Between the Land and the Sea - By Derrolyn Anderson Page 0,7
so much as a picture, and when I pressed my father he finally admitted that we looked very much alike. He never spoke of her, and whenever questioned he dodged the subject, bribing me with a treat or a trip somewhere special. He became melancholy if I pressed the point, and the pain evident on his face and in his voice made me uneasy. It’s always been a little scary for me to see my father unhappy, so I simply gave up asking.
Whenever I started to dwell on thoughts of my mother I swear I could hear Evie’s eternally upbeat voice in my mind, urging me to put the past away and focus on the future with all of its unlimited possibilities. She’d say, “Yesterday is history, but tomorrow is a mystery!” her blue eyes flashing with spirit. I missed her already.
“I noticed you have a ton of cool clothes,” Cruz said, bringing me back to reality.
“My Aunt Evie is a fashionista,” I explained, “She likes to shop for me.”
“You’re so lucky!” he moaned, “I wish I lived in the city.” Cruz told me that he hoped to be a fashion designer someday. He was working part time at a local silkscreen shop printing souvenir shirts, saving his money, dreaming of attending design school in San Francisco. We chatted about our favorite labels and I told him what shopping with Evie was like.
“She has a sixth sense about when new inventory arrives,” I smiled, imagining her pouncing on the hottest new designer. “Sometimes she’ll call ahead and have a personal shopper pull racks from the latest shipments in our sizes.”
“Wow,” he said solemnly, “Must be nice.”
“It’s much nicer in the private dressing rooms,” I laughed, “Otherwise the salespeople all descend upon us like a swarm of locusts.”
“I like the way you talk,” Cruz sighed, “like you’re older, and not from around here. I can’t wait to get out of this town. There’s nothing to do around here but surf,” he complained.
I walked right past the entry to the stairway.
“Marina!” Cruz was standing next to a huge climbing rose with his arms crossed.
He held back the overgrown vines while I ducked under the arbor. There was a narrow uneven brick path that wound through dense foliage, shaded with pine trees and slippery with fallen needles. We descended a flight of steep wooden stairs that led to a small landing with a bench. From this perch in the trees we could look down to the beach. We picked our way down the remaining stairs, clinging to the rickety handrail until we made it onto the sand.
To our right was a vast expanse of shoreline that ended in a rocky point jutting out into the sea. On our left was the famous cement ship, an old war relic that had been scuttled; pressed into service as a spot to enjoy the panoramic bay views. The ship was an oddity, made out of concrete during a wartime steel shortage almost a hundred years ago.
The wooden pier that led out to the ship was peppered with people fishing the incoming tide, and the air was filled with the brackish smell of saltwater and seaweed. To the left of the pier was more beach, and Cruz pointed out the prime surfing territory that was usually crowded with local surfers. We walked along the path that led up the hill into town.
Most of the businesses in Aptos existed to cater to the weekend and summer tourist trade.
There were little gift shops and restaurants lining the street, and almost every storefront had souvenir tee shirts hanging in the windows. We stopped to look in a few places, Cruz pointing out the restaurants he liked and describing the food.
“Eat out a lot?” I teased him.
“Every chance I get,” he answered, tongue in cheek.
We ambled on, and he talked some more about his job as we rounded a corner. On the sidewalk ahead of us a group of teens were hanging out in a cloud of clove scented cigarette smoke. They had staked out a pair of benches, and were lounging insolently, blocking the walkway with an air of defiance.
“Let’s get moving,” Cruz muttered under his breath, his body tense, “Just don’t look at them.”
They had taken notice of us and were openly staring and talking excitedly as we neared. I heard the muttered words “Rolls Royce” and knew that at least one of the surfer girls I’d seen today was in their number. I looked up directly into faces