Hang in there,” Melinda said as she shifted position to move the carrier to her lap. “The worst is behind us.” Melinda turned her focus to the travelogue the driver had started in Monterey and kept up through miles of farm country, adding a sprinkling of history along with stories of the rich and famous who called the region home.
“This is Moss Landing,” he said as they neared two towering stacks that marked a natural gas power plant on the edge of a harbor. “If you don’t come back for any other reason, you have to make time to see the otters. At last count there was a hundred or so living in the harbor and slough area.”
He went on to talk about an unprecedented anchovy bloom that had happened in the Bay that past year. Humpback whales had arrived in larger numbers than anyone could remember seeing—ever. Dolphins and sea lions, orcas and even blue whales arrived with them. Pelicans churned the water into a froth when thousands dived to catch fish trying to escape the larger predators patrolling below the surface. The oceanographic ships that work in the Bay measured the bloom at a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet thick.
Melinda nodded and smiled and decided against telling him she likely wouldn’t be there long enough to see or do anything he’d suggested.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the beach house, where she would stay as long as she was in Santa Cruz. Everything had happened so fast Melinda still didn’t understand what had prompted the call. There had been no promises on Jeremy’s part, only, We’ll see how it goes when you get here.
Normally she would have challenged anyone who called and insisted she disregard caution and rational thinking. In exchange she would get something she’d desperately wanted all her adult life—to see her daughter again. She had no reason to trust him. But how could she not when the stakes were so high?
Drawing a line in the sand would leave nothing but a target for the next wave. So here she was, a couple of thousand miles from home, too sick to her stomach to eat, too filled with fear to sleep.
The driver stopped in front of a brick walkway lined with flowers planted in dozens of sizes, shapes, and colors. There was a wonderful appeal to the disorder that reminded Melinda of a Monet painting. Bees and butterflies sorted through the blossoms. A hummingbird stopped to hover in front of her as she got out of the car. The porch held two tall lapis blue pots on either side of the front door with lace leaf miniature weeping Japanese maples draped over the sides.
“It’s so much more than I expected,” she said, more to herself than the driver. Her gaze swept the details of the house itself, at the functioning gray shutters and solar panels built into the roofing material. Somehow the house managed to maintain its charm and look its age without looking tired.
“The contractor they hired is famous around here for restoring old homes. It’s almost as if he can talk to the houses and they tell him what they need.”
She longed to ask him if he knew Jeremy, or more importantly, Jeremy’s daughter. Instead she headed for the porch where, as promised, she found the house and car rental keys under the mat. The driver followed her inside.
“You want me to leave the suitcases here or put them in the bedroom?”
“Here is fine.”
Melinda paid him, then followed him back outside. “Hopefully I’ll be here long enough to see some of the places you suggested.”
He handed her a business card. “Let me know if you’d like any suggestions for restaurants or the best whale-watching boat out of Monterey or”—he grinned—“if you need help finding someone to adopt your cat.”
She glanced down at the card and smiled at the logo—a cab that looked as if it had been drawn by a ten-year-old. “I will. Thank you.”
“De nada,” he shouted over his shoulder as he got in the cab.
She watched him drive away, the bright yellow cab disappearing at the first turn in the narrow, eucalyptus-lined road.
Before Melinda went back inside she stopped to look at the cottage next door. Something about the way it sat perched on a rocky outcropping, surrounded by a haphazard assortment of orange and red and yellow nasturtiums, appealed to her. She loved the weathered rear deck and could see that it offered an expansive view of the ocean.
Although the cottage was nothing like the house her father had built for her mother in Eastern Kentucky, they had a commonality that came through in the whimsy of how they’d been put together. Each broke design rules, ignoring architectural dictates for the placement of doors and windows, relying instead on the main entrance tucked under an arching portico at the back of the house.
Feeling guilty that the kitten was still caged, Melinda went back inside. The kitten stood on point at the cage door, seeking confirmation they’d reached the end of their journey. When Melinda lowered herself to her haunches and opened the door, the kitten made a loud, excited meow, stuck her head out, and sniffed.
“It’s okay. I promise.”
She looked at Melinda before tentatively venturing out, one paw at a time until her entire bony body was free to explore.
“So, what do you think?” Melinda asked.
The kitten answered with a squeaky purr.
“Really? You haven’t been here five minutes and you approve already?” This time the answer was more howl than meow. “Okay, okay, I hear you.” She picked up the kitten and carried her to the bathroom where she set up the litter box. After a quick look at the four bedrooms, she chose the one at the back of the house with the sliding glass door and small, private deck facing the ocean.
Finally, they headed for the kitchen, where Melinda unpacked the ingredients and prepared the repugnant-looking gruel the vet had prescribed as the next step in the feeding routine. After the gruel came a half bottle of kitten milk, consumed from a bottle with a nipple so long it looked as if it would choke her.
The meal ended with paw licking and cheek cleaning and attempts to groom herself, some successful, some sweet failures when she lost her balance and toppled over.
Melinda considered creating a nest for the kitten on the chair by the window and going for a walk on the beach. The kitten had other ideas. She sat on the sofa and patiently waited, her gaze following Melinda’s every move, in need of nurturing almost as much as Melinda needed to give it.
The walk on the beach could wait. She had two weeks. Hopefully more.