“Yes, and it’s about time.”
Cash and Mike were discussing whom they considered the greatest trumpeter. Reaching the door, Mike gave Cash a friendly pat on the back, and told him he would make reservations for a July musical.
“The production of Wicked is scheduled, a must-see. It’s already sold out, but I may be able to wrangle a few tickets. Will you come?”
“You can count on it,” Cash said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Jackie, Mike. This has been a very pleasant afternoon.”
“I was so glad Christie was bringing you here. Mike and I looked forward to meeting you,” Jackie gushed.
On the road Christie said, “My mother comes on a little strong sometimes.”
“Your parents are great. I meant it when I said it was a pleasant afternoon. I enjoy being with family.”
“Anybody’s?”
“You know what I mean. Special families.”
Christie leaned back, taking in the meaning of what Cash had said, “special families.” She hoped that he would always consider her part of that category.
The flight to San Francisco was routine. Afterward, Cash drove Christie home.
“Thanks for a wonderful weekend,” she said.
Cash touched her chin, tipping it up. His mouth brushed hers and she wanted to grab him and bring his mouth to hers in a deep kiss. His nearness unsettled her, setting her nerves on fire. All weekend they had been close, touching, holding, kissing; emotions had run rampant within her. Now, in the quiet moments of returning home, there was a sudden letdown. Three days together, and now they would be apart. She closed her fingers around the collar of his shirt and pulled his face back to meet hers. Forward? she thought. Maybe, but she wanted, needed his kiss.
“What do you have in mind?” Cash murmured a moment before her mouth captured his. Searing sparks prickled up her spine, and her mind was clouded with sensations, not answers. The kiss, the tight alignment of their bodies as they embraced, the heat of the moment, filled her, overpowered her. She wanted more, but it would have to be enough. For now.
The week dragged by. Christie’s cases were uncomplicated and did not fully absorb her: an obviously forged check, a holographic will that stood up to review, and a manuscript that was purported to be written by an obscure author. She anticipated the weekend at Big Sur with Cash. Sunny weather was promised through Sunday, if you could trust the weatherman.
Signing off on the last document, Christie went to lunch. She was back at her desk after a quick sandwich at the deli. As she was hanging her sweater over the back of her chair, the phone rang. She reached for it and said hello. It was Cash.
“Disappointing news,” he said. “I can’t make Big Sur this weekend. I have a new case and it’s going to take all my time this afternoon and most of tomorrow. I’m sorry, Christie.”
“I am, too.” She had been looking forward to spending Saturday in Big Sur. They had planned on leaving early in the morning, attending her art instructor’s exhibit, walking the beach, and having an early dinner high up on the hill at the Ventana Inn before returning home late that evening. Her spirits, so high just a few minutes ago, dropped to the floor.
She leaned back and swiveled in her chair, thinking about the lost opportunity. Then her chair sprang upright and she bounced out of it. It was still early; if she made a quick detour home for a change of clothes, she could be on the road to Big Sur before three. She’d spend the night.
She thumbed through the Rolodex until she found the Big Sur Inn. Dialing, she kept her fingers crossed that there would be a vacancy. As much as she wished Cash was going, his presence was not a prerequisite to enjoying the weekend.
The desk clerk was polite and helpful, taking her reservation and mentioning that today’s weather was quite nice.
Before she left she ducked into Tom’s office to tell him that she was leaving early. After a quick stop home for a change of clothes and to feed Tosha, she was threading her way through light traffic and heading south. She would arrive at Big Sur with a tad of daylight left.
After registering at the inn, she tied a sweatshirt around her waist and set out on a hike through the park. She walked alongside the river, which narrowed to a creek at this juncture. She watched a young couple with backpacks cross weathered wooden planks that bridged the creek. The water sparkled and the clarity revealed a bed of round river rock and minnow-size fish swiftly swimming back and forth.
Spring in the forest was special. Wild azalea and rhododendron peeked through masses of ceanothus—California’s wild lilac. Hunks of Scotch broom, ablaze with clusters of buttercup-yellow blossoms, swayed gently in the breeze. Yellow clusters dripped from acacia trees, sure to inflame her allergies, she mused. The trail was thick with manzanita, sycamore, and towering sequoias. This scenic spot was another world, hidden from the inn and campsites that were just a stone’s throw away.
The hike brought her to a gorge, and she had to watch for poison oak. Newts and salamanders zipped across the path, and squirrels chattered at her. It was tough going once she entered the gorge. The trail was not as defined and huckleberry vines sprang at her, their nasty thorns threatening to gouge her skin. Although the weather was warm, she pulled her sweatshirt on to protect her arms.
Then she reached the prize. A monolithic granite spire rose from the ground and a ribbon of waterfall cascaded over it, creating a pool at its base. Across the water, ripples shimmered in circles and grew as they fanned out.
She took off her shoes and socks and sat on an outcropping. She dipped her feet into the pool; after the long hike, the chilly water was refreshing. If only she’d worn a bathing suit under her clothes, she thought. The water was inviting; perhaps another time she would go for a swim.
The tensions of the week fell away in response to the beauty of the woodland setting. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, making the scene more perfect than if she had designed it herself. Tranquility. Every nerve in her body relaxed. How fortunate, she thought, to have this natural gem nearby.
Later, after a brisk shower, she had dinner at the inn’s restaurant, and then browsed the gift shop. She chose a couple of postcards and a T-shirt, then returned to her cottage.
Back in her room, she undressed and pulled an oversized sleeping shirt over her head. She hauled Kristin Hannah’s latest novel from her overnight bag and made herself comfortable in a chair by the window. At ten o’clock, her eyes weary from reading, she closed the book. It had been a pleasant, even inspirational, day. The one ingredient that would have improved on the mix was Cash.
She had expected a candlelight dinner for two, mood music, and a walk through Ventana’s garden, not dinner alone. She could almost feel his arms crushing her close, his heartbeat throbbing with desire, his lips hotly pressing hers. She had visualized a steamy love scene, but she knew it was only a fantasy. She settled for going to bed early, wearing her sensible cotton nightshirt.
The following morning, Christie enjoyed an unrushed breakfast of Belgian waffles and strawberries. The sun was brilliant and the air already showed signs of warmth. Spring was unpredictable on the coast; one minute it was summer weather, the next it felt like winter. After finishing a second cup of decaf tea, she checked out of the inn and drove to the art gallery. Judging by the scarcity of cars in the parking lot, she was either early for the exhibit or there was a lack of interest. She surmised that others would drift in and out throughout the weekend.
The gallery walls were covered with paintings of various scenes and contrasting styles, but she spotted Scott’s work immediately. His bold strokes stood out. Two men were standing together, and as she approached, one turned, and she was pleased that it was her instructor.