He pondered this, poured more wine, and glanced again at the water. A little west swell at Rockpile, not much shape, cool water. Hurricane surf due soon, according to the papers. A big round of applause eased its way through the breeze. Frye looked to the rally stage. He could see Lucia Parsons, positioning herself behind the podium. The applause got louder. She thanked her audience. Her voice was clear, if a little faint. It’s always good to be here in Laguna. It should be. Its my home.
Frye looked at Cristobel and whipped up a quick theory. The facts were thin, but that had never stopped him before, Cristobel Strauss. My age. Skin isn’t wrecked by now, so she probably grew up somewhere else. A few major secrets, none good. No surprise at that, though: beauty always gets the worst offers, and who can say no to all of them? Aware of her effect on the male. How to use it, how to enjoy it, both in moderation. Prone to misgivings about God, country and family, but has the good sense to change what she can, shine what she can’t and know the difference between the two. Level-headed in all respects except the really big ones, but who can brag that? Still, something is not quite right about this. Something doesn’t fit.
I’m here today to tell you I want our soldiers back from the jungles. I want them back on home soil I want them here, with me and you. And I’m here today to tell you there’s a way to do it.
He smiled, poured more wine for them, laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re not married to Jim, are you.”
“I never said I was. It’s kind of an IQ test, how long it takes a man to figure it out.”
“How’d I do?”
“A little above average.”
“What’s the point?”
She looked at him a little placidly, but he sensed the wall just behind her. “He cuts down the flak from jerks, and I deter some of the ladies. He doesn’t care for them, in general. Jim likes men, and I like to be left alone. The last name’s a coincidence, and an occasional source of fun.”
“It was really a gas.”
“I could have strung you along.”
He looked at her and realized she was right. This puts things in a new light. Just what light is it? “True. I must be wearing a little thin on mysteries these days.”
“Well, you figured out this one and no one hit you in the face with a pistol.”
Frye listened to Lucia Parsons describing her rapport with the Vietnamese people. The MIA Committee not only had their support, but had enlisted thousands of Vietnamese as members. “Day after tomorrow, we will be able to provide positive proof that American soldiers are still alive in Vietnam. What we need now is to meet Goal Three — our third and largest fundraising plateau. When the days come to negotiate for our men, we will need money to finance our travel, to support our volunteers, and perhaps to deal with the people of Vietnam. The day is coming soon when we will hear the good news,” she said. “On that day, we must be ready to start bringing those men home!”
“Lucia Parsons is doing good things,” Cristobel said. “If I had someone over there — a husband, or a brother, or a son — I’d do anything in the world to get him back. Anything. She’s great.”
He smiled, touched her glass with his. She told him about growing up in the wine country of Mendocino, a hundred acres of Cabernet and Zinfandel; college at Berkeley, masters in art at UCLA; a stint at fashion design that didn’t work out; ditching L.A. for Laguna Beach and a chance to design on her own again. Almost married once but changed her mind. She looked at Frye, then out to the water. “I’m waiting tables at the Towers mornings for money. It’s a good restaurant, gives me time to myself.”
“Ever think about designing for a company again?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Anyway, I guess I’m in a holding pattern right now. L.A. ended bad.”
He waited for some clarification but she offered none, choosing instead to wrap herself tightly in the light coat she’d worn, tugging the collar up close, then shaking back her hair in a riot of golden waves that struck Frye as feloniously lovely. Call nine-one-one, he thought. In his mind she shed her clothing and wrapped him in a splendid coital knot right there on the patio while outraged drinkers ran for the exits, all sweat and golden hair stuck to her shoulders and breasts, mutual shrieks of love challenging the surging surf below. But he saw as she gazed out to the bright ocean that her eyes held an entirely different vision — anger maybe, or a disappointment too major to air, or some deep and unitemized sorrow, or perhaps nothing at all he could understand. A group of young Mexicans took a table next to them, restaurant workers done with the lunch shift. Cristobel looked at them, then at Frye, an odd confusion on her face. “Well,” she said, standing. “Time for this one to go home.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
She led him down the steps to the sand and headed toward the blue apartments, a disheveled outline to the south. He checked the waves again, gazing down to Brooks Street, water splashing the boulders with a faintly purple tint. The color of Li’s ao dai, he thought. Where is she now?
... Good people, there are only three things we need to make this happen. You — each and every one of you — and your money. And you’ve got to write your representatives in this government and get them to support our House Bill eight-eight-two-three-one, which will establish a modest relief fund for the people of Vietnam.
Cristobel looked toward the Rockpile, a silent seascape of rock and foam in the distance. “Going to surf that place tomorrow?”
“Maybe. You going to be out with your dog?”
“Maybe. I usually am.”
“I’m glad you were there that morning, Cristobel.”
“I’m in the pageant this year. Susanna and the Elders. I’ll leave you a ticket at ‘will-call’ if you want to come see me Thursday night.”
“I’d like that.”
“Be there by eight or they’ll sell it to someone else.” She stopped, looked up to her apartment, crossed her arms against the breeze.
Frye moved a stray strand of hair from her face and thought seriously about kissing her. Something mannered, he thought, a skosh formal. The hell?
She stopped his hand with hers. There was a struggle in her eyes as she regarded him. He sensed some contest being fought. Fear versus something he couldn’t quite identify, and fear seemed to be winning. “The last guy to do that’s in the slammer now. His three friends are too. You should know that about me. They kind of show up at bad times, you know?”
Frye looked at her, the sundry data falling into place like a ton of cold bricks. It had been a while since he’d felt like such an ass. Several hours, in fact. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.” For a moment, she looked a thousand years old. “There’s just a whole lot of bad precedent staring you in the face.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“That’s one thing I don’t want from you right now.” She looked long at him.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“One thing you ought to understand up front is I’m not like anybody else. I’ve got some territory there aren’t maps to.”
“You’re not the first one who got lost.”
“I suppose not. But I’d feel a little better if I could call you.”
Frye thought this one through. “As in, don’t call you?”