Where the Heart Lives, page 4
She yawned and her eyes began to water. So tired. Maybe I’ll just lean back against the pillows … rest my eyes. She slid the maps carefully to the floor and grasped the edge of her quilt, pulling it up over her shoulders.
I wanted to go for a bike ride this morning. But not in this weather. After this storm, it’ll be days before the mud subsides enough for the trail to be passable. It was as she pictured herself clicking on her helmet that Miranda sank into sleep.
As the dream began, Miranda steered her mountain bike to the side of the dirt trail and put one foot on the ground to steady herself in the wind. She wiped sweat from her brow, took a long pull of water from her bike bottle and looked up to see how much farther she’d have to climb.
She stepped back into the pedals and kept her derailer in its lowest gear to negotiate the rest of the hill. About a hundred more strokes’ll bring me to the brink. Standing in the pedals, she pulled at the handlebars and lunged for the top, allowing herself an anticipatory smile. But when she crested the hill and looked down, she was startled to find the town she expected to see nestled below her was, in fact, still only a dot on the horizon.
How can that be? I know this coastal trail so well.
She paused and faced west, trying to orient herself. To her right, the edge of California snaked its way north against a dull winter ocean. To her left, the southbound trail curved back into coastal pines and darkening woods.
This should be the turn. Why can’t I see the homes in Milford-Haven?
Confused, she argued that if she just kept going, she’d recognize her location. Yet, in the back of her mind, a nasty suspicion murmured. You’re lost. So lost, you’ll be stuck out here on the trail for days. First you’ll run out of water. Then you’ll run out of steam. You’ll never get home. It’s much farther than you think.
Ignoring the voice, she rode on and came to a clearing. She could still hear the waves lapping below, but now she also heard a wind sighing high overhead through the hundred-foot pines.
This clearing … I’m here again. But how did I actually get here? She knew why the place looked familiar. She’d first seen it in her mind as a young teen. Mrs. Flood’s assignment in seventh grade: design your dream house. My favorite assignment—ever. Under her drawing Miranda’d written the words: “where mountains meet ocean, where art meets science, where heart meets heart.” Later she’d added sketches to her teen diary: a mountain at the edge of a sea; two overlapping hearts; a constellation reflected in a well.
One of the drawings appeared in front of her and, as she watched, the original black-and-white began to morph into a colorful image. I recognize this. It’s my first miniature, the one of Milford-Haven that became the first postcard.
But here, lost in the woods, she tried to make sense of the three phrases. “Where mountains meet ocean.” Okay, I’m riding a mountain trail next to the ocean. “Where art meets science.” That makes sense. My work is my art. My art is a science. But “where heart meets heart” doesn’t track because I’m still alone here. Maybe if I could get a higher perspective.
Suddenly Miranda felt her body lighten and the ground begin to fall away. Higher and higher she rose, watching breathlessly as the coastal region below her resolved itself into … my map! My mind couldn’t locate it, but my heart knew the spot instinctively, intuitively. This is just what I needed … a bird’s eye view so I can find my way home. I feel like I’m an eagle, able to see everything in such detail!
She spread her arms, thrilling at the sudden ability to embrace the horizon and hover in the sky. But then, just as suddenly, a horrible realization began to dawn. I may feel like I’m flying … but I’m no eagle … I can’t really fly! She flapped her arms in a futile gesture, panic beginning to engulf her. How will I get down safely?
Something tugged at her shoulders and she lifted her hands, touching straps. I’m … in a harness. … She looked straight up, where a silken cloud seemed to billow. I have a parachute!
She watched as, over her head, white fabric filled with air until it formed a perfect dome. Now, she looked down. Sunlight threw a circular shadow on the ground, its darker perimeter outlining Milford-Haven as the circle’s center began to glow. Like it’s showing my safe landing zone.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the ground drew closer, until she began to drift off course. It’s okay … I can use my toggles. Use your head! Reflexively, she pulled on the right toggle, but it took her further off-course. No … I want to use my intuition!
Now she yanked on the left toggle, but it was too late, the ground approaching too fast as she veered helplessly away from the drop zone.
When she landed, she took a moment to breathe. The parachute has disappeared … and here’s my bike. She looked down the long slope ahead and blinked in disbelief, for there, stretched out below, she saw the unmistakable angles of her family home: the gabled roofs, the high surrounding walls, the long curving private drive.
This doesn’t make sense. The whole time I was biking, was I pedaling in the wrong direction? She reached into her rear pocket for her compass, but somewhere along the way, it must’ve fallen out.
It’s not fair. All that work! And I haven’t gotten anywhere! How could all she desired seem so much farther away than ever before? How could she be so much closer to what she’d already outrun? She nearly succumbed to a sinking feeling of dread as she watched the gates to her parents’ home open like the mouth of a dragon. “No!” she declared, and the tableau froze to a still photograph.
I did create a new home for myself, she insisted. I found a new sense of self, forged a new sense of faith. All that cannot have disappeared!
Grabbing the handlebars, she mounted her bike, but her legs seemed heavy as lead, her neck welded to her body. Using every molecule of strength she could summon, she forced herself to turn away from the house, but the trail seemed to have disappeared. Where is the path? There must be a greater Spirit. If so, I need your help!
Then, in a dull thicket, a dim vestige of the path appeared. Without hesitation, she plunged into the overgrown trail. Head down, eyes nearly closed against scraping branches, she pedaled, pushing till her thigh muscles burned and tears streamed down her cheeks. It might have been moments or it might have been days, but she pressed on till the trail opened and she made her way back to the high, windswept clearing. Trees towered on nearby mountains and the ocean undulated far below.
Where mountains meet ocean. She’d seen it before—yes, in another dream. A place to paint, a place to chart with her mind and map with her heart. She had work to do! For this place must never again be lost.
And then she knew she wouldn’t be here alone. She’d met him here before, could remember his touch, as though born recognizing it.
She knew his voice, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his hands where they held and stroked. She remembered the weight of him pressing on and into her, heart beating to heart till the rhythms overlapped. Where heart meets heart.
But where was he now? He didn’t come to meet her this time. There was no reunion, only the memory. Or was it a foreshadowing? Am I supposed to wait for him to find me? Or maybe he’ll call me to meet him another time.
And how would she find this place again? She could sketch these trees, the lay of the land … pencil in boulders, distinctive branches, broken stumps. But she’d have to do more—draw a detailed map to scale, using tools for measurements and a magnifying glass. Where art meets science.
In the distance, a bell began to ring. No, not a bell. A phone? Maybe that’s him calling me now.
Miranda reached from under the quilt to grasp the handset. Placing it to her ear, she said nothing, waiting to hear his voice.
“Hello?”
Something’s wrong. That’s not a man’s voice.
“Miranda? Are you there?”
Miranda’s eyes flew open. What? Where … in my studio! And I’m holding my phone! “Uh … hello?”
“Well, there you are. Good heavens, I thought something was wrong when the machine didn’t pick up. But I’m glad you’re hard at work already. I just wanted to tell you I have a brilliant idea, and it just couldn’t wait.”
The voice of Zelda, her artist-rep, had plummeted into the depths of Miranda’s dream, yanking her back to the surface. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she blinked and sat up on her daybed. Nothing like a call from Zelda to bring me back to reality. Sunlight’s still pale, so it can’t be later than seven.
“Miranda? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Wish I had a glass of water.
“That miniature you told me you’re doing—the map—well, at first I thought you’d missed a golden opportunity, given the holidays are almost upon us.”
“I figured you’d think—”
“Yes, yes,” Zelda pressed on. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. It came to me, you see, if you really care about this little town of yours as much as you say you do, this could be quite the golden opportunity.”
“Sorry, Zelda, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Putting Milford-Haven On the Map!”
Miranda considered for a moment. “You’re right. That’d make a nice title for the piece.”
“No, no, it could be much more than just the title. This postcard can be their marketing piece for the new year!”
“I’m not sure who you mean. Isn’t this postcard going to be sent out like the first one to market my paintings?”
“You’re not grasping what I’m saying, Miranda dear.”
When she calls me “dear” she’s just about out of patience. “No, I’m not.”
“So.” She spoke more slowly now, as though enunciating would elucidate her meaning to her dim-witted client. “You’re going to the trouble of creating a map of Milford-Haven so people can actually find the town, am I right?”
“Well, I suppose—”
“That’s it, you see. This could be of tremendous benefit to the town itself, the town fathers, or the Chamber of Commerce, or the Town Council, whatever governing body exists in such a small place. It could be their new campaign: ‘Putting Milford-Haven On the Map’!”
“Oh.”
“Yes! Think of the synergy!”
“Uh-huh.”
“In fact, I could take this to the Town Council, if you like. I imagine they’ll be so impressed they’ll swoon.”
Miranda couldn’t imagine Lorraine, the octogenarian head of the Town Council, swooning over anything—not even a boa constrictor in her bathtub.
“Marketing and PR gurus plot for a year to come up with something this cleverly multipurposed! I just had to let you know. Now get back to work! Ta-ta.”
Still speechless, Miranda sat there holding the silenced phone for a moment longer, then replaced it in its cradle. Is she always that high-energy? Probably. But I’m usually awake for the onslaught.
Her gaze fell to the maps on the floor. Did I just dream about them? She darted a glance out the window, as though that’s where she could find a dream-fragment, but it eluded her, as dreams usually did.
Just then the sound of a tiny “Pew” reached her, and she looked toward the studio door in time to see her kitten step around its edge, the black fur giving her the appearance of a small shadow in the lightening room.
Last fall, when Miranda’d nearly finished the fourth of her oversized sumi-e paintings, she added a final flourish near its bottom edge, not quite sure why she had. At the time, she’d thought it resembled a small cat.
Now, she watched the tiny feline staring up at her. She really does look like that little brush stroke. Talk about foreshadowing. Laughing at the serendipity of the joke, Miranda stood, then bent over to scoop her pet up to her shoulder, where baby-claws sank into her fleece jacket.
“Hungry?” Miranda asked.
“Pew!”
“Okay, let’s go get breakfast.”
Moments later, the kitty was contentedly munching kibble, oatmeal was heating, and the kettle was on for tea. Miranda glanced past the kitchen toward the sliding doors that faced the ocean. The new miniature will have the same tonalities as the first one … a theme for the series. Cobalt teal for the water, chromium oxide green for the topographic hills. She was beginning to paint the new postcard in her head.
Chapter 2
Sally O’Mally pulled shut the door to Burn-It-Off, checking to make sure it locked. The work-out facility she rented—just one mirrored room with step-platforms and floor mats—spent most hours empty. This mornin’ it was jus’ the three of us: I, myself, and me. Sally chuckled. But bizness is startin’ to pick up. If I could jus’ get someone else to teach classes again, I bet it’d do jus’ fine.
Between offering step-aerobics two days a week, and running her restaurant six days, she kept a busy schedule. Busy as a farmer with one hoe an’ two rattlesnakes, like Mama’d say. Sally felt a wistful smile reach her lips. Actually, she’d prob’ly say I’m about as busy as a farmer’s wife … jus’ like I would a been if I’d a stayed in Arkansas like she did.
She shook her head and ran fingers through her curly blond hair—still damp from the quick shower she’d taken in the Ladies’ Locker Room she shared with other tenants. She’d traded her leotards and the leg-warmers Mama’d knitted for her, and now wore her serving clothes and sensible shoes—ready for another day of standing, taking orders, chatting with customers and sharing some of the gossip and kitchen duties with her staff.
As she stepped into the parking lot, she looked up at the eastern sky, where a faint gleam was just edging over the rim of coastal mountains. Love this time of day … got the world all to myself. She unlocked her bright yellow Chevette and slid into the driver’s seat. It’ll jus’ take me five minutes to drive to the rest’r’nt, and then I can put up the first pot of coffee.
But as she walked in through the back door of her diner, the fragrance of fresh brew already filled the air.
“June?” she called.
“Mornin’, Sal!” June called back.
Her faithful friend and waitress June Magliati still sounded like she’d just arrived from Brooklyn, though she’d lived in California for half of her forty-odd years.
What’d I ever do without her? “Mornin’!” Sally answered, checking things over as she slipped past the gleaming stainless steel counters and the rows of shiny pans hanging from their overhead rack.
Since June’s got the coffee goin’, I have a couple minutes before I have to get the biscuits started. But I feel like there’s somethin’ else I need to check on. Just can’t think what it is. Oh, well, it’ll come to me.
Stepping past the counter, she patted the life-size Santa doll that occupied the last stool, fastened there by his belt. Wonder if Mr. Hargraves will worry ’bout Santa the way he did about “Mr. Hay” who sat there in the fall. She smiled at the thought of the elderly gentleman who owned the hardware store next door, a regular customer and a colorful local who loved teasing her about the seasonal “characters” who sat next to him at her counter.
She flipped the switch that illuminated the row of blinking holiday lights outlining the front door, then glanced over next to the door, where her always-full bulletin board now held a large, colorful poster. Doobie Brothers, it said in bright orange letters across the top. Under that, a photo of the several band members showed hunky guys wearing tight jeans and I-Dare-You expressions. They’ll be playin’ at the Central Coast Bowl next week. Betcha they’ll get a big crowd!
Turning her head toward the large wall that currently held her chalkboard—filled with multi-colored letters listing her menu items—she tried to picture what it would look like when Miranda’d painted the mural.
When I asked her to do it, I told her I wanted it like a window. Maybe a view of the ocean. Or maybe a picture of the farm … somethin’ that’d make it feel more like home. Wistful for a moment, Sally shook her head as if to wake herself from the reverie. Here I am day dreamin’ in the daylight. Time to get to work!
Samantha Hugo slipped into a steaming tub, letting the hot water sizzle along her skin as she slid down on the Epsom salts that were rapidly melting under her. Submerging herself in the heat had been the only antidote she could think of to the chill of the storm outside—and the turbulence of the one roiling through her mind.
Taking a morning off from her work as head of the Environmental Planning Commission was a rare occurrence—even when she didn’t feel well. But, thanks to the Mental Health Parity Act—signed into law only this past September—she wouldn’t even have to list this as a “sick” day.
Not sick. Just swamped. Buried. Underwater. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. This morning had found her clear about only one thing: that she needed some time to herself.
Pressing her eyes shut, she inhaled, then let out a long breath, willing the tension to seep out of her limbs. Though she loved her job, running the EPC single-handedly was, in actuality, impossible. Her budget did allow her to hire an assistant, but dealing with young Susan Winslow was proving to be nearly as difficult as managing the work without her.
As if all that weren’t enough, the holidays were almost here, a time Sam always found oppressively stressful. The pageantry and magic of Christmas always spoke to her, yet left her wanting. Though she enjoyed finding special gifts for others, she really had no one with whom to share the holiday, and through the years had developed what could only be described as a love-hate relationship with Christmas. It’s really a time for children. But there are no children in my life, thanks to my own inability to care for the one child I bore.
Not to mention my nemesis! Jack Sawyer … the ex-husband who just won’t go away. At this point, they were professional adversaries, which didn’t used to bother her particularly. But now, she found herself constantly irritated by his very presence. Is it because he’s an environmental scofflaw, and I can’t catch him at his bad behavior? Or is it our personal history that’s bugging me more than ever?
