Highway 101, California, 1996
The giant SUV whipped into the lane before her, driven by a blonde with a cell phone in one ear and two eyes on the young male roaring past in a green pickup truck. Both had charged through the speed limit and were oblivious to the fact that, when one is splattered in a bloody mess on the road surface, force actually does equal mass times acceleration. Kate Cobham had always hated physics but knew enough to slam on the brakes of her little Acura, which skidded unpleasantly and gave her a noseful of burning rubber.
“They are trying to kill me,” Kate muttered. “Those gushing hormones on four wheels doing a mating dance on the highway don’t care if they kill fifty other people!”
Kate pulled into the right-hand lane of Highway 101 and followed a massive trailer truck down the steep grade that divided Thousand Oaks from the Ventura region. She didn’t feel like dodging and fighting the rest of the traffic right now. It had been a late night and very early morning, and she hoped to reach Santa Barbara by noon for lunch with her long absent sister, Maddie.
She had been to a meeting of the California Coastal Commission, an appointed group supposedly in charge of good, orderly development for prime sections of the state. As an attorney for an environmental nonprofit agency, she had argued against the big, gaudy hotel replacing a zone of smaller houses and shops near the Santa Barbara waterfront. Another battle lost.
She glanced at her watch as the traffic slowed to a northward crawl. In her girlhood this region of Ventura County had been covered with fields and orchards, and was a splendid place for a Sunday drive. Now it was a maze of houses, industrial parks, and shopping centers, and nobody, but nobody, drove here for pleasure. The gardens of California were being turned into concrete wastelands. She suddenly recalled lines from her favorite T. S. Eliot poem:
Other echoes inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Old echoes of green things and a more amiable time … As she aged and became wearier, these words from T. S. Eliot took on a new poignancy. Now she was forced to follow a belching diesel truck as she tried to get home, in a lousy mood, hearing those other echoes, and craving escape from her life.
Home to Kate had always been Santa Barbara, and she sometimes reminded herself to appreciate the lush green landscape, glittering restless ocean, and steep mountain backdrop that gave the city so much beauty. A trip to the Los Angeles area usually took care of that. Every real Santa Barbaran knew that Los Angeles was less a city than a monster of churning, destructive, crowded humanity and strip malls that were spreading like a cancer throughout California. There was nothing like a drive down to there to remind her of how lucky she was to live here.
As the traffic crawled along through the corridor of shrubbery that lined the entrance to Santa Barbara, Kate looked quickly in the direction of their old family home on Lilac Lane. Once the family had lived in a mansion on that exclusive street. A small unhappy family. The house was long ago sold, parents dead, and the children scattered.
At the Cabrillo Boulevard off ramp, the highway exit was in the left-hand lane, as many were in this section of Santa Barbara. The combination of these ramps, lost tourists, impatient locals, and huge trucks often got the adrenalin pumping, fenders bent, and insurance companies upset.
I drive as miserably as the rest of ’em, she thought as she cut into the left lane, bumped down the rough surface of the off ramp, slipped carefully through the four-way stop sign at the intersection where Cabrillo Boulevard transformed into Coast Village Road, and finally arrived at the beautiful lagoon, which shimmered in the hazy sunlight across from her favorite restaurant, the Café.
This old and established business had another name, of course, but to everybody she knew it was always just “The Café.” It was simple in style, with warm stucco walls and red tile floors. Overhead fans and dim lighting provided an intriguing yet relaxed atmosphere. To the locals, it was a refuge of good food, great service, and discrete visibility—even though you were likely to meet everybody you knew sooner or later hanging about the arched entry. On any given day, the lunch crowd would include business folk, multimillionaires, casually dressed movie stars, silver-haired matriarchs, and bored locals seeking conversation. The dining room was large and suitably partitioned so that one could choose seating of many types. There were corner tables for serious discussions, an outside patio with a lovely view for basking in the sun, and an area beside the bar for brisk conversation, laughter, and occasional glances at the overhead television sets during sports events or national disasters.
Kate had no trouble parking at the restaurant due to the fact that it was not yet noon. Even the most leisurely of Santa Barbarans seemed to honor the twelve o’clock lunch hour whether or not they had actual jobs. She entered through the side door, greeted most of the staff by name, and slid into a cushioned booth near the fireplace. A swarthy and serious young man promptly placed chips and red salsa before her with as much reverence as if he were serving high mass in a cathedral. She waved at Jack Ward, owner of the restaurant, who stood behind the bar chatting with comedian Jonathan Winters. She greeted the hyper-efficient and very charming manager, Alfredo, and asked her waiter, Enoch, about his recent vacation. Then she settled back in the cushions and ordered a glass of Chardonnay.
The Café was still peaceful and Kate savored the quiet. The background music was Big Band, and the staff spoke softly in Spanish as they rolled silverware in red cloth napkins and filled salsa containers. It was familiar and comforting, out of space and time, a refuge.
She glanced up and caught her image in the gold-veined mirrors that lined the walls behind her booth. Today she saw a rather weary woman with sleek dark hair and shadowed green eyes.
Katie Scarlett O’Cobham was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm …
Kate grimaced at the thought of comparing herself to the spirited, ambitious heroine of Gone with the Wind.
She took a sip of her wine, scowled at her reflection, pulled a cell phone from her purse, and called her office. There were no new messages of any importance, and she told the secretary that she would be gone for the rest of the day. Saving future ecosystems would have to wait until she had saved her ancestors and given some very bad news to her sister.
She settled back against the cushions, and her mind drifted back to the book she was writing about those ancestors. Doing family research had begun as a hobby, then a diversion from her other worries, and finally an obsession that enabled her to shift from her world. Much of her book had been written, but she was still looking for a very catchy beginning paragraph. So far, she had been unable to come up with something that might engage interest. Kate took another sip of Chardonnay and chuckled softly.
Lady Melisande’s firm, lush breasts proudly crowned the velvet brocade bodice, and the massive ruby necklace gleamed against her pale skin. Count Bellagio reached out with his long fingers and caressed …
Nah, too much like my sister Maddie’s writing, she thought with a sudden wry smile. But it would sure catch the attention of any reader.
Where the hell was Maddie?
Santa Barbara, 1996
She was late, and she detested people who were late. Madeleine Cobham Antonelli Birch Linares Smyth glared at the slowly moving line of cars before her. The whole world was determined to annoy her on this particular day. She knew how Santa Barbara traffic could get on sunny afternoons as people looked for parking near the beach, and tourists gawked at their surroundings from Cabrillo Boulevard. “Park and walk, you idiots,” she muttered, maneuvering around a slow car to her left and promptly running through a red light.
“Shit!” She glanced behind her for the familiar lights of the local police. None appeared, however.
She was back in Santa Barbara to promote her third novel. She was still treated very well by her publisher—first-class travel, limo at the airport, and white Mercedes on loan. But Maddie knew how quickly all of those things would vanish if this book was not successful. Green Ocean and Green Plantation had been moderate sellers in paperback. “Green Lagoon has to be successful,” she reminded herself. “It is some of my best writing.”
There were no parking places left around the restaurant.
“Typical Santa Barbara,” Maddie muttered. The city had discouraged the use of cars and was reluctant to provide parking facilities for the elegant streets. Santa Barbarans blithely refused to acknowledge this problem, and somehow managed to shove their shiny cars into unlikely places. She finally left the car more or less parked against a curb on a corner.
Maddie paused at the entryway, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. A moment later, she met her sister’s eyes. They were clear and green in her pretty, pale face, and blessed with thick lashes. Kate’s dark hair was sleek and gleaming. “Oh Lord,” she thought wearily, “how different we are.”
Kate tried to smile at her sister. Maddie stood in the door, backlighted by the sun, her golden hair shining and her flushed skin accentuating the deep blue of her eyes. “Oh God,” thought Kate, “How beautiful she is … and why are we so different?” Kate rose from her table to embrace her sister.
“My Katie, pretty as ever! You look as if the past two years had kept you in some kind of suspended animation!” cried Maddie, settling herself in her chair, untying her flowing aqua-colored scarf, and gazing at her sister with observant eyes. “Well, Katherine Cobham-Benton, how is good ole Santa Barbara?” she asked as she turned to look for a waiter.
“Beautiful,” replied Kate as the waiter approached to take Maddie’s order. “Expensive, active, argumentative, and getting more crowded by the day.”
“I’ll have a SKYY vodka martini up with a twist,” said Maddie briskly, eyeing the remains of guacamole and frowning. “You never gain weight … witch!”
Kate laughed. “I worry it away.”
“Fighting the good fight? Keeps you young and trim, eh?” said her sister with a sigh. “I spend too much time sitting around giving interviews and eating bad buffet food.”
“They should spoil you more—order things good for you to eat. Get your publisher to pay for it.”
Maddie laughed. “I’m lucky even to have a publisher at the moment. My last book wasn’t much of a winner, as you’ll recall.”
“I liked it very much. You were somehow kinder to your heroines. No rapes.”
“Yeah … I was so kind that everybody thought me losing my bite,” Maddie commented, eyeing her martini eagerly as the waiter carefully placed it on the napkin in front of her.
“Ahh, nectar!” she breathed. “Good vodka helps make life bearable.” She took a large drink, and a rather uncomfortable silence fell between the sisters.
“So how is my nephew?” asked Maddie at last, inquiring about Kate’s son.
“In Europe—with his father,” replied Kate. “Your kids?”
Maddie shrugged. “Considering that I am their mother, they’re doing remarkably sane and boring things. Except maybe for Winston—but he’s into his teens and who knows what that will bring? So how are our dear brothers? James called me about the trust problems, and I had to get all of those damned affidavits for my children’s interests to be represented. Are we really poor? I haven’t seen Geoff since I did that reading at UC Berkeley.”
Kate frowned. “How did he seem to you?”
Maddie shrugged. “Well enough. Elegant, remote, and spoiled. I didn’t meet his new partner, but I hear that they’re rolling in the dough since that Internet company is taking off. Geoff is apparently a genius at website design.”
“Geoff is dying,” said Kate quietly.
“Shit.” Maddie took another drink, put her glass on the table, and ran her fingers around the rim for a few moments. “AIDS.” She pronounced the word in hushed tones.
“Yes.” Kate paused, remembering again how her big brother had always stood up for her when their father had been demeaning. In those days, their father had been willing to give Geoff anything.
“Damn,” said Maddie. “You’d think that I could get more creative with my expressions of shock.” She stared out of the window, and there was a long silence between the two sisters. “Egad, is that Jane Russell? She still looks awfully good. Remember how Dad used to have a crush on her? She was one of the few actresses who could hold the screen against Marilyn Monroe …”
Kate glanced over at the actress who had revolutionized the bra industry many years before when the legendary Howard Hughes “engineered” a breast-enhancing device for Jane’s splendid endowment. As a resident of Santa Barbara, Jane had participated in many charities and good works, and still looked glamorous. “Yes, I remember. She gave him an autographed photo—reminded him of his army days.”
The sisters sipped their beverages silently for a moment.
“Do you remember how Geoff looked before he left Santa Barbara? I was just going off to college and you were in that horse phase down at Aunt Blanche’s ranch …” Maddie paused, visualizing her siblings as they were many years before. “He looked like a Greek god of some sort, so handsome and full of charm. We all adored him, especially Father.”
“I remember,” said Kate sadly. “I remember.”
“Old Dad never forgave Geoff, did he? It was right after Mom died. He never recovered when his prized son told him that he was gay, and not willing to hide it …”
There was a long silence as both sisters remembered the ugly words shouted in the lovely echoing halls and silent, sunny patios of their home. Robert Cobham had screamed his feelings of betrayal and concerns that this son was going to ruin his reputation in Santa Barbara and embarrass the whole family. Father and son had let their hot tempers surface, and eventually came to physical conflict. Geoffrey, in mock tribute to his father’s sensibilities, had sworn on the soul of his dead mother that he would leave Santa Barbara and never return. He left, and never saw his father again.
Kate suddenly realized that the scene she had been writing in her mind between the Old Earl of Salisbury and poor crippled Henry was undoubtedly a product of those sad days. Nothing original there, she thought sourly, just other echoes.
“What can be done for him?” asked Maddie at last.
Kate shook her head. “Not much. Some experimental stuff, and every remedy anybody can think of. Actually, Geoff is feeling pretty well at the moment or else he’s lying through his teeth to me. I’m trying to talk James into dissolving what’s left of the trust right away, and distributing the funds. We’re poor, but there is something left in Dad’s trust fund. Geoff needs the money now.”
“Lordy, lordy,” sighed Maddie. “Life does throw rocks at us, doesn’t it? Then again we’re all dying of something.” She finished her martini and waved at the attentive waiter for another. Kate’s Chardonnay suddenly tasted sour, and she pushed the glass away.
“So welcome back to Santa Barbara.” Kate said. “A quick report on the state of the family: James thinks he’s living the good life, Geoff is losing his life day by day, you say that you’re fighting for your life as an author … and I wonder if I’m alive at all sometimes. After the drive here from Los Angeles this morning, I actually consider my survival a minor miracle!”
“So, what do we do or say to make it all better? We have no grandmas to make cookies and tell us comforting tales of times past,” snapped Maddie, suddenly feeling a chill near her heart.
Kate shrugged. “Oddly enough, I’ve been searching for those past grandmothers. I’m thinking of putting together a book about them.”
“Who?” asked Maddie.
“You know … the early Cobhams and Gowans. They’ve been in this country for over three hundred years. These ancestors survived, I mean, we’re living proof of that. In fact, the only place that they now exist other than as dust in the ground is right here with us, in our DNA. It shows up in our eyes, our hair, our allergies, our loves and hates …”
Maddie smiled wryly. “I read your dissertation on ‘Women’s Rights in Tudor England,’ or something of the sort. It wasn’t top ten material.”
Kate shrugged. “Remember when I broke those ribs last year? I decided to get my mind on something besides pain, legal briefs and public hearings. But you could help me. I’ve been going crazy trying to figure out how to begin the book.”
Maddie considered this for a moment. “There has got to be an imagination tucked inside that enigmatic little head of yours,” she teased, tapping her sister on the head in an unusual gesture of affection.
Kate smiled. “Oh yes—I can see these people so clearly that it makes me cry in frustration at my inability to make them come alive on paper. I don’t want them to be forgotten even though they were poor and unimportant.”
“Billions of people are and will be forgotten,” responded Maddie slowly. “Probably all of us eventually.”
“Yes, and the planet will be engulfed by the bloated sun, and then the universe itself will slowly expand and become completely dark, cold, and lifeless,” added Kate with a sly smile. “That said—we only deal with our own reality. I want to bring these foremothers to life. Make them reality! God knows they’re hard enough to trace.”
“So how did you get this idea?” asked Maddie.
“I was up in the law library one day looking over some old wills. One of them mentioned a widow as a ‘relict’ of her late husband. Can you imagine being called a ‘relict’ of Jerome Benton? Somehow this haunted me. How would you like to be remembered only as a ‘relict’ of Antonelli? Or Smythe?”
“A relict?” asked Maddie. “How disgusting … and sad.”
“Yes. Most of our family’s early stories are sad too. One of our earliest Cobhams is known only from her dying wish. There are legal papers in the Archives of Maryland signed by her widower that gave away their three children to another family.”
“Now why would she do that? Was her husband a real loser?”
Kate shrugged. “I don’t think so. Besides, the world was very different in those days. It wasn’t at all unusual for people to let somebody else raise their kids.”
“Hmmm, remember that Dad more or less gave us away after Mom died? He sent the boys to Aunt Bette, and us to Aunt Blanche. We came back home as strangers to Dad and each other! Maybe these things are hereditary! So who was the poor woman?” asked Maddie.
Kate shrugged. “We don’t even know her name.”
She rummaged through her big leather purse. “I was thinking of beginning the book back when the Cobhams left England—it must have been sometime in the 1670s, but it would just be too complicated—ah, here it is.” She withdrew a manila folder stuffed with sheets of paper, and held it out toward her sister.
Maddie glanced at the bundle and frowned. “I don’t have my reading glasses now, young one! Why don’t we move outside to the patio and you can read it to me.”
“Now?” asked Kate, surprised.
“What else have we got to do right now? Besides, I’m curious.” Maddie gathered up her purse, scarf, hat, and drink. “Let’s go and settle in that corner table. We can order some guacamole … I’m starving.”
When the sisters had settled comfortably in a corner table on the patio, sheltered from breeze and sun, Kate smoothed the papers before her and began to read.