At nine o’clock Monday morning, she and Cash were on the road. Their destination was a two-hour drive from San Francisco, an hour from the Marin post office where the letter had been mailed. Cash was sure they had the right man. Benson had an unlisted phone number, so they were taking a chance on finding him at home.
“We’re almost there,” Cash said as he drove down the freeway off-ramp.
Christie glanced at the dashboard GPS screen. It indicated that they had fewer than three miles to go before they reached the turn onto Oak Tree Lane. “I hope Benson’s home. It would be a shame to waste half a day tracking him down and then come up empty-handed.”
“Keep the good thoughts, Christie. Keep the good thoughts.”
A few minutes later they were parked in front of a wrought-iron gate. Cash scanned the names listed on the call box. He jabbed the button for Benson’s unit and waited. It took a minute or two before a voice answered.
Cash identified himself and told Benson he was a friend of the Parkers. Benson gave him the code, the gate rolled away, and they drove through. The complex was typical of retirement developments: curved streets, attractive landscaping, a nine-hole golf course with a pond and ducks. No one in sight appeared to be younger than sixty.
At 450 Oak Tree Lane, Cash pulled into the driveway and parked. He and Christie hurried up the walkway. The man who answered the doorbell was a youthful-looking sixty-five or thereabouts—Elliot’s age. Tanned, he appeared to spend a great deal of time outdoors. Probably still fished; maybe played some golf or tennis.
Cash introduced Christie and himself. Benson invited them in and asked if they’d like a cold drink. When they said yes, he scurried into the kitchen and was back in a few minutes with a couple of cans of root beer.
“We’re trying to locate Elliot Parker.” Cash got right to the point. “His daughter, Margo, is having a difficult pregnancy, and having her dad come home would ease the strain. If you’d give us his address, we’d appreciate it.”
“There’s no address to give. Elliot bought a fancy motor home and he’s on the move. He took up painting when he stayed with me last summer. You know, one of those classes they have in the rec room to keep us old-timers busy. He got pretty good at it, said it must run in the family. Next thing I knew, he loaded up the RV and said he was going to explore California and paint. He didn’t plan to stay in one place long.”
Christie looked at Cash with dismay. They’d hit a brick wall. California was a big state; Elliot could be anywhere. Where would they start searching for him?
“How about a cell phone number?” Cash said.
“Can’t do it. Elliot told me that he doesn’t want anyone to contact him or know where he is. He’s pretty darn mad at his son-in-law. That was a nasty business.”
“You’ve only heard one side of the story, Ben. Hal wasn’t to blame for Elliot losing his position as head of Parker Electronics. But that’s beside the point. Margo wants to find her dad before the baby is born. It’s important to her.”
“Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll try and contact Elliot and see if I can break through that thick head of his and get him to relent. A grandchild—that’s worth mending fences.”
“We’d appreciate that, and remember, time is running out.”
“The only problem is, Elliot likes to paint on location. Doesn’t work from slides like a lot of artists do. So I might not hear from him for a while, and his cell phone may be out of range. But I’ll try.”
“That’s all we can ask, Ben. That’s all we can ask.”
Before they got in the SUV, Cash put his hands on Christie’s shoulders. “I’m glad you came; you took the edge off the meeting. You gave up a day at work and I’m sure that puts you behind. You’re selfless, Christie. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
One of the things he admired? What were the others? Would she have preferred that he tell her that she was pretty? Or smart? Or…? Well, she would accept what was offered. It was, after all, a compliment. But what she really wanted to hear was how he felt about her.
The following Saturday morning, Christie was on her way to Big Sur for Scott Cooper’s class. The drive along the coast was serene. She wished Cash had come along, but there was a plus in the solitude: time to meditate on the pleasant twists and turns of her life, on her involvement with him. They shared many interests, and she could now add an affinity for the desert to the list, too. She loved Cash’s home in Sedona, enjoyed the winter warmth, the red rimrock, the artists’ colony. What a joy to share time between San Francisco’s bustle and Sedona’s lazy way of life.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Their personal relationship did not equate to permanence. Still, working together gave them an opportunity to learn more about each other, personally and professionally. And a successful conclusion to his current case would push her reputation up another notch.
She crossed Bixby Bridge, high above the Pacific. Bixby was one of the most-photographed bridges in the West, probably second only to Golden Gate. The bridge’s graceful concrete arches rose high above the arroyo and Bixby Creek below, and was a stone’s throw from the ocean.
Reaching Big Sur Lodge, she checked in, found her cabin, and unpacked her gear. Fifteen minutes later she joined the group assembled outside the lobby and carpooled to a bluff above the beach.
Cliffs rose majestically from the water, stretching through layers of silvered fog. Waves crashed against a ribbon of sand edged with spires of rock that had once been part of the cliff. Gulls glided and swooped, their sharp eyes searching the sea for tidbits.
Serenity was the first thought that passed through Christie’s mind. She was enraptured by the serenity. Is there a more beautiful scene anywhere? she wondered. How could she dare to believe she could capture this awesome sight on canvas?
A couple of students had already set up their easels. Christie was rooted to the spot, overcome by the strength and beauty of this stretch of coast. In all the years she had lived in San Francisco, she had never visited Big Sur. Too busy with college, too busy with her career. But here the words too busy did not exist. The environment invited you to linger, to absorb.
“Christie, are you going to paint?” The instructor interrupted her thoughts, her mood.
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “I was admiring the view.” That was an understatement of the tenth magnitude.
“It is spectacular. Be sure to take a lot of pictures,” he instructed, “for reference when you are not painting on location.”
She chose a spot to set up her equipment. Still, she hesitated; the wonders of the view captured her mind and heart. She wanted to drink in the atmosphere before she started to paint. Wanted to experience the emotions that she would try to inscribe on her canvas.
Before she knew it, it was time for lunch. She stretched her arms over her head. Her neck and shoulders were a bit stiff. She slipped a sandwich and soda out of a brown paper bag. The instructor walked over and studied her work.
“Your painting is coming along, Christie. I like what you’ve done with the palette knife. Works well on the cliffs.”
The effect was pleasing, and she was glad that she had paid attention to the demonstration the previous week.
At five o’clock it was time to pack up. She zipped her windbreaker against the chill sea air.
Back at the lodge, she ordered a latte and sat by the fire to chase the ocean chill from her bones. She wrapped her cold fingers around the steaming cup. A couple of other artists were sprawled on the couches and chairs, drinks in hand. It had been a good day for painting, and enthusiasm was reflected in their chatter.