Vivaldi’s “Winter” Concerto No. 4 surged through all eight speakers of the digital sound system in Cliff’s Mercedes Benz, evoking in my fertile mind images of dark clouds, dripping fog, and violent storms. Instinctively, I sank deeper into the soft leather passenger seat, which, according to Cliff, had been adjusted in one of fourteen ways for my ultimate ease and comfort. I shivered against this luxury.
“Sulking?” Cliff asked.
I smiled. “Sort of.”
“Well snap out of it, Marjorie. You’ve been bugging me for weeks to take you somewhere.”
“I know, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, not on Ash Wednesday. I heard you the first time.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my head back onto the seat, then wrapped my arms beneath my chest as if warding off a draft.
“Cold?” Cliff asked.
“No.”
I heard the protest of leather as Cliff leaned forward and edged up the heat. “Better?”
“Sure.”
“It’s all filtered and controlled, you know.”
“What is?”
“The air.”
“Huh?”
“The temperature, the dust, the pollen, it’s all monitored.”
I sighed.
“And it tracks the sun.”
“What does?”
“The climate control.”
“Why?”
“To keep the temperature inside this baby at” —Again the sound of creaking leather— “sixty-eight degrees.”
“Sounds like you’ve actually read the owner’s manual,” I said.
“Cover-to-cover.”
I stifled a yawn. “I haven’t even opened mine.”
“That figures,” he said.
I opened my eyes and focused on my fiancé. Like his Mercedes, Cliff was sleek and alluring, in an aluminum, magnesium, and steel sort of way. His front end was bold and riveting and was currently accented by reflective glasses that gave him a captivating look. His take-charge personality often rocketed me to places I didn’t want to go. Like today.
We were cruising along the famous 17-mile stretch of California road that zigzagged through the Del Monte Forest of Pacific Grove and then picked its way along the coast to just north of Carmel. Yet Cliff hadn’t slowed down even once to take in the view.
I felt the sudden, almost violent, urge to escape the cockpit of this technologically perfect machine. “Cliff, please pull over.”
Mirrored glasses turned my way. “Why?”
“I need some fresh air.”
“Then open the window.”
Fighting the onslaught of a familiar ache in my head, I looked at the brochure on my lap and noticed the picture of a cypress tree on its cover. “I’d like to see the Lone Cypress. It’s at the next stop.”
Cliff fiddled with the buttons behind his steering wheel, re-adjusting the settings of the CD player for what seemed like the hundredth time, then smiled at me in a way I had once considered charming. “I’ll buy you a post card when we get to the mission.”
“I’m going to be sick, Cliff.”
“Damn!” He hit the brakes and skidded into one of the parking spots lining the two-lane road.
“Want to come?” I asked.
Cliff tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you getting out or what?”
I reached behind me for the digital camera lying on the back seat and opened the door.
“Be careful,” he said. “I paid a fortune for that camera.”
Yeah, I’d heard it all before. A heavy, ruggedized, full-frame, digital camera, with 22.3 megapixels, autofocus, GPS capability, and a big telephoto zoom lens. “I don’t know why. You haven’t taken a single picture since we left Menlo Park.”
Without waiting for his response, I strapped the camera around my neck and escaped into the unfiltered, unregulated outdoors. Ocean waves crashed, smashed, and retreated. Gulls kee-yahed, cow-cow-cowed. Cool air brushed my cheeks and fingered through my hair.
On reaching the wooden observation deck, I un-slung the camera, steadied it on the platform railing, and zoomed in on the Lone Cypress that stood some forty feet away. Although miraculously born of a seed that became stuck in a crevice of granite, the Pebble Beach icon was a disappointment—small; spindly; fenced in to protect its roots; supported by steel cables to keep it from falling.
And yet . . .
While positioning the tree in the viewfinder, I noticed the way it clung to the wave-washed rock, defying the elements that raged against it. “Defiant. Atta girl.” I half pressed the shutter to activate the autofocus.
Sunwalker.
Chills swelled over my neck and face like an army of unearthed garden ants. Who was that?
Sunwalker.
A voice. But where was it coming from?
You’ve come at last.
The camera clicked, whirred, and slipped from my shaking hands.
You must listen. Time is running out.
It had to be Cliff, playing tricks on me with one of his highfalutin technological gadgets, a hidden speaker, maybe, like the ones used in haunted houses to induce artificial paranormal experiences.
Beeeep. The blast of a horn tore through me like a shaft of ice.
A door slammed.
Feet pounded on wooden steps.
“What the hell?”
“Cliff! Oh, thank God. I just heard someone talking to me, but no one was there . . .”
Cliff picked up the camera, blew on it, and rubbed it with the tip of his shirt. “I knew I should’ve had it insured.”
Part of me was relieved that the camera had tumbled onto the wooden deck rather than the rocks below. Another part of me didn’t give a damn. “She called me Sunwalker, as if she knew me.”
He pressed the power button and the shutter. Click. Whir. “It seems to be working okay.”
“Cliff, please. Tell me you were messing with me. I won’t be mad. Promise. Actually, I’d be relieved . . .”
“Damn it, I told you to be careful.”
“Please listen. I think I’m losing my—”
“See what happens when I listen to you,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
For a split second, I imagined my fiancé plunging over the edge of the deck railing, helpless, voiceless.
Sometimes I hate you, Cliff.
🗲🗲🗲
“Why, exactly, are we here?” I asked.
Several emotions played across Cliff’s face before embarrassment appeared to take hold. He looked like he’d been caught cheating on his taxes, or, heaven forbid, cheating on me.
“Tell me,” I said.
After a slight hesitation, he asked, “Did you build a model mission while in school?”
“Of course. Don’t all kids in California?”
He smiled tightly. “My parents were furious when I asked them for help.”
“Your parents?”
“They told me to do my own damn assignment. Trouble was I couldn’t drive.”
I shook my head, completely lost.
“Our teacher wanted us to build a scale model of an actual mission. I chose the Carmel Mission but couldn’t find a picture of it.”
“We used empty milk cartons and Popsicle sticks,” I said.
“Then obviously you weren’t in an honors class.”
“Well, no, I don’t think our school had one.”
A snort. “So, which mission did you build?”
“I don’t know. Just a mission.”
His eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “A generic mission?”
“Hey, what’s the big deal? At least we had fun, more than I can say for you. Plus, I got an A. What did you get?”
“I got a C. But my classmates, with the help of their parents, built some incredible missions.”
“So, what are you going to do? Go back for a better grade?”
“I just wanted to come here and see.”
“And you’re finally getting around to it . . . now?”
“Been too busy,” he said.
This time, I snorted. Then, curiously, I began to sense things about Cliff I’d never sensed before. I could hardly believe it. Something so trivial still bothered him after nineteen years. As a child, he hadn’t been in control. And he needed to be in control desperately. Over life. Over the world. Over me. But I could no longer give him my full attention, my adoration, and my submission. Today had changed all that. I’d suddenly come to realize that Cliff and I had nothing in common.
And that I didn’t know my own mind.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
I wanted to tell him to quit leaning on me, that I wasn’t there to lift him up, that the time we spent together was rare and precious, and that we should treat it that way. Instead, I said, “Take your time. I’ll meet up with you later.”
He nodded and took off, pressing the camera to his chest as though cradling glass.
Wow, I thought, as I got out of the car and headed for the mission entrance.
In exchange for the admission fee, the woman behind the gift shop counter handed me a shiny brochure. “Welcome to the Mission San Carlos Borromeo.”
I entered the courtyard and immediately sensed a presence.
Marjorie Marie Veil.
A woman in white slacks and a blue striped top stood a short distance away, taking pictures.
There is something you must know.
Blood throbbed in my temples. Objects appeared larger, then smaller, larger, then smaller. I bumped into someone, startled, and turned. It was the woman with the camera.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Are you okay,” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” I gave her a faint smile and then walked to the wooden bench in front of the courtyard fountain, sat, and pressed my face into my hands.