She wrote a check for the fee at the car lot, and was relieved that the dusty old Toyota started right up. Swinging a left turn onto the street, her stomach in knots, she knew it would be useless to try and get any work done today. She headed for 280, with Monterey Bay in mind. Ninety minutes later she was in Rio del Mar, and on the stretch of beach she had known for most of her adult life.
She parked in the Flats. The air was brisk with the salty breeze, and she could taste the ocean. It soothed her. The day was clear and she could see from Monterey to Santa Cruz. A paved walkway stretched from Rio del Mar Beach to the end of Seacliff State Beach. Since it was low tide, she opted to walk the wet, hard-packed sand near the water’s edge. She watched pelicans fly in formation. One broke free and dove in a straight line, like a plane on a suicide mission. The bird hit the water, submerged, and then surfaced, hopefully with a tasty fish in its gullet, and bobbed on the whitecaps.
Christie’s attention turned to the sand as she searched for treasure: sand dollars, shells, sea glass. As a child she had collected sea glass and filled a pickle jar with the pseudo-gemstones. Seashells went into a small, shallow straw basket that she kept on the bathroom counter.
Her scrutiny was rewarded: the edge of a sand dollar peeked from beneath the sand. She bent and picked it up. It was smooth from countless rides on the waves, and she knew that inside of it were two tiny “doves,” as she’d seen as a child when her father had broken open a cracked sand dollar and the tiny pieces slipped out. Christie had held them in her hand and thought she was looking at something magical. How easy childhood could be. Why do we have to grow up and lose the magic? she wondered.
She reached the old cement ship at Seacliff. The huge, broken boat had been constructed during World War I, but had never been commissioned. Instead, it was purchased by a group of entrepreneurs and towed to the beach for use as a seaside gambling casino and dining hall. The boat had its heyday in the late 1920s as a place where wealthy San Franciscans spent their money freely. When that changed the boat fell into disrepair and the sea claimed it. The once regal Palo Alto, as she was named, became a popular fishing pier. A few major storms later, the ocean’s fury swept over the boat and rendered it unsafe. Now the pier ended where the boat began. It was depicted on picture postcards, and although the glory days were long gone, the cement boat was still a landmark beloved by locals.
Christie sat on a picnic bench and regretted not stopping to pick up lunch before leaving San Francisco. Hunger signals were banging against her empty stomach. She watched a large sailboat cutting across the water, its sails billowing. She wondered if it was the Chardonnay. When her father turned sixty, they had celebrated his birthday with a sail on the boat. It had been a very windy day and Christie had found it difficult to keep her balance on the deck. She was terrified until her father grabbed her and anchored her to the rail. She hadn’t sailed again until she met Cash.
There he was again; she was unable to keep him out of her thoughts. A simple thing like seeing a sailboat racing the wind and Cash was back on her mind.
She covered her face with her hands. Don’t cry; don’t make a fool of yourself. She pushed away the tears with her knuckles. She stood up and walked to the pier. Gazing over the railing into the rushing surf, she remembered all the times she and her father had gone crabbing. He had given up trying to teach her how to use a fishing pole—no matter how many times she observed her father swing the rod backward over his head and then quickly flick it over the pier so that the line flew far over the water, she could not repeat what she saw. Dropping a circular crab net into the sea didn’t take finesse. Whenever they caught a crab or starfish, she’d inspect it, and then toss it back. The idea of throwing a live crab into boiling water was beyond her. If her family planned on serving crab for dinner, Christie was assured the crustacean would come from the market, already cooked.
Walking back to Rio del Mar Beach, she was beset with doubts. Was anger clouding her judgment? Sure, Cash had attacked her ability to analyze character through handwriting, but was that such a big deal? Big enough to consider pushing him out of her life? It wasn’t that alone, she reasoned. It was also his bullheadedness, to insist on defending someone who she had warned him could be a threat to others. And his refusal to try and understand why she was disturbed by that action. He had run roughshod over her feelings, and her self-image, too.
She reached the parking lot and got into her car. It was hot and stuffy from being closed up while she went on her beach trek. The Mustang, with its top down, cool breezes wafting through it, would have been much more comfortable.
Later, back at her apartment, she was fixing Tosha a treat when the doorbell rang. After wiping her hands on a dishcloth, she put the cat’s bowl on the floor and hurried to answer the door. It was Cash. His large, hulking figure filled the doorway. She thought he looked like Goliath, and she was the child, David. Without a slingshot.
He did not wait for an invitation to come in. He closed the door and Christie reflexively backed away. His size and the expression on his face were intimidating.
“You brought back the car.” His voice was gruff and the sound of it sent Tosha scampering into the bedroom. “And did not have the courtesy to stop in and tell me.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m through with the car. I appreciate having had it, but I don’t want to burden you with the cost…”
“Cut the baloney. You’re put out about something. Be up-front about it.”
“All right. When I gave you advice about the kid, you steamrolled me. Treated me like an uneducated fool.”
“I may have been brusque, but I didn’t appreciate having you butt in.”
“Brusque? You were insulting. It made me realize that we are on different sides of the fence. My perception of right and wrong obviously isn’t the same as yours.”
“That’s the problem: it’s your perception, not necessarily reality. The kid may have rough edges, but in this case he has a solid alibi. I’m going to represent him, and hopefully I’ll get him out of jail on reasonable bail.”
“I know what I read in his handwriting.”
“You read a description of his whereabouts and nothing more.” His voice took on a scathing tone. Christie could feel her face heating up and she hoped it was not obvious. She didn’t want him to know he had the upper hand. She was too sensitive for her own good.
“You’re the best criminal defense lawyer around, Cash, but that doesn’t mean you’re always right.”
“I’m right about one thing: you have not convinced me that this kid is guilty. And there’s no way you can.”
“Sounds like you’ve made your mind up without examining the reason for my concern. You have blinders on; I think you want to be right at all costs.”
“The kid needs an adequate defense and I agreed to take the case. I’m going to give him the best advice possible and if we go to court, yes, I intend to win. I’m going to do all I can to keep this young man out of jail. And your silly handwriting voodoo will not change my mind.” His voice increased in volume, and she could see that he was becoming angry. She was angry, too. Realizing his anger was fueled by self-righteousness, she decided it would be impossible to win the argument.