I’d be up for the work ahead. From the looks of my ragtag team, I’d have to bear the brunt of it. And my motivation seemed to be missing. Financial strain had always been enough to hustle me from the end of one project to the start of the next. But here in Del Gloria, thousands of miles from everything that mattered, my heart felt like a lump of coal pressed against my lungs, robbing me of breath, stifling my inspiration.
Inside came Portia’s voice, followed by laughter from Celia and Koby.
“Face it, Tish. You’ve landed in Oz,” I whispered to myself. But like Dorothy, it was only temporary. Soon I’d get the phone call that would whisk me back home. And all would be well.
I gave a sigh and followed the group into the dim interior. Nodding in robotic agreement to all of Portia’s suggestions, I kept a mental log of all the ones I’d have to do right when the rookies weren’t looking.
The lunch hour had come and gone as we wrapped up our tour. Our gang had just stepped off the porch when a voice called to us from across the street.
“Hey, you guys.” The brunette from Team A waved to us from the coarse lawn of a cockeyed bungalow. Behind her, Gangster Guy and the rest of the crew exited the building.
“Hey! You finally getting to work over there?” Portia’s toxic tongue went to work.
The girl on the lawn crossed her arms.
Gangster Guy stepped to the curb. “Yo. Eat our dust.” Portia inhaled a deep breath, ready to fire back a response. I grabbed her arm. “Why do you provoke them? Can’t you just be nice?”
She shook off my grip. “Back off, Miss Priss. Maybe you’ve got Uncle Denton to take care of you. But me,” she thumped her chest with a fist, “I’m on my own. I’m getting a piece of that Covenant Award. Whatever it takes.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m the team leader. And I’m telling you we’re not going to harass our competition.” I hoped I came off as having more gumption than I actually felt. Portia snickered. “Leader? Yeah, whatever.” She started walking back toward the bus station. “Come on, team. Follow me.”
I brought up the rear, hoping Brad would hurry up with his plan to save me.
8
The bus pulled away, leaving me alone on the driveway. I’d ridden home in silence, putting an impermeable wall between me and my teammates. Celia had made an attempt at conversation, but gave up when all I offered was a cold shoulder. I hated to push her away, but the day’s overwhelming events had caught up to me.
Across the road, the Pacific glared white in the sunshine. Gulls circled a rocky promontory down the way, beckoning for company. Cars zipped past on the twolane in front of me. I waited for a break in traffic, then crossed over, climbing the metal guardrail onto a flat shelf of rock.
I eased close to the edge for a peek at the drop-off. A narrow trail, hewn over time, clung to the face of the cliff. Should I or shouldn’t I?
Why not? There was no schedule to keep.
I dropped my tote behind a clump of brush, then stepped down onto the narrow outcropping, slippery with pebbles. I picked my way along the zigzagging route to the patch of sand at its base. Sunrays beamed hot onto my newfound hideaway. I slid off my tennies and scraped my feet through the burning earth as I made my way toward the water’s edge. The sand buzzed with each drag of my foot.
I stopped well back from the surf, watching the shoreline shift beneath the surging and subsiding waves. I’d take the pleasant pull of Lake Michigan over the powerful Pacific any day. I stared out over the endless expanse of water, feeling farther than ever from the places-and people-I loved.
The sand cushioned my head as I lay with eyes closed, trying to imagine what Brad was doing that very moment back home. He’d have rounded up the bad guys by now, with help from the local and state authorities that had already been investigating the case. So today, Brad would be focused on tying up the loose ends, making things safe for my return. I pictured him settling in at the lake house after a good day’s work, hanging out in the living room with Puppa-my pet name for my grandfather- and Great-grandma Olivia, having a good laugh over the whole escapade. My temporary boarder Melissa Belmont and her two kids would be back in their own home, safe from her abusive husband. And Brad’s sister Samantha would soon be heading to her Coney Island diner in downstate Michigan, having outrun the bad choices of her past once and for all. With my last guest gone, the log cabin would be sitting empty, anticipating my return.
I had only to wait for the convictions that meant jail time for Frank Majestic and his cronies. Then I could go back to Michigan. Back to Brad. Back to the time when it was just the two of us and one joyous, long-lasting future ahead.
A swirl of sand choked me. I sat up, eyes watering in the glare. I rubbed at the bandage on my arm, hoping to brush away the feeling that there was no future with
Brad to return to. Sure, this whole safe-house thing had stalled our wedding plans. But it was only temporary. Nothing would change between us. The next time I saw him, I’d run into his arms and we’d kiss, long and tender, just like we had that last morning in the woods.
Still, the feeling persisted that things were different now. Would Brad meet someone new while I twiddled away time in California? Would he decide that Denton was right and I wouldn’t be the best choice of brides? I pitched a shell toward the water. I didn’t care for Denton Braddock. Not one bit. And I couldn’t shake the notion that Denton knew more about what was going on back home than he was willing to tell. The professor must have been in contact with somebody-Brad, the authorities, or whoever-since the day he’d claimed me at the hospital in Minnesota. His vague answers to my status checks had become annoying.
I lingered in the sand awhile, soaking up more vitamin D and deadly solar rays than I got in a week in Michigan. I dusted the grit off my clothes, tied my sneakers, and began the climb to the top of the cliff. Halfway up, I panicked. The task had been so much easier going down. Now, my shoes couldn’t seem to find a hold in the sliding pebbles. The narrow shelf left me clinging to smooth rock, fighting the pull of gravity that threatened to keel me backward onto the sand so far below.
“Crazy flatlander,” I muttered to myself, frozen in place with sweat stinging my eyes.
“Okay, God,” I whispered to the rocks, “this is where we start bargaining. You get me up this cliff and I promise never to do anything this stupid again.”
Behind me came the scream of a gull. Or maybe a vulture. I was too petrified to turn around and look. The crushing din of the water, an occasional passing car on the road above, and the squeaking cries from my throat became the only sounds to register as the minutes passed. A stone bounced down from above, landing in my hair. A cramp crawled up my leg. It gradually occurred to me that God wasn’t going to send a host of angels to airlift me to safety. It seemed the most the winged beings would do was cheer me on while I figured my own way out of the conundrum.
Eyes closed, I spread my arms against the rock, feeling for the slightest indentation. There it was. A small bump to my left, providing my fingertips with just enough leverage to let me hoist myself another twelve inches along the path. Then I found another hold, and another, until my knees were on fragments of asphalt torn from the road next to me. I clung to the guardrail and let my strength return.
Cars honked as they passed, their blaring horns a substitute for the crazy-lady insults the drivers must have been hurling behind closed windows. I dropped to the ground and leaned against the hot metal.
Such a close call. My hands were still shaking. I took a deep breath and stood, reaching for my tote.
Gone.
I dropped to all fours, patting the ground in disbelief. It had been here. Right behind that shrub. I glanced over the drop-off. No black bag in sight. Had someone pulled over and stolen the thing?
I pondered the unlikely thought as I headed up the hill to Cliffhouse. Losing my tote was no big disaster. The project packet, my notebook, and the bus pass had been its only contents. I could always get a copy of the packet from Denton. Celia could probably help me get a new bus pass from Dean Lester. And notebooks weren’t hard to come by.
I entered Cliffhouse through the side porch. Voices came from the kitchen as I passed. I paused, lingering to identify the speakers. Two women. The one with the Irish accent was no doubt Ms. Rigg. But the other?
My stomach growled. I used it as an excuse to snoop. “Hello,” I said, passing through the swinging door into
