Not that Dinah’s reaction dampened Commander Blaine’s enthusiasm as he suggested we share a cab. He seemed to pick up on my confusion of how to address him. “You can just call me Commander,” he said, “and I’ll call you Molly.” He turned toward Dinah, and for a moment I thought he was going to say he’d call her Sweetheart or something like it, which I knew wouldn’t have gone over well with her. Luckily, he used her first name and said everyone was informal at the retreats. Apparently even Mrs. Shedd had always gone by her first name. He looked up at the blue sky. “Beautiful here, isn’t it? Smell that air.”
Actually I was a little surprised at the bright sun and warm temperature, but he told me the airport was inland and to wait until we got on the other side of the mountains. “You’ll get plenty of misty, cool air then.”
We caught our cab and in a few moments were on our way. Whoever said men don’t talk much apparently hadn’t met Commander Blaine. He leaned over the front seat and for the whole ride kept a running commentary about the workshop he was responsible for.
“I’ve been coming to the creative weekend for the past three years,” he said as we drove along the twisty road that led between the mountains. “Pamela saw the column I write in the Tarzana Gazette about entertaining.” His tone made it sound like the paper was the New York Times instead of a local freebie. “And she asked me if I’d be interested in doing a workshop.” His expression brightened as he apparently relived the moment. “Would I? But of course. I love entertaining and teaching people how to coordinate activities, decorations, and food. I think a theme really pulls things together. I’d like to talk to your crochet group. I could use the yarn to thread an event together.” He made a face at the lameness of his pun. Good! At least he didn’t take himself too seriously.
Though Dinah was looking out the window, I knew she was listening as he continued. “You can thank your lucky stars I’m not a prima donna like that other couple. I don’t know if Pamela Shedd told you, but I always handle the extra weekend social activities in addition to putting on my workshop. Just say the word and I’ll put together a murder mystery event.”
I thanked him but said no. My plan was to stay as far away as possible from murder, even a fictional one.
Dinah couldn’t stand it anymore and turned toward him. She asked him if he made his living putting on parties. His smile deepened when she spoke, and he explained that he had a day job. He owned the Tarzana Mail and Office Center. He conveniently had several coupons available and gave them to us.
As the road began to go through a forest of giant pine trees, the sun disappeared and a silvery mist blew in through the driver’s open window. The temperature dropped, and I pulled on the thick black cardigan I’d brought.
We entered the small town of Pacific Grove, which Commander said was referred to as PG by people in the know. “Too bad the butterflies aren’t here,” he said as we turned off the highway onto a street that seemed to be on the edge of a forest.
“Butterflies?” I said.
“Every year between October and February thousands of monarch butterflies flock to Pacific Grove. There’s a sanctuary over there,” he said, pointing in the distance. There’s something about the microclimate of the area, with its Monterey pines and eucalyptus trees, that makes it perfect for the creatures.” He directed his comment at Dinah. “You really ought to come up when they’re here. It’s magical the way they cluster in the trees.”
Why was Dinah pretending not to be interested?
“Here we are,” Commander Blaine said as the cab slid between two tall stone markers with “Asilomar” emblazoned on them. It felt like we were entering another world. On either side of the driveway there were tall trees with tangled growth below them. The cab stopped next to a low building, and we all got out.
“I thought you said this was a resort,” Dinah said, looking at the rustic building and the forest and ground below that had been left wild. I knew what Dinah meant. I’d been expecting something different, too-something along the lines of manicured lawns, luxurious spa amenities, and maybe high tea served at umbrella-shaded tables. None of that seemed likely here. Commander unloaded our bags from the cab and held the door as the three of us went into what he called the administration building but what the name plate referred to as the Phoebe Apperson Hearst Social Hall. Inside was a huge, airy room with an open ceiling and exposed beams. A sitting area with a small TV was adjacent to a large stone fireplace complete with an inviting fire. A piano, a pool table, and a Ping-Pong table filled the back area, and the other end was given over to the registration desk. It felt like something between the lobby of a hotel and the gathering room of a camp.
Unfortunately, Nora and Bennett were already at the registration desk. Nora looked stunned and marched over to me. “This isn’t a hotel,” she sputtered. She pointed to a freestanding board that listed the day’s menu. “Look at this. There’s not even a restaurant. It’s a dining hall. I can’t eat here.” She let out a big sigh. “If CeeCee Collins had talked to me, I never would have agreed to let Bennett step in for her, but she went directly to him.”
I covered up my own surprise at the place and tried to smooth things over. “Maybe it isn’t what you expected, but why not give it some time? Even the food might turn out better than you expect.” It didn’t work, and she walked off with an exasperated huff sound.
While we waited to check in, Adele Abrams walked in. Walked isn’t quite the right word. Marched is better. With her khaki culottes, matching camp shirt, and brown ankle boots she looked like Smokey Bear’s sister. She had finished off the outfit with a wide-brimmed ranger hat that she said was authentic, proudly showing us the crease on the top that was meant to let falling acorns roll off. Sheila Altman was with her and had a stunned look. Who could blame her? She had just spent six hours or more driving with Adele.
Once we all had our keys, Adele wanted to show us around. “Pink, if you’re going to be in charge, you ought to know what’s what.” She turned back and looked at our feet. “I hope you all have good walking shoes.” Adele walked backward, facing the three of us, as she gave the background of the place.
The layout and camplike feeling began to make sense when she explained that Asilomar was originally built as a YWCA camp. “The grounds are spread over a hundred acres,” she said, turning before leading us up a hilly walkway bordered by golden wild grass. “The area we’re staying in and using for the retreat is part of the historic core.” Adele pointed to several two-story buildings with weathered wooden shingles that had large nameplates identifying them as Lodge and Scripps, and said that was where our group was being housed.
The air was certainly bracing, and I’d read somewhere that this kind of climate was conducive to creative thoughts, but something about the place seemed moody and brooding. Maybe it was the gloomy sky and the fog drifting in. Or all the brown wooden buildings that seemed dark and forbidding. It didn’t help that Commander Blaine kept repeating that we were on a little piece of land at the end of the continent jutting out into the ocean, and the waves were huge and rough.