the bull,” he says, feeling them still watching, like a drill in the back of his skull. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Seven
BIG GAME
T hey walk past the Casino and down along the shore, the steep mountainside rising on their left. The place has the feeling of being beyond the tourist itinerary; there is little to see here, and no one to see it. The sidewalk peters out to a gravel path overhung with rustling eucalyptus trees. The thin, rocky beach is unkempt and littered with leaves. No one would ever come here to swim.
It’s getting hard to push the stroller, but just as they begin to think about turning back, they come to the end of the road. The only way remaining is a cleared trail up the hill, barred with a sign that reads, PRIVATE PROPERTY—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
“That can’t be it,” Henry says.
“It has to be, it’s all there is,” says Ruby. “Look, I can see it up there.”
She’s right. Above them, visible through the tree branches, Henry can make out a ledge of snow-white concrete jutting from the brushy cliff.
“Give me a break—this can’t be the only way up there.”
“It must just be the beach path.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Henry and Ruby pick up the stroller with practiced ease, carrying it between them like a litter as Moxie sleeps within, oblivious. Priding themselves on being active people, they have a system for everything and are used to doing this on stairs, escalators and other urban obstacles—it’s become almost automatic.
The pathway is hard-packed sand under a mulch of bark and curly brown eucalyptus leaves, cut through here and there with dry flood channels revealing veins of stones. It climbs steeply uphill, veering around rock faces and deadfalls. They lose sight of the ocean. On either side, the slope is all thick desert scrub—not the attractive sword plants and palm trees planted around Avalon, but prickly native brambles and tumbleweeds that remind Henry of the scraggly hills around Hollywood, or maybe Kabul.
The deeper in they go, the more they are losing the light, and the warmth. Late-afternoon shadows and sea mist are enveloping the trail like a rising tide. These September nights are turning chilly.
Oddly enough, the sky is still blue above the trees, the clouds foiled with gorgeous sunset colors. On the opposite side of the island it must still be bright and sunny. Unfortunately, they are on the shady side, looking up at daylight as if from a dark hollow. The light is an inducement to keep climbing.
“We must be almost there,” Henry says, becoming winded.
“Yeah, this is a little bit more of a hike than I expected.”
“Sorry, hon.”
“Hey, it’s my fault—it was my idea.”
“Yeah, but it’s my mother.”
“I just hope she has some iced tea when we get there.”
“And a bathroom.”
“And a spare bed.”
“Now you’re going too far.”
They summit a final slope and all at once emerge onto a freshly-paved road bordered with grass. The new road appears from somewhere inland, following the shoulder of the mountain, and intersects with their dirt path to disappear behind a high metal gate. Over this barrier Henry can see roofs of luxury condos stacked like rice paddies up and down the cliff. The first lights of the evening are beginning to come on.
“Jackpot,” Henry says, setting down the stroller. “ Phew . It’s about damn time.”
Ruby gets out her camera and starts shooting as they wheel the stroller up to the entrance. The civilized terrain is a pleasure. Posted on the fence next to the closed gate is a sign:
Shady Isle Visitors Policy: All visitors to Shady Isle Villas must either be signed onto the grounds by a current resident or pre-approved by prior appointment with Shady Isle Management. Admission is at the discretion of Shady Island Management. No solicitors.
“Such a friendly place,” Henry says.
“I thought you loved these places.”
“What places?”
“These fancy gated
Chapter Seven
BIG GAME
T hey walk past the Casino and down along the shore, the steep mountainside rising on their left. The place has the feeling of being beyond the tourist itinerary; there is little to see here, and no one to see it. The sidewalk peters out to a gravel path overhung with rustling eucalyptus trees. The thin, rocky beach is unkempt and littered with leaves. No one would ever come here to swim.
It’s getting hard to push the stroller, but just as they begin to think about turning back, they come to the end of the road. The only way remaining is a cleared trail up the hill, barred with a sign that reads, PRIVATE PROPERTY—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
“That can’t be it,” Henry says.
“It has to be, it’s all there is,” says Ruby. “Look, I can see it up there.”
She’s right. Above them, visible through the tree branches, Henry can make out a ledge of snow-white concrete jutting from the brushy cliff.
“Give me a break—this can’t be the only way up there.”
“It must just be the beach path.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Henry and Ruby pick up the stroller with practiced ease, carrying it between them like a litter as Moxie sleeps within, oblivious. Priding themselves on being active people, they have a system for everything and are used to doing this on stairs, escalators and other urban obstacles—it’s become almost automatic.
The pathway is hard-packed sand under a mulch of bark and curly brown eucalyptus leaves, cut through here and there with dry flood channels revealing veins of stones. It climbs steeply uphill, veering around rock faces and deadfalls. They lose sight of the ocean. On either side, the slope is all thick desert scrub—not the attractive sword plants and palm trees planted around Avalon, but prickly native brambles and tumbleweeds that remind Henry of the scraggly hills around Hollywood, or maybe Kabul.
The deeper in they go, the more they are losing the light, and the warmth. Late-afternoon shadows and sea mist are enveloping the trail like a rising tide. These September nights are turning chilly.
Oddly enough, the sky is still blue above the trees, the clouds foiled with gorgeous sunset colors. On the opposite side of the island it must still be bright and sunny. Unfortunately, they are on the shady side, looking up at daylight as if from a dark hollow. The light is an inducement to keep climbing.
“We must be almost there,” Henry says, becoming winded.
“Yeah, this is a little bit more of a hike than I expected.”
“Sorry, hon.”
“Hey, it’s my fault—it was my idea.”
“Yeah, but it’s my mother.”
“I just hope she has some iced tea when we get there.”
“And a bathroom.”
“And a spare bed.”
“Now you’re going too far.”
They summit a final slope and all at once emerge onto a freshly-paved road bordered with grass. The new road appears from somewhere inland, following the shoulder of the mountain, and intersects with their dirt path to disappear behind a high metal gate. Over this barrier Henry can see roofs of luxury condos stacked like rice paddies up and down the cliff. The first lights of the evening are beginning to come on.
“Jackpot,” Henry says, setting down the stroller. “ Phew . It’s about damn time.”
Ruby gets out her camera and starts shooting as they wheel the stroller up to the entrance. The civilized terrain is a pleasure. Posted on the fence next to the closed gate is a sign:
Shady Isle Visitors Policy: All visitors to Shady Isle Villas must either be signed onto the grounds by a current resident or pre-approved by prior appointment with Shady Isle Management. Admission is at the discretion of Shady Island Management. No solicitors.
“Such a friendly place,” Henry says.
“I thought you loved these places.”
“What places?”
“These fancy gated
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