2007
Mari stood next to Carol, a thought nagging persistently at the back of her mind. Mayor Harcourt came from a line of rich and powerful men—a prominent Santa Cruz family. So why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the name Violet Harcourt? If the young beauty queen was in fact related to the mayor, her death should have been town gossip. Mari and her friends had told plenty of ghost stories as children, but Violet Harcourt’s name had never been mentioned as part of the local folklore.
“What do you know about Violet Harcourt?”
The rush of the Giant Dipper sounded overhead, and shrieks carried on the breeze. Mari waited for the rickety wooden roller-coaster cars to pass so that Carol could give her an answer.
Carol frowned. “It’s a sad story. She was Miss California 1940 and had a promising life ahead of her. She tried to make it as an actress in Hollywood, but she returned to Santa Cruz a few months later, then jumped off a cliff.”
“Is she of any relation to Mayor Harcourt?”
“She was his father’s first wife. Charles Harcourt remarried a few years after her death. Most people only know of his second wife, Grace.”
Mari nodded, figuring the mayor would rather not focus on this sad aspect of his family history.
Carol sighed, her eyes settling on the gazebo. “I shouldn’t say this, but it really is such a shame what the mayor is doing. All of us at the museum feel that it’s wrong to tear down a historic structure.”
Mari furrowed her brow. “Then let’s do something about it. What if we filed the paperwork to get the gazebo listed on the National Register of Historic Places? That would prevent the building from being torn down, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose we could try. The property must be at least fifty years old, which it is—and we’d have to prove its historic significance.”
Mari smiled. “I might have photos of my grandparents attending community dances there. I’m sure other locals have photos too. We could submit them with the application.”
“It feels icky to oppose the mayor. His son certainly seems like a determined young man. I’m sure he wants what’s best for the town. Maybe the new construction will include affordable housing for families?”
“I highly doubt it.”
Carol turned to Mari. “I admire you for showing such passion toward preserving a piece of our town’s history. Perhaps we should put up a fight.”
“Let’s do it,” Mari said.
Carol nodded. “I can print the forms for us to send to the state historic preservation office. Of course, there’s no guarantee our request will be approved. They could reject the property, or ask for more information. Oh wait—here comes someone.”
She beamed at the young man approaching. “Welcome to the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History exhibit. Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?”
“I’d love to,” Jason said.
Crap. Mari couldn’t find her voice, her hands hanging uselessly at her sides as she met his warm brown eyes. Carol nudged her in the ribs.
“Raffle tickets are ten dollars each,” Mari replied. “Our prizes include dinner for two at Trabocco, Beach Boardwalk season passes, a beach cruiser bicycle—”
“I’ll buy ten of them.”
Carol’s eyes widened. “Wonderful!”
“That’ll be one hundred dollars . . .”
“Great job,” Carol whispered, as Jason handed Mari five twenties. “I’m heading out, but I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Have a great evening.”
After Carol left the booth, Mari smirked. “How did you find me?”
“Wanda was eager to tell me about your weekend job. You work for the museum. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Look,” Mari said. “I don’t mean to be rude. But it’s complicated. I’m not looking to date anyone right now.”
“Okay. But I think you’re smart and cool. Is there a reason we can’t be friends?”
Mari smiled. “Well, you did spend a hundred dollars on raffle tickets . . .”
STROLLING ALONG THE wooden slats of the boardwalk with a cotton candy in hand, Mari paused in front of the historic Looff Carousel.
“I used to ride this carousel with my grandpa,” she said, smiling wistfully. “I loved the jewels on the horses. Did you know each animal is hand-carved? This carousel is from 1911. And the organ is a rare Wurlitzer.”
Jason’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s so cool that your family has lived here for generations. My grandparents moved to Chicago in 1945, but my grandmother never talks much about her childhood, or her life before the war.”
“Really?” Mari took a bite of the sugary confection. “My abuelo always told me about how he immigrated here from Mexico, worked in horrible conditions on a strawberry farm until he became a stunt performer. He liked to talk about the past.”
Turning to the neglected gazebo, Mari sighed. “He met my grandma at a dance there. It’s such a shame the structure is being torn down. I want to get it listed on the register of historic places, like this carousel.”
Jason smiled. “You have a bit of cotton candy on your chin.”
“Oh,” Mari said, bringing her hand to her face.
Jason laughed. “I love how passionate you are about saving historic structures. But it’s hard to take you seriously when you have a pink beard.”
“Very funny,” Mari said, glaring.
Jason held up his hands. “Hey, I think it’s wonderful that your grandparents met at a gazebo dance. But the bureaucracy of getting a structure listed on the register of historic places can take a while to work through. Have you thought of other ways to generate public interest in saving the gazebo?”
“I could post some of my grandpa’s pictures on Facebook. Lots of girls enjoy doing retro-style photo shoots here at the boardwalk. It could be a great wedding backdrop if it were restored.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “That’s definitely one way. Have you thought about applying for a Swanson Grant? I saw a flyer up in the English department on campus.”
Mari shook her head. “I don’t know anything about the Swanson Grant.”
“Oh. The James Swanson Memorial Fund accepts proposals that promote understanding of the history of Santa Cruz. Like, intellectual research.” He snapped his fingers. “How about writing a story, or making an art piece, or filming a documentary about the gazebo?”
Mari scrunched her brow. “So I could publish an article on the gazebo’s history that would get people interested in the gazebo?”
He smiled. “You’re the historian. You tell me.”
She smirked. “Do you work in the English department? Sorry, I’ve been talking so much, I haven’t even asked you what you do at UC Santa Cruz.”
“I’m an IT specialist,” Jason said. “I help professors in the English department.”
“And you noticed a grant flyer which in no way relates to working with computers?”
Jason grinned. “I thought somebody might be interested.”
“How much is the grant award?”
“Twelve hundred bucks.”
Mari thought about what she could do with that money. She could construct a replica of the gazebo as it was in its heyday, maybe even an entire diorama with people dancing, and have it on display at the museum’s booth at the boardwalk. She’d have to hire artists, but it was more than enough money. And Carol would give her permission to show it off. That would get people interested, wouldn’t it?
Mari smiled. “I like that idea. Thanks.”
Jason punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Any time, buddy.”
Mari glanced at her phone. “Shoot, I better get going.”
“Hot date tonight?”
Mari turned her phone outward so Jason could see the screensaver.
“This is my date. Her name is Lily.”
“You’re a mom?”
“Yep. My most important job of all.”
“Wow, she’s beautiful.” Jason paused a beat. “And Lily’s dad is . . .”
“Not in the picture.”
Jason’s eyes filled with understanding. “My sister’s a single mom. I love my niece and nephew to the moon and back, but I see how hard it is for her.”
Mari was taken aback by the directness of his statement. But he was right. It was hard. She found his openness refreshing.
“Hey, I really do have to go,” she said. “But thanks for the cotton candy.”
“I had a great time,” Jason said. He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Here’s my number. No pressure. Call me if you want to hang out.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mari said, slipping his card into the back pocket of her jeans. Before she lost her nerve, she pulled a pen from her purse and scribbled her phone number on an old receipt. “Here’s mine.”
Jason’s face lit up when she handed him the paper. “Cool.”
He gave a friendly wave, and her shoulders relaxed. Since becoming a mom, she’d isolated herself. She was too young to connect with the other moms at the preschool, many of whom were in their late thirties. They had careers, book clubs and wine nights, which she was never invited to. Maybe once she had been, but she’d declined too many times. Today it felt possible to open her heart to friendship.
WHILE LILY SLEPT nearby, Mari’s laptop screen illuminated the dark room. She typed “Swanson Grant” into the search engine and waited for the results to load.
Apply for a Local History Grant
Are you working on a local history project? Want to receive some funding and support for your passion for Santa Cruz’s past and future? The History Forum, a group of Santa Cruz community members with a particular interest in local history, supports the annual Swanson Award competition for local history research. The award comes with public recognition and a grant of $1,200 to support original projects that promote the understanding of the history of the Santa Cruz/Monterey Bay area. These projects can be documentaries, studies, performances, art installations or publications. We care about the content, and we look forward to receiving applications that reflect innovative approaches to preserving local history. You don’t have to be a professional historian to be an effective champion for local history.
Mari smiled. It was as if the grant had been written for her. The language was friendly and inviting—the site even stated she didn’t have to be a professional historian. And building a diorama of the gazebo would certainly be innovative, right?
Maybe in addition to hiring artists, she could interview elderly members of the community about their gazebo memories, record those memories and then play them along with the diorama installation. It would be like a guided museum tour.
Clicking the link to the application, Mari waited for the file to open. Her narrative couldn’t exceed five hundred words, but she had additional pages to upload her proposal material. Abuelo’s photos would be perfect. She had to list who was participating, the location of the project, how it would be implemented and its timeline, and she had to explain its connection to Santa Cruz County history.
Her mind was already three steps ahead—she would be the sole participant, unless Carol wanted to join. She could easily find artists willing to build the diorama—Santa Cruz was filled with artists. And the timeline would have to be tight, before the destruction of the gazebo, so beachgoers and locals could witness the history of what was going to be destroyed. She’d have to get it done before August, in time to put her diorama on display during the Centennial Celebration.
Mari rubbed her temples. Would she be able to pull it off? Heck, she was waitressing, working weekends, and plus, she was a single mom. But she thrived under pressure. She could do this. Lily sighed in her sleep, and Mari admired how her daughter’s dark eyelashes lay perfectly against her soft cheeks. Didn’t she want to make her daughter proud? Every time Lily told her preschool friends that Mommy was a waitress, it stung. Mari had meant to be so much more.
Carefully setting her laptop aside, Mari opened the lid of her grandfather’s leather trunk, which she’d hauled down from the attic. Reaching inside, she scraped along the bottom, removing a stack of photographs and postcards. She lifted a black-and-white photo to the light. Abuelo stood in front of a Beach Boardwalk diner with the sign MARY’S CHICKEN SHACK. He looked very young, perhaps no more than sixteen.
Grinning, he had his arms around two pretty girls in waitress uniforms. Mari brought her hand to her mouth. That face. She lifted the photograph closer, squinting at the girl on the right. She wasn’t just pretty—she was beautiful. And suddenly Mari knew who she was: Violet Harcourt, the young beauty queen who had committed suicide.