What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (30 page)

They’d parted reluctantly at her door, very late, and not a little frustrated.
At least, that’s how it was for me. But maybe it’s just as well. If I’d tried to push things at this stage, she’d have put the brakes on
. He had to admit he also felt a tinge of relief things hadn’t gone any further—at least for now. Miranda didn’t seem the kind of person to indulge in casual sex.
And I’m not sure I’m
ready for another entanglement
. Still, something about her had touched him. And he knew that if their personal relationship—assuming they actually had one—was to progress, the next move would have to be his.
I’ll call her soon
.

With regard to their professional agreement, they’d left it that after he’d handled the contract with her rep, Zelda, Miranda would keep him apprised of progress on his commissioned painting.

He’d already packed and checked out of the Belhaven. Now, carrying his black Tumi bag, he walked along the path beside the planted flower boxes, passed steam rising from the outdoor hot tub, and headed for his car. After stowing his bag in the trunk, he slammed it shut and took his seat behind the wheel.

Late-morning sunlight made it tempting to stop again at the Cove.
Miranda called this lemon-colored light… I never noticed it before
. He pulled out of the Belhaven’s parking lot onto Touchstone Beach Road, his mind already shifting from vacation back to work.

It’d all start this very afternoon at the business lunch in Morro Bay with Clarke Shipping VP, Will Marks.
Haven’t seen him in at least a year. Mary left me a message that we’re meeting at Dorn’s. Perfect—great seafood, and a view of the bay
. Though they’d be discussing business, still the lunch would make for a gentle transition back to the “real” world.

But the almost-fantasy world he’d touched in Milford-Haven—something that’d appeared out of the mist like Brigadoon—still lingered and he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
Not quite yet
.

Crossing the highway at the light, he nosed the car up the steep incline.
One more drive by Miranda’s, just for fun
, he told
himself. The tall pines grew up here, on these narrow uplifts, each hill having its own name. According to Miranda, her was Temescal Hill—he wondered what the derivation might be. Pine needles edged the road, making its borders less distinct. Redwood and stucco homes sat tucked safely behind low fences. Hand-crafted signs bore numbers and names. Pumpkins crouched by front doors. Pots held cornstalks and sunflowers.

The road wound down, around, past a pole house jutting out into thin air, suspended over the hill’s sharp decline.
An ingenious feat of engineering. Or else a foolhardy enterprise doomed to catastrophe
. Such was the California propensity to build anything, anywhere. In keeping with this trend, in Milford-Haven a sense of individuality emanated from each unique structure.

He followed the road up a still-steeper incline and rounded to the right. It leveled here, bordering a ledge where two or three houses were perched in an uneven row.
Here it is: 29 Pine Ridge
. He could stop. He could ring the bell, surprise her. Interrupt her work. Say hello. Say good-bye. The car slowed.
No. We said our good-byes
.

The car edged over the hill, beginning its descent. He remembered the sweetness of her fatigue-softened face. He gathered speed winding through the turns. He remembered the scent of her skin. The Mercedes pulled out onto Highway 1. He remembered their kiss at her front door.

Five minutes later, the road stretched away from Milford-Haven like a long strand of her hair, and Zack pressed the accelerator. He remembered everything about Miranda Jones.

Cynthia Radcliffe had spent another boring day fulfilling her Charity League duties. This month involved tutoring a derelict high school student who couldn’t care less about her studies. Cynthia was hardly qualified for such a task.
This isn’t what I had in mind when I offered my services as a volunteer
.

But, by religiously reading the society pages, she’d noticed that every woman who was
anyone
in this town had some sort of connection with the Charity League. So, she’d put on her most conservative suit and marched into their offices—far more humble offices than what she’d expected.

The women were all so earnest, so committed to good works. She wanted to know when the big fund-raisers with plenty of high-rollers and photo opportunities were going to start. Meanwhile, she was determined to do her best putting in her time. She wasn’t much good at listening, and
Jane Eyre
struck her as the dullest piece of literature she’d ever encountered. But she’d heard the girl read the boring tale for a full hour.

Now I’m finally home! Just as well I had something to distract me. Zackery’s been gone for days. But he was supposed to come home some time today, and I feel … anxious… or maybe just eager. Yes, that’s it. I can hardly wait to start out weekend. In a few minutes maybe I’ll call Calma
.

Though he hadn’t called her back all week—and she didn’t know what to make of that—she chose to overlook the omission as unimportant and to marshal her resources for a full frontal “attack” when he got home.

Chuckling in anticipation, Cynthia tossed her purse onto the bed and impatiently unbuttoned her jacket.
This high neck has been driving me crazy. And this skirt! Far too long and shapeless
.

She dropped the skirt on her bedroom floor and stepped out of it and kicked off her Jimmy Choo pumps.
Ah, that’s better. What I need is lovely bubblebath
. Still wearing her underthings, she moved into the bathroom to start a tub of hot suds. Leaving it to fill, she came back into her bedroom and touched the blinking button of her answering machine.

“Cynthia, this is Zelda McIntyre. I believe I’ve located the perfect painting for you. Give me a call. Ta-ta.”

Excited, Cynthia grabbed the handset, dashed to the bathroom to turn off the tap, and dialed the return-call function.

“Zelda McIntyre.” The voice that answered was authoritative, crisp.

“Zelda, this is Cynthia Radcliffe. Thank you so much for going to all this trouble about the painting for Zackery!”

“Yes. Well, I work with several galleries up and down the coast, and I happen to have learned that Mr. Calvin expressed an interest in this particular one.”

“Really? And it’s a painting of what?”

“It’s a lovely seascape. I could send you a photograph of the painting, if you’d like.”

“Oh, wonderful, please do.”

“The painting is under contract at one of those galleries through the end of the year, but I’ve negotiated to have it released early, so you can receive in time for your event. I’ve put a hold on it, pending receipt of your check.”

“No problem.”

“I did the best I could for you, Cynthia, given the occasion. But I’m afraid the artist does have her bottom line.”

“Well, this is such a special…. The uh, the artist is a
woman?”
I hadn’t counted on that—bringing another woman’s energy into the mix
.

“Yes! What better way to match your own sensitivity?”

“Oh! That’s a lovely thought. So. How much is the painting?”

“I was already promised $3,000 by a gallery.”

Cynthia’s heart thudded in her chest.

Zelda continued, “But I’ve reduced it to $1,500. I’d say that’s a steal.”

Cynthia suppressed the sense of relief, keeping it from erupting in a nervous laugh.
This’ll take a little bite out of my portfolio, but now’s no time to hesitate—not with Zelda on the line
. “That’s marvelous. I’ll uh … I’ll send the check right away. It should be made out to you, or to…?”

“Make it out to Art Placements & Artist Representations.”

“And I should send it to the address that’s in your Yellow Pages listing?”

“Yes. And when I receive your check, I’ll have your address and I’ll send the receipt and the photograph. I hate to rush you, but for now, I must run.”

“Oh, fine, Zelda. Thank you again for all your trouble.”

“Ta-ta!”

Cynthia hung up and sat on the edge of her high bed with its white, ruffled pillows and valance.
Well, no new gown this season. But my investments are doing well—well enough to cover the extravagance
. She removed her bra and panties, letting them drop on her way to the tub.

The hot water bit into her skin, reddening it under the pillows of white bubbles.
I’m making a big investment in you, Zackery Calvin
. She closed her eyes and pushed down into the water till it crept up her neck.
You’d better be worth it
.

Delmar Johnson sat at his still-new desk and opened drawers.
We’ve been in here for two weeks, but I’m still resisting the new space. Where in the world did I put the paper clips?

The one saving grace of the move was his new computer. In this one regard, he was rabidly committed to keeping abreast of the times. Were it possible, he’d update software monthly, hardware annually.

But amid the general maelstrom of modern life, Del favored the old over the new. He would sooner un-dent the metal body of a twenty-year-old car than order a new fiberglass bumper; sooner hand-finish a fifty-year-old table than replace it with something freshly veneered.

The same recalcitrance applied to the idea of moving: he hated the very idea. As far as he was concerned, his mother had it right: buy a modest home, treat it with tender loving care, and it would shelter you in good times and bad.

After his mother’d passed, he’d allowed it to stand empty for a couple of months, then reluctantly sorted through her things and readied the house for sale. For now, his boyhood friend Marcus rented it.
When I sell Mom’s house, I’ll probably buy myself something up here on the Central Coast. Till then, the bungalow I’m leasing in SLO is fine
.

Workspaces were different. It seemed a useless exercise to form attachments to cubicles and desks, squad rooms and precincts. But somehow when he’d wrenched himself free of Los Angeles just over a year ago, he’d looked for a touchstone, and found it in the old San Luis Obispo County Sherif building. Though its Spanish tile roofs had leaked and its plaster had
been in need of repair, it’d possessed a magnificence and grace that spoke of noble ideals and the serving of a higher purpose.

Then the County, in its wisdom, had decided to tear it down, and the Sheriff’s department had been forced to move. Del had to admit, the new building provided more sunlight. But the architects hadn’t seen fit to incorporate any of the old California glory into the new structure.

Sleek and practical, the new building presented a facade of concrete, wood and glass. Its interior smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. There was a sameness to all the offices, a lack of seasoning to the oak furniture, and a sense that the building was still sitting too high on its foundation, not yet settled in for the duration.
If the walls could talk, they’d have no stories to tell. Not yet
.

His mind had wandered and now he brought it back to the two papers he wanted to clip together: one, a copy of the notes from his interview of Sally O’Mally about the stranger who’d come to her restaurant looking for Chris Christian; the other, the rendering the police artist had sketched based on her recollections.

A man of medium height, of medium build, with medium brown hair, wearing medium-weight glasses. An easy man to miss. And if he happened to be any good at disguises, an impossible man to track
. Except that Sally had seen him close-up. And when it came to noticing details about people, Sally O’Mally missed nothing. So now at least they had a rough idea of the man’s facial features.

A third piece of paper was a search warrant. The satellite TV station had called to report a suspicious disappearance. Their correspondent Chris Christian had failed to appear for
work, and failed to respond to their repeated calls over a period of three days. Now, she could be officially listed as a missing person.

Del squirmed at the thought of what he’d have to do next.
We’ll have to search her residence. You never know what you’ll find. At worst, we might find a corpse. At best, I’ll have to rummage and pick through the details of another person’s private world
.