asked, feeling rattled again.
“Where, exactly? That’s a mile and a half of cliffs.”
“Uh, okay, how about the little parking lot just north of the rock where the peace sign used to be. Do you know the one-”
“I know it well,” Alan said. “I’m on my way.”
The sun was setting when Alan pulled into the postage stamp of a parking lot wedged between Sunset Cliffs Boulevard and the cliff’s edge. After parking and turning off the motor, for a few moments he just sat in his car, taking in the spectacle of the sun setting into the Pacific Ocean, missing the dark silhouette of the peace sign that had once-briefly-graced the top of the forty-foot rock formation, before mysteriously disappearing one January night.
He got out of his car, then realized the ocean breeze had grown chilly with the going of the sun and took his jacket out of the backseat and put it on. Leaning against the car with his back to the fading sunset, he watched joggers chugging past on the dirt pathway that wound along the cliffs. Anticipation raced under his skin, ebbing and flowing like the waves beating against the rocks far below as each runner hove into view, then drew close enough for him to see it wasn’t the one he was waiting for. When he did finally see the lone figure bobbing toward him, coming from the south, he knew her instantly, even in silhouette against the lavender sky.
She was wearing sweats and a tank top, and had a warmup jacket tied around her waist by its arms. She was also wearing a sun visor, which she took off as she veered into the parking lot, leaving a sweatband in place, stark white against her dark hair.
She slowed to a walk and her face broke into a smile. “Hi-been waiting long?”
The smile had accomplished, it seemed, what the sunset and the missing peace sign hadn’t been able to, because he found himself wearing a smile, too, and there was a lightness in his heart for no particular reason he could think of.
He shook his head, then nodded toward the two other cars in the lot. “Which one’s yours?”
“Neither.” She wiped sweat from her face with a dangling sleeve of the warm-up jacket, seemingly only a little winded from her run. “I live about half a mile north of here. I usually run down to the stairs at the southern end of the park and back, which is about three miles. If I want a longer run, I go to Pacific Beach or Mission Bay.”
“Lucky you,” Alan said. He nodded toward the darkening cliffs, and the sea still gilded with the remains of the sunset. “This is one of my favorite places. I bring Chelse here sometimes. You know-to explore the caves and tidepools.”
She untied the warm-up jacket, then gave him a startled look when he took it from her and held it for her so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. So close to her he could feel the moist heat rising from her body, he felt her shiver suddenly.
“Why don’t we sit in the car out of the wind,” he said. “You don’t want to get chilled.”
She nodded, and he opened the passenger-side door, waited for her to settle into the seat, then closed the door and went around and got behind the wheel. He closed the door and the dusk and the quiet and an unexpected sense of intimacy enveloped them. And for a moment, for some reason, he couldn’t think what he’d come to say.
Lindsey stared through the windshield at the darkening sky, listening to the thumping of her own heart. Other than that, the silence seemed profound, and she thought,
But then, miraculously, she heard herself say, in that blessedly calm and grown-up voice that came from she knew not where, “What was it you wanted to tell me? The reason you wanted to meet me.”
Instead of answering her question, he looked at her and said abruptly, “Tell me more about the snow.”
“There isn’t any more. Just that.” She shrugged. “Mom said Jimmy loved to play in the snow. That she would dress him in his snowsuit and he looked like a fat little penguin.” She looked at him expectantly, and her heart continued to beat too fast.
He let out a hissing breath and for a few long moments, just stared out at the ocean and sky. Finally, he glanced over at her, and in the remaining light she could see the frown on his face. “Before she got sick, did your mother ever talk about her childhood? When she was a girl? Did she have any photographs? Mementos? High school yearbooks?”
Her stomach gave a queer little lurch. She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head and looked away. “I used to ask about that. Mom would just laugh and make some general remarks about being a bookworm, not very popular-which I always thought hard to believe, since she was-” she caught a quick, painful breath “-so beautiful. If I pressed her for more details, she would get upset and sort of look to my dad for help. So…” She paused again, this time to clear her throat, to give a small laugh of apology. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t think this was going to be so hard.”
He nodded and murmured something encouraging, and after a moment she went on.
“Anyway, one day he took me aside and explained that there had been a house fire when my mother was still in her teens and that everything was lost, including both her parents. Mom was injured-she has a scar on one side of her head. The way she wears her hair, you can’t see it at all. Dad says there’s a lot she doesn’t remember about her childhood. So, naturally, it was upsetting for her to talk about. After that…” She shrugged.
After that, she’d never asked again. But she remembered still the feeling of walls going up and doors slamming shut. She almost told Alan about that, and about the nightmares she’d had for a long time after, of watching her mother slide away from her down a long, long corridor, growing smaller and smaller, until she could barely see her, and crying out to her to come back, and feeling bereft, like a small child abandoned in the woods. She’d never told anyone, not even her husband, about that dream, or the loneliness she’d felt then. What would make her think
“Why?” Her voice was harsh because of the ache in her throat.
Instead of answering, he muttered, “That could explain it.” He sounded distracted, distant, and the impulse to bare her soul to him vanished like smoke. “Maybe.”
He was silent for a moment, then abruptly shifted in his seat, turning so he almost faced her, left arm draped across the steering wheel. “You wanted to know what I’ve found out so far. The truth is, precious little. In fact, Lindsey, according to public records, your mother, Susan Merrill, didn’t exist before roughly forty years ago when she appeared in San Diego as the wife of Richard Merrill.”
Chapter 4
“I don’t understand,” Lindsey said. She felt sick. “What do you mean, she didn’t exist? How is that possible?”
“Not literally, of course, just according to public record.”
“But, I told you, there was a fire-”
“And that could explain it,” Alan said, cutting her off. But it was plain to her that it didn’t explain it, not to his satisfaction.
Anger filled her, although she didn’t know quite where to direct it; she’d asked for this herself, after all. “What about my dad?” she asked, keeping her voice under tight control. “I know there’s stuff about him. I’ve seen it.”
“Oh, sure there is. Birth certificate says he was born in a little town somewhere in Nebraska.”
She nodded, fidgety now with a nervous excitement she couldn’t account for. “Yes-that’s where he grew up. He played high school sports-mostly football, I think. He was even student body president, prom king-the whole thing. I’ve seen his yearbook,” she added with an emphasis that bordered on belligerent.
