The same air flows past the entrance to Rincon Point, which is where I find myself when I finally catch my breath. The gated community sits at the end of Bates Road. On the private side of the gate are the security guard’s shack, residences, and isolated rocky beaches. On the public side are general parking and access to Rincon Park and Carpinteria State Beach.
This narrow strip of land separates the white-noise rumble of crashing waves from the perpetual hiss of traffic flying by on Highway 1. Out on Bates Road the gulls are screeching around some stinking roadkill. But the sky is blue, and I think of the time young Dylan asked Marina how heaven got its color. She told him it was because it reflected the blue water that covered most of the earth. And why was the water blue? Dylan supposed it was because everyone used blue toothpaste, and whatever they spit into their sinks drained into the sea.
The summer beachgoers are out, sauntering up the blacktop under the shade of old eucalyptus trees. Surfers mostly, headed to the beach with boards tucked under their armpits. College kids from UCSB too, the ones who stay to work through the summers. Locals from Ventura and Carpinteria. Some carry sparklers and red mesh bags stuffed with illegal fireworks. Their beachwear is red, white, and blue, and they haul heavy coolers into the park.
One group looks like trouble, three guys who probably bought the beers they carry with fake IDs. They wander the parking lot in swim trunks and graphic tees, their flimsy footwear slapping the bottoms of their heels, seeking unaccompanied girls and flashy cars. One wears an Uncle Sam top hat. Another sports sunglasses shaped like stars.
Sara pulls in as the three musketeers are crossing Bates Road from the south lot to the north. They raise their bottles in a toast, not to her—that would be like checking out their mother—but to her pretty Porsche, a glistening sapphire-blue Boxter with the top down and the silver-gray seats soaking up the sun. The custompainted door panels advertise her success, as if the car itself fails to do that: Sara’s Sins, A Fine Chocolates Café is scripted in white letters almost too difficult to read, though I’m sure they look good on a chocolate box. Santa Barbara, California. She doesn’t notice the boys. Her eyes are locked onto the keypad that operates the gate.
Sara hesitates before pulling her car off to the side in a spot that’s not exactly a parking space. Though no one waits behind her, she runs the risk of blocking the entrance if her old code doesn’t work. She leaves the engine running and grabs her purse off the floor of the passenger seat. She hurries on light feet to the pad, fishing a scrap of paper out of her bag on the way. She consults it, bending at the waist to see the little metal buttons lined up in rows of three like the face of an old telephone. The hem of her coral-colored sundress teases the toes of her sandals.
Over the years, the code has changed as many times as Marina’s hairstyle. Sara would do better if she sweet-talked a homeowner into an invitation to enter. If she’s really committed she might just take one of the rentals for a week and get the code when she pays in full.
She punches the keys with her pointer finger. The gate doesn’t budge.
“Help you, ma’am?”
The offer comes from the seasonal security guard, paid for by association dues, who mans the gate on peak weekends when beer-drinking patriots are more apt to cause trouble than at other times.
“Yes,” she says hopefully as he steps out of his shack. She approaches the gate, which stays closed between them. Behind those vertical bars he’s a zoo creature on display, a man made worse by his captivity. He’s all bones and sunken cheeks except for a strange little paunch the size of a basketball sticking out over his tight belt. That might be a melanoma on his nose, shaded by the long bill of his cap.
Sara hands the paper through the bars. “Can you tell me if the Becker family still lives at this address?”
He takes the scrap, holds it at a distance from his eyes. The cap gets in the way and he lifts it an inch. “The address is still here,” he says. “Can’t say who lives there.”
“You don’t know or you’re not allowed to tell me?”
“Can’t say,” he repeats. She sticks out her hand to take the address back. He leans in to the shack and puts the slip on the desk in there.
“Is it a rental?” she asks.
“I honestly dunno.”
Sara places her palms together and tips her fingers to her lips, thinking. “If I leave a phone number where I can be reached, can you pass it along to the residents of that house? Would you?”
“No, I just thought—”
“You seem like a nice enough gal.” He pulls the bill of his cap back down. “You probably don’t mean to cause any trouble, but that’s not for me to say. My only job is to sort out the folks who live here from the ones who don’t, and to keep this gate between the two. No point in trying to memorize which ones belong in every single house.”
Sara opens her purse again and fumbles around in it. “I completely understand.” It takes her only a few seconds to withdraw a business card holder and her wallet, and with a swift thumb she opens the latches on both. “My problems aren’t your responsibility.” She pulls out a card bearing her business number, and then a folded green bill, and she pinches them together and slips them through the gate. “I sell chocolates in Montecito,” she says, holding it out. “They’re high end, popular with the celebrities and politicians. The president orders boxes for the first lady on Mother’s Day and her birthday.” She nods at the guard’s wedding ring. “Does your wife like chocolate?”
“No. Messes up her heart.” But he takes her payment for the favor and tucks the bill into his back pocket.
Sara sighs and closes her bag, her money and her ideas gone for the moment. “Then maybe you can come by sometime for yourself.”
He looks at the card. “Montecito’s a little bit like Rincon Point, don’t you think? A place for those who belong on one side of the gate and those who best stay on the other.”
“There aren’t any gates where my store—”
A scream of tires and a whooping of boys cut her off. The trio have commandeered her convertible, two in the front and one trying to settle in the back, having jumped in almost too late. The driver throws the car into reverse, cranking it back into the north entrance of the parking lot with force enough to throw the rear passenger onto the floor. He loses a shoe on the pavement, and his beer showers the hair of his friend in front. Their laughter is a howl.
Sara shouts and takes a step, but what else is there for her to do?
The rear tires throw up smoke as the driver crushes the accelerator to the floor and shoots out onto Bates Road. The southbound freeway on-ramp is only a few yards away, and if he had taken it, Sara might have had a chance of getting her car back. Between here and Ventura there just aren’t too many places for a joyride to go. But the kids are smart fools, or maybe just lucky. They take the engine to its max and fly out to the northbound ramp, hooting all the way. The kid in the back recovers, turns around in the seat, and tips his striped top hat to Sara before the jarring left turn throws him on his face. Then they’re gone.
Sara stares at the empty road, shading her eyes from the noon sun. She groans.
“You sell enough chocolates to get yourself a new one?” the guard asks.