2007
Mari walked down Front Street, past the homeless sleeping on the sidewalk, toward the marble and limestone landmark, the Santa Cruz post office. At nearly one hundred years old, it was the oldest continually operating state post office on the National Register of Historic Places.
Clutching the brass key in her palm, Mari could feel her heart beat faster. After speaking with Evie at the nursing home, she’d returned to Abuelo’s trunk, finding the small key etched with the number 777. If it opened a PO box here, what would she find inside?
Stepping through the doorway, Mari admired the 1912 Renaissance Revival building, which had been modeled after a fifteenth-century foundling hospital in Florence, Italy. Her eyes took in one of the colorful murals by the American artist Henrietta Shore. The lunette depicted farmers harvesting artichokes, which made her think of Abuelo, and his childhood picking strawberries.
There were four murals in total, which had been commissioned in 1935 by the federal government’s Treasury Relief Art Project. President Franklin D. Roosevelt putting artists to work with the New Deal was the best thing to come out of the Great Depression. Henrietta Shore had painted the laborers with dignity, a quality the working class weren’t always given.
Maybe the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History would want to do something to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the post office? They could dedicate a plaque. Mari could already envision postal officials and local historians at the celebration . . . a celebration she organized.
She was getting ahead of herself. But in the past few weeks, she’d begun to feel different. Maybe it was confidence, “getting her groove back,” but today Mari felt like she could be working for the Santa Cruz museum in five years’ time. Why not? She’d won the Swanson Grant, after all.
“Hi,” she said, approaching the clerk behind the desk. “I have a key which I believe belongs to a box here, registered to my grandfather. Do you have any post office boxes that have been in operation since 1940?”
The clerk nodded. “We do, indeed. Turn down the hall and take a left. You’ll find our boxes in that room.”
Mari did as she was instructed. When she stepped inside the room, thousands of antique PO boxes lined the walls. They were so beautiful, made of brass and marked with black numbers. She walked along the wall, searching for number 777.
She bent down, finding the small square box toward the bottom of the rows in the back corner. Her palm had become sweaty with the key clutched in it. She stuck it into the lock and twisted, letting out her breath. It was a perfect fit.
Swinging the door open, Mari peered inside. At first the box looked empty, but then something small and silver caught her eye. Another key? Mari removed it, staring in bewilderment at the small metal object. Her phone jangled with a notification.
Crap! She had ten minutes to walk to the Jupiter Café for her shift, and then she had to call back the dentist to confirm Lily’s appointment, not to mention the ten million loads of laundry that needed to be done. As much as she wanted to find out what this key belonged to, her search would have to wait. Mari slipped it into her pocket, shut the door to the box and locked it. What secrets had Abuelo been hiding?
TRANSFERRING THE LAST load of laundry to the dryer, Mari listened as Lily giggled, watching an episode of Maya & Miguel. She tried not to let her daughter watch too much TV, but the show was funny and charming, plus it taught Lily Spanish words.
Swallowing, she felt a heavy knot in her stomach. The city planning commission meeting was tomorrow night, and she’d rounded up neighbors who’d promised to attend. But that didn’t mean she was ready to face Travis. Sometimes her rage toward him rose fast and furious as a tsunami. What if she hadn’t been joking with her mom and she really punched him in the face? No one would take her seriously then, and she could kiss her grant goodbye.
Paulina walked into the laundry room, scooping up a basket of Lily’s clothes, warm from the dryer.
“I’ll help you fold these.”
“Oh Ma, you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She smiled. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Mari said. “Te amo.”
“I love you too,” Paulina said, picking up the plastic basket and carrying it into the living room. Mari sat down on the soft couch, lifting one of Lily’s T-shirts. Lily giggled in front of the television, completely engrossed in her cartoon show. Dropping her voice to a whisper, Mari turned to Paulina.
“Ma, I found a key that belongs to a PO box downtown. It was in Abuelo’s trunk. I know this sounds crazy, but I think he had a connection to Violet Harcourt, a beauty queen from 1940. She was Mayor Harcourt’s father’s first wife.”
Paulina’s eyes widened. “Que?”
“I found a picture of Abuelo with Violet. She worked as a waitress at the boardwalk. I think they were friends. I also found a postcard she may have written to him. I think she may have been in an abusive relationship, and I’m pretty sure he helped her escape to Hollywood. But when she returned, she committed suicide.”
Paulina made the sign of the cross over her chest. “Abuelo never spoke about anyone named Violet. Are you sure he knew her?”
Mari nodded. “I visited an old woman named Evelyn Hastings who was friends with Violet. She remembered Abuelo. She said Violet asked her to give him a red dress suit for his mother, Great-Grandma.”
Raising her eyebrows, Paulina cracked a smile. “Is she loca?”
“I don’t think so. She seemed really with it.”
“Why did you visit this Evelyn? Who is she?”
“I emailed her daughter, Karen, because I’m looking to interview old people for my grant project. Karen responded, and told me that Evelyn won the Miss California pageant in 1940. Evelyn lived in Santa Cruz during the summers, and I wanted to meet her.”
Paulina picked up a pair of leggings and folded them in half. “So what did you find inside this PO box. Anything?”
“Another key.”
“What?”
This time Lily turned around. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing, honey,” Mari said. “Watch your cartoon.”
Reaching into her jeans pocket, Mari removed the small silver key. She handed it to her mother. Paulina opened her palm and stared at it, her brows scrunching together. She turned it over, pointing to the faded etching on the side. “Look, there’s a number. I think this might belong to a safe deposit box.”
“Like at the bank?”
Paulina nodded. “Your father and I have one. We keep some of Abuela’s jewelry in there.” Her eyes lit up. “You might want her wedding ring someday.”
Mari smirked. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“When we cleaned out this house after Abuelo died, we moved everything to storage, sold stuff we didn’t want or put it in the attic. He didn’t have anything valuable, Mari. Nada. And he never told me about a safe deposit box.”
“But if he had one . . .”
“Then it would be at the Bank of Santa Cruz. That’s where he banked when he was alive. I still have some of his checkbooks.”
“I’m hungry!” Lily yelled, hopping up.
Paulina slipped the key into Mari’s hand.
“What do you want for dinner?” Mari asked, annoyed her conversation had been interrupted. But that was life with a kid, a nonstop series of interruptions.
“Spaghetti!” Lily announced. “With tomato sauce and cheese.”
“Okay,” Mari said. “Sounds yummy.”
“I’ll finish this,” Paulina said, nodding at the laundry.
“Thanks,” Mari replied, taking Lily by the hand. But as she filled a pot with water and turned on the stove, her mind spun. Travis Harcourt, Mayor Harcourt, Charles and Violet Harcourt—the past and present were colliding, and secrets were going to spill out.
THE ROOM WAS hot. So hot, Mari wished she’d put on an extra swipe of deodorant. She looked around the packed city council chambers and her heart fluttered. Fifty neighbors had shown up. And now they waited for Mari to speak, squished side by side in the tense atmosphere.
Council member Frank Ortega stood at the podium, frowning at the crowded room. He spoke into the microphone. “The planning commission will advise city council on matters pertaining to land use after receiving public input. Who would like to speak?”
With her heart pounding, Mari raised her hand. All eyes in the room were on her. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
Someone handed her a microphone, and she took a deep breath. She found Jason’s face in the audience, smiling at her encouragingly. Smiling back at him, her nerves abated.
“Good evening. Thank you for joining me tonight.” She cleared her throat. “We are here to object not only to the condominium development scheduled for construction on Cowell Beach, but to the noise, congestion and traffic it will create.”
People murmured in agreement.
Mari looked at the city council members. “For the home owners on Beach Hill and the surrounding area, blocked views of the ocean will hurt property values. This condominium will radically change the population of the neighborhood. Single tech workers with high incomes don’t share the interests of our local families.”
“That’s right!” a man bellowed. “They’ll want more liquor license permits and trendy restaurants, while we want good schools and community programs.”
Mari smiled at the surprise on the city council members’ faces. She’d started a Facebook page called “Save the Cowell Beach Gazebo” and had reached even more residents than she thought possible. This meeting was not going as city council had planned.
“Let’s settle down,” a council member said.
“Excuse me,” a woman called out, looking over at Mari. “I’d like to speak.”
Mari passed her the microphone.
“Hi. My name is Jan Selby and I’m a longtime Santa Cruz resident. I’m concerned that this condo development on the beach will set the tone for having condos all the way down the beach. What if beach access is restricted?”
“We can’t have that!” another woman cried out. “Public access to the beach blocked? That’s absolutely classist.”
Vice Mayor Malia Echevarria stepped forward, an annoyed look on her face. “Public beach access will not be restricted.”
“That’s not true,” a man piped up. “I live nearby, and just the other day I saw a fence go up around the perimeter. There were sandbags brought in.”
“The fence is temporary,” the vice mayor replied. “It will remain there until construction begins.”
“So children will be at risk of stepping on nails?” a woman said, a toddler on her hip. “I’m a mother, and those kind of dangers are unacceptable.”
Get the locals riled up, and you didn’t know what you were in for. They were a righteous bunch. But Mari’s hope faded the minute she saw Travis Harcourt take the podium. She’d worried he might show up, but then convinced herself he wouldn’t. Now he was here, grinning at the room with that perfect white smile of his.
“Neighbors, friends. As you know, I grew up here in Santa Cruz too. I love this city. I would never do anything to hurt the community. I’ve already agreed to shorten the condominiums from eight stories to five, and to install solar panels.”
Mari snatched the microphone back from Jan. “Because including solar panels allows for expedited permitting. This isn’t about clean energy, it’s about pushing your agenda through as quickly as possible.”
“I’m sorry,” Travis said, smiling condescendingly. “What’s your name?”
For a minute, Mari’s vision went red, and she thought about marching over, pulling back her hand and punching him hard in the jaw. But she took a deep breath in through her nose, and let it out through her mouth.
“Let’s not play games, Travis. You know who I am.”
A hush settled over the room as neighbors’ eyes darted between them, sensing something dramatic about to take place.
He chuckled. “Neighbors, this condominium will improve the neighborhood. With the influx of new money, we’ll have more to spend on our parks, schools and infrastructure. We’re breathing new life into the community.”
“At the expense of the old culture being erased and the gazebo being torn down and the destruction of everything that our older community members treasure!”
“The gazebo is a nonissue. It’s barely standing. No one uses it. And I can promise you, my project has already received approval from the state’s coastal commission, so nothing is going to stop it from going through.”
Mari gritted her teeth. She’d spent hours looking at maps, documents and zoning laws, trying to find fault with Travis’s permit, but he’d done everything by the book.
“Will the seawall cause erosion?” a woman asked.
“No,” Travis replied. “We’ve already tested the soil.”
Council member Frank Ortega rapped his gavel against the podium. “Thank you, community members, for voicing your opposition to this project. Meeting minutes will be recorded and posted online. Time’s up.”
Cries of protest sounded from the crowd, but he rapped his gavel again and said loudly, “Meeting adjourned.”
“What happens now?” a gray-haired man asked, frowning at Mari.
She licked her lips, all the moisture gone from her mouth. “We have to keep fighting. We’ll continue looking for flaws in the permit, look for opportunities to stop construction. But this could be a long process.”
He shook his head. “We’re the underdogs. I don’t expect to win.”
She sighed, her heart sinking as people shuffled out of the room. Looking around for Jason, she couldn’t find him in the sea of faces.
Suddenly Travis was at her side, making her skin crawl. “Well,” he whispered, smacking his chewing gum. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Who the hell do you think you are, some kind of activist?”
Mari clenched her jaw. “I’m a Santa Cruz native just like you. Not to mention, one of the residents on Beach Hill whose views will be blocked.”
He smirked at her. “You have no right to those views.”
“You entitled piece of . . .”
“What?” He laughed. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. If you try to stall my project, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
“Travis, can I speak with you a moment?” Frank Ortega appeared next to them, stopping Mari from spewing the insults she wanted to hurl at Travis.
“In a moment,” Travis said, chewing his gum obnoxiously. “Is my dad here yet?”
“Mayor Harcourt is on his way.”
“Cool.”
Mari rolled her eyes. Could he be any more flippant? When Ortega walked away, Travis lowered his voice. “Is this even about the development, or is it about the mistake you made four years ago?”
“Mistake?” Mari’s throat tightened. She would not cry in front of him. “Our daughter is the love of my life. She’s bright, funny, smart and better off not knowing what a complete asshole her father is.”
“I never said I wanted to be involved,” Travis said, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought I made that pretty clear.”
“Clear as day,” Mari replied, blinking back tears.
“Good,” Travis said. “Then we’re done here.”
“No, we’re not. I’ll fight your development until you can’t stand the sight of me anymore. I don’t give up easily.”
Travis smirked. “You don’t get it, do you? My father has already approved everything. He’s the one who told me to use solar panels and low-flow showers to keep it eco-friendly. It’s your father you should be worried about.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
All three council members watched them argue from across the room, Vice Mayor Echevarria frowning as she narrowed her eyes.
Travis cocked his head in their direction. “They’re waiting for me. Take my advice. Stop fighting this. You’re going to fail.” He spat his gum into a foil wrapper, and then set it down on the folding table.
Mari looked at him in disgust. “Are you going to leave that there?”
He shrugged. “A janitor will clean it up.”
Before she could get in the last word, Travis turned his back on her and walked away. A lump rose in her throat, and she clenched her hands into fists. So long as Mayor Harcourt approved the condo project, she wasn’t likely to get anywhere.
Then she thought back to that day on the boardwalk . . . to the confused look on the mayor’s face when he’d seen Lily. Mari’s eyes darted to the used chewing gum, and her heart began to beat faster. Maybe it was time for Mayor Harcourt to know the truth.