“Christie, so glad you came. I’d like you to meet the gallery owner, Mr. Allingham.”
They shook hands, and as Allingham departed, Scott put a hand to the small of Christie’s back to guide her through the exhibit.
“I’m extremely pleased at how many paintings Allingham hung. I didn’t expect so much exposure.” He waved his arm.
Christie walked alongside Scott, slowly taking in his artwork. When one particularly caught her attention, she would stop, and Scott would explain some detail about that particular piece. She especially liked his Big Sur paintings. They were realistic, but he had painted each scene with his own interpretation. Strong, bold strokes and vibrant colors accented the natural beauty of the cliffs and surf.
They were interrupted by the gallery owner, who had a couple in tow. He introduced them to Scott, and Christie excused herself so he could focus his attention on the prospective buyers. She paused at a large canvas on an easel. It didn’t look like one of Scott’s; the colors were soft and moody, capturing the fog-shrouded bluffs with a sense of emotion. She leaned forward and checked the signature. The hair on her arms rose. The artist was Elliot Parker! She swiveled and scanned the wall. Four more of Elliot’s paintings hung in the gallery. Heart pounding, Christie hurried over to the gallery owner. She could hardly believe what she had seen. Allingham was bent over a podium, straightening out the guest book and pen: busywork. She tapped his arm and he looked up.
“The paintings by Elliot Parker, are they recent acquisitions?”
“Yes. Mr. Parker comes through here regularly, and his work is well received, especially by tourists. I am always grateful when he brings in new work. Are you interested in a particular painting?”
“Do you know where he is staying?”
Allingham looked at her quizzically. “We can’t give out that kind of information. I’m sure you understand. Privacy reasons.”
“This is very important. I’m a friend of Mr. Parker’s daughter. She is expecting a baby and there have been complications with the pregnancy. Elliot has been on the road so long, he is unaware of the situation. We’ve been trying to contact him.”
“You could leave a message.”
“There isn’t time.”
“I’m sorry, we are strict on confidentiality.” Allingham turned, dismissing her. Christie pulled a card from her wallet, scratched a message on it, and handed it to him.
“Please give this to Elliot when you see him. Impress upon him that this is an emergency.”
On the way out of the gallery, she said a hasty good-bye to Scott. She knew what she had to do: check every campground in the area. First she’d call Cash.
He answered the phone on the third ring. Christie told him that she believed Elliot was in the area, and her plan.
“If you locate Elliot, tell him to drive to Watsonville Airport and then call me. I’ll fly him to Sedona.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Once he knows Margo needs him, he’ll be ready to return home. And Christie, why don’t you come, too? We can be back tomorrow.”
The one question Christie did not voice was: What if she couldn’t find Elliot? If she failed, she would feel as though she had let Margo down. Being this close, it would be unthinkable not to succeed. Margo needed her father. Being estranged from him after losing her mother must make her feel like an orphan.
The reservation office at Little River Campground was her first stop. The receptionist was friendly. She thumbed through the campsite roster, but Elliot was not registered. She gave Christie a list of campgrounds and some phone numbers and told her that she was welcome to use the office phone. Christie was appreciative; her cell phone was getting spotty reception.
The third campground host she spoke to gave her a lead. “Mr. Parker often stays here,” he said, “but when he showed up a little more than a week ago, we were completely full. I suggested he try Fernwood or Little Sur Campground.”
She got an answering machine at Little Sur. Thanking the receptionist for use of the phone, she jingled her keys as she strode to the car. She only had to drive a few miles, but it seemed like an eternity until she saw the rough-hewn signboard over the campground entrance.
A cardboard clock at the reservation desk indicated that someone would be back at one o’clock. It was one fifteen now; so much for punctuality!
Unable to contain herself, she returned to her car and slowly drove through the campground, hoping for some indication that Elliot was there. She followed a looping dirt road bordered by campsites. Recreation vehicles of every size, from a small tent-trailer to a streamlined luxury motor home, were scattered beneath the trees. Campers relaxed in canvas and metal chairs or at wooden picnic tables. Remnants of the previous evening’s campfire smoldered in some fire pits and smoke curled into the air. She watched a young boy tease the flames with a long stick. His mother pulled his hand away and warned that if he got too close he would get burned.
The road curved into a cul-de-sac; campsites lined only one side of this section. Just around the bend Christie came upon a secluded site. Set back from the road was a twenty-four-foot motor home and a single canvas-and-metal chair. A folded artist’s easel rested against the motor home. Christie’s hopes soared. She parked and got out, her heart thrumming. Big Sur was popular with artists; this could be anyone’s easel, she reminded herself. She quickly shook that idea out of her mind. She had too much invested to allow negative thoughts to intrude. Margo needed this to be Elliot!
She stepped up to the RV and knocked on the door. No answer. Just her luck. If this was Elliot’s spot, he could be out hiking or beachcombing, and might not be back until dark. Or maybe he had a tow vehicle and had driven to Monterey or Carmel.
“Are you looking for someone?” a soft voice asked.
Christie whirled and stared into the face of Elliot Parker.
Elliot locked the motor home and they headed to Watsonville in Christie’s car. Cash had given easy directions to the airport, which was about twenty-five miles north of Monterey. She had told Elliot about Margo’s problem with her pregnancy and the restrictions the doctor imposed.
“It’s important that she be kept stress-free,” she said. “And worrying about whether or not she would ever see you again hasn’t helped.”
Elliot turned his face toward the window. Christie realized that her remark was sharp, but it was true, and he deserved it. How could he have deserted his daughter, argument or no argument?
“I was having a difficult time,” Elliot said by way of explanation. “I’m grateful that you found me. I would never purposely hurt Margo. I love her,” he said simply.
They arrived at Watsonville Airport and parked. They were on the tarmac in time to watch Cash’s plane touch down and roll off the runway toward them. Elliot took Christie’s arm and they ran out to meet the Beechcraft. Cash pushed the cabin door open, dropped the step, and Christie and Elliot climbed aboard. “Elliot, it’s good to see you,” Cash said.
“I didn’t know about Margo’s baby,” Elliot sputtered. “I would have returned home…” There was regret in his voice.
“I know, Elliot. That’s all over now. I’m going to get the plane back in the air.”
They buckled themselves into their seats while Cash taxied onto the runway. He accelerated, bringing the nose of the plane skyward, and as always Christie felt her stomach drop.
“Not scared, are you?” Elliot asked.
She tried to appear nonchalant and shrugged her shoulders.
They were quiet during the rest of the trip, and as they made their approach to the airport in Sedona, Christie closed her eyes and silently vowed not to open them until the plane rolled to a stop.