wide glass window in the gallery. She was behind the counter near the entrance, her chin propped in one hand as she stared out into the night. He could still recall the fresh, floral scent of her hair, the sound of her voice and wished he could get her out of his head.
Jake crossed the park, walked to the edge of the grassy bluff and looked down at the ocean. The city fathers had thought to add spotlights that illuminated the wooden stairs down the face of the cliff and the rolling surf along the shoreline.
Through the light, misty fog he could make out the foaming white shore break. The crashing sound of the surf as it pounded against the rocks was enticing. Its frothy white foam appeared harmless from a distance, reminding him that some things weren’t always as innocent as they appeared.
6
Long Beach,
California
ANNA SAUNDERS WAS GROWING USED TO SPENDING NIGHTS alone with her memories. Surrounded by photos of happier days and times, she made herself a second gin and tonic, squeezed in a splash of lime and wandered away from the wet bar in her penthouse condominium.
The Portofino Building stood at the corner of Second Street and Sorrento on the edge of the waterfront community of Naples. From a bank of windows and balconies she had a panoramic view of Alamitos Bay and Bayshore Avenue, the gateway to trendy Second Street with its specialty shops, restaurants, and beach traffic.
Strolling along Second Street to shop wasn’t a pastime Anna ever did partake in. When she went shopping, she shopped , Fashion Island, South Coast Plaza, Pasadena, Rodeo Drive.
She stepped onto her balcony overlooking the city. From the top of the Portofino Building she could see the lights of downtown Long Beach, various high-rises—hotels, office buildings, and condos—tucked into a coastline enhanced by landfill.
Across from the marina, the Queen Mary sat with her well-lit bright red smokestacks thrust against the night sky. For nearly forty years the once-proud vessel had been docked beside acres of empty parking lots, a tourist attraction without thrill rides or mouse-eared hats that only drew visitors who had run out of more exciting things to see and do in Southern California.
Around and beyond the Queen stretched the Ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles, home to Saunders Shipping since the early nineteen hundreds.
Anna sipped her cocktail at the balcony railing and watched the sunset over the beautiful city she had called home for more than fifty years. Most of her friends had moved away years ago, part of a migration dubbed “white flight” into Orange County. They had mistakenly believed themselves immune to the growing ethnic diversity as natural to Southern California as the morning haze, Santa Ana winds, and earthquakes.
Long ago she had tired of them asking why she stayed in Long Beach when she could live anywhere in the world. Her reply was always the same, an echo of her husband, Charles’, opinion.
“This place is home. The Saunders have always lived where they could see the port.”
Together, heartbroken and in shock, she and Charles had spread their son Rick’s ashes in the waters off the port. Four years later, alone, still grieving, she had done the same for Charles. There was no way she would leave them both now.
When the red-orange, smog-tinted sky finally faded to deepening lilac, she turned her back on the view and wandered inside. Without the television or the stereo playing, the penthouse echoed with silence.
Until Rick died she had always imagined spending her latter years surrounded by her grandchildren who, if not actually fond of her, would at least pretend to be in order to collect on their inheritance.
Now she had no grandchild to pamper and spoil because Caroline Graham had stolen the privilege and broken not only her heart but Charles’s as well.
She walked to a low credenza, picked up a silver-framed snapshot of Rick proudly holding his infant son, Christopher, the only photo she had of
Jake crossed the park, walked to the edge of the grassy bluff and looked down at the ocean. The city fathers had thought to add spotlights that illuminated the wooden stairs down the face of the cliff and the rolling surf along the shoreline.
Through the light, misty fog he could make out the foaming white shore break. The crashing sound of the surf as it pounded against the rocks was enticing. Its frothy white foam appeared harmless from a distance, reminding him that some things weren’t always as innocent as they appeared.
6
Long Beach,
California
ANNA SAUNDERS WAS GROWING USED TO SPENDING NIGHTS alone with her memories. Surrounded by photos of happier days and times, she made herself a second gin and tonic, squeezed in a splash of lime and wandered away from the wet bar in her penthouse condominium.
The Portofino Building stood at the corner of Second Street and Sorrento on the edge of the waterfront community of Naples. From a bank of windows and balconies she had a panoramic view of Alamitos Bay and Bayshore Avenue, the gateway to trendy Second Street with its specialty shops, restaurants, and beach traffic.
Strolling along Second Street to shop wasn’t a pastime Anna ever did partake in. When she went shopping, she shopped , Fashion Island, South Coast Plaza, Pasadena, Rodeo Drive.
She stepped onto her balcony overlooking the city. From the top of the Portofino Building she could see the lights of downtown Long Beach, various high-rises—hotels, office buildings, and condos—tucked into a coastline enhanced by landfill.
Across from the marina, the Queen Mary sat with her well-lit bright red smokestacks thrust against the night sky. For nearly forty years the once-proud vessel had been docked beside acres of empty parking lots, a tourist attraction without thrill rides or mouse-eared hats that only drew visitors who had run out of more exciting things to see and do in Southern California.
Around and beyond the Queen stretched the Ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles, home to Saunders Shipping since the early nineteen hundreds.
Anna sipped her cocktail at the balcony railing and watched the sunset over the beautiful city she had called home for more than fifty years. Most of her friends had moved away years ago, part of a migration dubbed “white flight” into Orange County. They had mistakenly believed themselves immune to the growing ethnic diversity as natural to Southern California as the morning haze, Santa Ana winds, and earthquakes.
Long ago she had tired of them asking why she stayed in Long Beach when she could live anywhere in the world. Her reply was always the same, an echo of her husband, Charles’, opinion.
“This place is home. The Saunders have always lived where they could see the port.”
Together, heartbroken and in shock, she and Charles had spread their son Rick’s ashes in the waters off the port. Four years later, alone, still grieving, she had done the same for Charles. There was no way she would leave them both now.
When the red-orange, smog-tinted sky finally faded to deepening lilac, she turned her back on the view and wandered inside. Without the television or the stereo playing, the penthouse echoed with silence.
Until Rick died she had always imagined spending her latter years surrounded by her grandchildren who, if not actually fond of her, would at least pretend to be in order to collect on their inheritance.
Now she had no grandchild to pamper and spoil because Caroline Graham had stolen the privilege and broken not only her heart but Charles’s as well.
She walked to a low credenza, picked up a silver-framed snapshot of Rick proudly holding his infant son, Christopher, the only photo she had of
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