New York to California.
Certain he’d receive the appropriate commission from the U.S. Lighthouse Board, which had been established in 1852, he’d reassembled the structure at Milford-Haven. He even had his public relations slogan ready to use: “The first lighthouse to shine on two oceans.” But because he failed to receive the requisite approval, he was never allowed to install a working Fresnel in the tower. He did install a lesser light … but nothing bright enough to “confuse navigation,” as the Board had admonished.
It turned out Sayer’s light did shine brightly enough to attract visitors from land. Some hundred-plus years later, another enterprising man named Michael Owen had purchased the property with its enticing structure and turned it into the Lighthouse Tavern.
Now, as he waited for his check after an excellent meal, Del took a final sip of coffee and pressed the napkin to his lips. He turned his gaze again toward the restaurant’s window to marvel again at the view—a sweep of coastal scenery that would have few equals … all the more spectacular at close of day, with sunset painting vivid streaks across low-hanging clouds.
After paying his bill and thanking Michael again, Del stepped outside into the March evening. The sun had sunk into the water, the sky overhead just beginning to deepen to a Prussian blue. Nice the days aren’t quite as short as they were a few weeks ago.
The signs of early spring were everywhere on the Central Coast. Rains were no longer the steady pummelings of winter, but had shifted to blustery, intermittent storms. Tiny buds dotted the deciduous trees, and just yesterday he’d seen rows of huge iceplant flowers blooming along the beach at the Cove. Now a faint trace of jasmine hung in the air like the perfume of a woman who’d passed by and disappeared. Ironic that in this season of renewal, the life of a young woman has almost certainly been cut short.
Del’s SUV rumbled to life and he made the short drive down Highway 1 to his workplace, glancing at darkening sky where he could just see storm clouds hanging offshore. He suspected they’d soon overtake the coast just as his own looming depression about the case seemed certain to swamp his mood.
He parked his truck and, before locking it, lifted out the box of borrowed tapes. After climbing the stairs to the front entrance and unlocking the double-glass doors he stepped into the darkened offices shared by the North Coast branch of the County Sheriff’s Department and the California Department of Forestry. His footsteps rang into the quiet hallways until he stepped into the conference room and fired up the television and VCR. After loading the first cassette he squinted in the flickering illumination from the video screen, doing his best to read the button designations of the VCR remote control.
He was hoping no one from Forestry had the same idea any time tonight … to use the conference room. It’d been a matter of economic necessity, placing the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s off-site offices in shared space. The new building lacked the charm of the old-California stucco municipal structures, but Del had settled in comfortably, and—thanks to his computer expertise—enjoyed being regarded as the technical hot-shot.
At the moment, he wasn’t so sure he deserved the title. He squinted again at the VCR. Certain he’d finally discerned the difference between Fast Forward and Search, he pressed something, and the blue screen sprang to life with the rapidly talking figure of a blond woman standing in a playground. Horizontal lines of static stood still as the figure raced through her story and Del struggled to find the Stop button.
Rewinding the tape, he started it again by hitting Play, deciding to be more patient with the opening designations. White letters on a field of royal blue read:
KOST-TV NEWS FILE
KOST SUNDAY NEWS MAGAZINE
REPORTER: CHRIS CHRISTIAN
ARCHIVE NUMBER: 0395749:0CC889A
SUBJECT: ADOPTION [THREE-PART SERIES]
SEGMENT ONE:
“WILL THIS LOVE LAST?:
IF I ADOPT THIS BABY WILL SHE BE MINE FOREVER?”
A second or two after the writing faded, Chris Christian appeared. Del gulped air, the sight of her animated form causing his breath to come in sudden jerks. Nice of you to show up for our date … even if you are a ghost.
Del hit the pause button. Get a grip, man. This is a case, not a personal relationship!
He hit Play again, willing himself to catalog the details of her appearance. Blond hair, tan blazer, white blouse, black slacks. Her flawless on-camera makeup seemed out of place outdoors, but her professional appearance and calm demeanor inspired confidence, and she spoke with authority.
While the camera lens pulled back to reveal a playground Chris advanced, clasping her hands, looking down, then up at the camera, all the while introducing the topic of her show. If Del remembered his broadcast terminology, this would be what they called the Teaser.
“Adoption,” said Chris in her news-voice. “It’s one of the most consuming interests among Americans today.” She stepped toward a swing and sat carefully in its leather strap. “Approximately three thousand five hundred children are adopted annually in the United States, with the trend rising more than 80 percent since 1990, the year November was named National Adoption Month. And the rules have changed.”
Del hit the Pause button again. Ghostly light reflected onto the slatted blinds. The image of the reporter—crisp, animated, and alive—disturbed him. To give himself a few seconds’ break he glanced at the pale gray walls offset by black trim and looked up at the unilluminated bulbs that stared back like glassy, unseeing eyes. He turned back to the TV, hit Play and watched the screen as the camera zoomed in on Chris’s face.
“Adoption used to be a private and irrevocable matter. If you, as a parent, gave up your child for adoption, you knew you would never see that child again. You also knew it would be better for the child not to suffer the confusion of meeting a parent he or she had never known.
“Each state has its own laws regarding adoption and, as a general rule, records were not legally sealed but were kept strictly confidential by a ‘gentlemen’s agreement’—which would now be considered an antiquated euphemism.
“While in most cases it’s still difficult to find missing parents—or a long-lost child—recently developed websites mean that frustrating searches now take weeks or months, rather than years, and the Internet is brimming with information concerning all aspects of adoption. No matter how valuable adoptive parents may have been in the life of a child, as a nation, we seem consumed with uncovering our biological connections.
“Tonight we take you on the first of a three-part journey into the mysteries and emotional turmoil of adoption. If you adopt a child, will it truly be yours forever?”
After a brief pause, and a flash of white letters reading INSERT COMMERCIAL A, the program resumed. “A child of five is taken one day from the only home she’s ever known,” said Chris’s voice-over. Del watched the screen as a wailing child held her arms out, yelling, “Mommy! Daddy!” while the adoptive parents stood paralyzed, tears streaming down their faces. On the far side of a police car, the couple—apparently birth-parents—stood waiting to reclaim the child they’d given up several years earlier.
Three more three-minute reports followed, interviews with both sets of parents, interviews with Child Service professionals, and a wrap-up by Chris. Pressing Rewind, Del sat in the darkened room, deeply affected by the raw emotion he’d just witnessed. Everyone in the story had rights; but no one seemed to have achieved a happy ending.
Del realized he was getting drawn into the story, losing track of his own goal, which was to research the reporter. Must mean she’s doing a good job, he acknowledged. Determined to keep an objective perspective, he hit Play and began the tape again from the beginning. This time it was details he was after—not details of the story, but of the journalist and her surroundings. That playground … Miller Street Elementary in Santa Maria? I can check the photo file. Makes sense—shooting the footage close to home.
As the segment played through, he looked at the background, pausing the tape intermittently to jot down notes or to see if he recognized the face of a passerby. But nothing seems remarkable. I need to take an inning stretch. He ejected the tape and held it in his hands for a moment. Who else did I see on this tape, and not recognize? Was it someone hiding in plain site who wished you harm?
Del peered out the window of the still-darkened room, watching starlight dance on the shallow coastal waters. The scene failed to make its usual impression, as his mind was filled with images from the videotapes.
His reaction to Chris Christian’s series was intellectual, true. Her intelligence and insight were impressive. The depth and honesty of her reports revealed a great deal about the emotional landscape of the nation and the increasingly complex web of society.
But he was aware that another reaction gripped him too—something visceral. He couldn’t seem to disentangle any one part of his response and all of it roiled together through his gut like an undigested mass. This reporter was doing good work before she disappeared. The realization made him more determined than ever to find her, discover her fate.
Thin though it was, he’d come up with one possible connection, and that was the name “Clarke” written more than once in her diary. He’d found it jotted on a page from several months earlier, unfortunately not in connection with anything else. No appointment was written, and the name didn’t show up in other notes she’d kept on pending articles. More recently, he’d seen it again, this time circled several times, as though she’d been on the phone doodling or had realized something and decided to pursue it.
With its less-usual spelling, the name “Clarke” had been easy to find in the Central Coast directory. Clarke Shipping was located in Morro Bay. Doesn’t mean this is the right Clarke, but it’s a place to start. I could head over there during my lunch hour. Presumably few people would be at their desks. With any luck, he’d find a receptionist or secretary who might say something to him that might not be said with bosses looking on.
What trail was Chris following, and where did it lead her? Del knew from reviewing her work schedule that she was a “roving” reporter, often out of town for several days on a story. She’d also racked up plenty of overtime and had vacation days coming. These elements—plus the facts that no family members had filed a Missing Persons report and no body had turned up—conspired to keep her case sidelined. As a member of Special Problems Unit, Del had inherited the case. He was now sufficiently intrigued that he knew he wouldn’t have had to be assigned this case; he’d have asked for it.
COLOPHON
This book is set in the Cambria font, released in 2004 by Microsoft, as a formal, solid font to be equally readable in print and on screens. It was designed by Jelle Bosma, Steve Matteson, and Robin Nicholas.
The name Cambria is the classical name for Wales, the Latin form of the Welsh name for Wales, Cymru. The etymology of Cynru is combrog, meaning “compatriot.”
The California town of Cambria is named for its resemblance to the south-western coast of Wales, where the town of Milford Haven has existed since before ancient Roman times, and is mentioned in William Shakespeare’s Cymbeline.
The dingbat is the Placuna shell, drawn by artist Mary Helsaple, and rendered graphically by cover designer Kevin Meyer. The placuna is a marine bivalve with a large, thin flat translucent shell, often found in Philippine, Malaysian and Indian coastal waters.
The placuna is also known as the windowpane oyster, and was chosen as the icon for this book because of its resemblance to a lens or magnifier.
LIGHTHOUSE
Each of the Milford-Haven Novels features a real lighthouse. The Point Vicente lighthouse is a Southern California jewel, both for its visual beauty and as a life-saving aid to navigation through a treacherous stretch of coastline.
Located in Los Angeles, at the end of the Palos Verdes peninsula, the point of land was named in 1790 by explorer Captain George Vancouver in honor of Friar Vicente of the Mission Buenaventura. Following several maritime disasters, the U.S. Lighthouse Service commissioned the Point Vicente lighthouse in 1926.
The 67-foot high tower is perched on a cliff, resulting in a light source that, from its185 feet above sea level, can be seen 20 miles at sea. This is the brightest beacon in Southern California, with a 1000-watt bulb focused through a 5-foot Fresnel. The lens itself, crafted in Paris in 1886, shone for forty years in Alaska before being moved.
The lighthouse was manned by civilian lighthouse keepers until 1939, when the U.S. Coast Guard took over its maintenance and operation, automating it in 1973. In 1979 the lighthouse was added to the National Registry of Historic Sites. Its electronic sensors and automated controls still assist mariners today.
The Coast Guard Auxiliary now performs search and rescue duties, teaches boating safety classes, flies aircraft patrols and maintains a radio communications network.
Point Vicente is open to the public the second Saturday of each month and is well worth a visit. Junior Coast Guard trainees act as guides who will gladly escort you up to the very top of the lighthouse where both the operating Fresnel and a spectacular view of the coast are visible. To find out more of its rich history or to plan your trip, go to www.PalosVerdes.com/PVLight.
While the geographical and technical elements of this lighthouse are accurate in my series, since this novel is set in 1996, many new programs exist now that did not exist then.
Secret of the Shells
Special Messages about a Woman and Her Self,
and about Discovering the Next Chapter … of Her Life
Shell 2: Where Your Heart Lives
Do you have a deep sense of belonging where you live? Or do you often picture yourself living somewhere else? In choosing your present location, did you mostly consult a logical list (proximity to work; access to services; no stairs)? Or did you also consider how the location makes you feel?
What would you do if your intuition told you to move? Would you dismiss this as “illogical”? Would you try asking yourself why you’d begun to have these feelings?
There are many expressions that describe a journey using the word “heart.” Examples are the path with heart, follow your heart, and the way of the heart. What do you think these mean? Where might they lead you?
Imagine your life as a map drawn only with logic and intelligent planning. Draw this map with a starting point and important goals as specific destinations, using the most direct routes and the fewest detours. Make this map as well-engineered as you can.
Now imagine your life as a map drawn only with feelings and desires. Draw this map (or paint it, or collage it) with its starting point at the center of the page, and with icons that represent major desires appearing in your imaginary landscape as hills and lakes, mountains and valleys, boulders and gardens. Make this map as beautiful as you can.
Create a third map that includes elements from both your head map and your heart map. Include icons that represent past, present, and future events; people; desires and goals. Post this “Life Map” in a place where you can see regularly it. Re-map sections as you get new inspiration. Where are you on your map?
To discover more about the Secrets of the Shells
visit www.MaraPurl.com.
To join the author’s blog
visit www.MaraPurl.WordPress.com.
Visit Mara’s “Map Your Life” board on www.Pinterest.com.
To reach the author, by e-mail: MaraPurl@MaraPurl.com.
by mail: Mara Purl c/o Milford-Haven Enterprises
PO Box 7304-629
North Hollywood, CA 91603
Where the Heart Lives
Reading Group Topics for Discussion
1. Characters in this novel drive throughout southern California using every kind of road, from eight-lane freeways in Los Angeles, to the meanderings of coastal Highway 1, to Main Street in Milford-Haven. Is home for you a major city or a small town? Do you return home from road trips with a different perspective?
2. How does Samantha use her journal-writing? To a) gain perspective; b) track her research notes; c) allow her deeper thoughts to surface? How might you find your own journal writing useful?
