Santa Barbara, 1999
Kate was weary of depositions and injunctions and close scrutiny of the California Environmental Quality Act. She had argued for many years about the meaning of words such as “significant” and “mitigated.” These were what were commonly called “weasel words.” They were meant to be ambiguous—and often interpreted in widely varying ways. What was the meaning of a “significant” change in a building design? What did it mean when traffic from 5,000 new automobiles were stuffed into an already gridlocked highway? Why did any of this matter when human beings seemed incapable of doing the one thing that might save the ecosystem—controlling their own numbers?
She sat alone in her office. Everyone else had gone home an hour ago, and she was still engrossed in writing a presentation to a hostile Planning Commission about the possible impact of a duplex to be built near a creek. What did these terms actually mean? Fifty feet from the “top of bank”? Twenty feet from a “drip line”? Drip line from what? Trees, shrubs? What kind of trees and shrubs? Plus, how did one weigh the impact of human involvement with the creeks? To prevent building and denial of access by humans to the creek was probably the best thing that could be done for the habitats along these sensitive areas. How to convince people of that? How to convince a builder who lived in Los Angeles, drove his Jaguar, and wanted to make $300,000 in fast cash that his work on this piece of land, which had taken millions of years to create, was going to damage much of the habitat that innocent animals depended upon? How to convince social activists that the homeless people living in the creek were destroying it?
Kate closed all of the folders on her desk and switched off her computer. Wearily, she noted the flashing light on her telephone that signaled messages waiting. As usual …
She punched the button to replay her messages. Aunt Bette was going to the Café and wanted her to come for dinner. The League of Women Voters was making a statement before the county’s Board of Supervisors on Tuesday about oil drilling up at Tranquillon Ridge. The City Council’s Planning Commission had approved yet another multimillion-dollar development on the waterfront. Chris wanted a few bucks to tide him over until his next check from his father. Her car needed a $750 “minor” repair. Things were in their usual chaotic state.
Then it was Nick’s voice: “Katherine, endlessly enchanting. I am going to be in Cambria on Friday and Saturday. I have taken a room in Moonstone Cove, complete with fireplace and ocean view. There will be salty winds, booming surf, a warm fire, and cold champagne. Do you dare? Call me!”
The Café was crowded, and the volume of conversation kept increasing as everyone raised their voices in direct proportion to the number of alcoholic beverages consumed. Kate slipped through the crowd and spotted Aunt Bette in her usual corner table, sitting and glaring at the people who milled about.
“Too damned loud in here. I’ve got to find another place to go,” snapped Aunt Bette.
“It is Thursday—lots of people are just trying to survive the week. C’mon, you’d be doing the same,” said Kate wearily. “So, how was your week?”
“Boring,” snapped Aunt Bette. “This arthritis in my hip is killing me.”
“I’m sorry …”
“Damned damp coastal weather. So, what are you doing this weekend?”
“I’m not sure.” Kate ordered a glass of wine and considered the dinner menu. It was so nice to be comfortable in these very familiar surroundings. It was so safe and so … stifling.
“Alfredo is looking particularly handsome tonight,” observed Aunt Bette. “I love that silk shirt and black slacks. He has the figure for it.”
Kate laughed, “You’re incorrigible, Aunt Bette. But he’s one great fellow.”
“So, where is your great fellow?” asked Aunt Bette. “I’ll bet that you never even thanked him for the roses.”
“I did too! I sent him a very nice note. Besides, I suspect that you advised him to send them. You cheated on our bet!”
Aunt Bette rolled her eyes. “Oh me, oh my, how gracious,” she said sourly. “I definitely need another glass of wine.” She gazed at her depressed niece with some disdain, but she said nothing as they ordered their food and marveled at the incredibly elegant appearance of actress Sigourney Weaver, who was having a quiet dinner with her parents at a corner table.
“Katherine, your sour face is ruining my digestion. You barely touched your dinner.”
Kate didn’t answer. She was gazing at the crowd by the end of the bar, where jovial patrons greeted each other. Jerome had just entered, and clinging to his arm was a very pretty redhead who looked about twenty-five years old. “I think that it is time for me to go home, Aunt Bette. My ex just came in with his latest flame. That might ruin my digestion.”
“Katherine, you’re a coward.”
“Probably.”
Jerome waved toward their table, and his companion eyed them speculatively. Kate managed a smile, and Aunt Bette nodded coldly. “How precious,” she snapped. “But Jerome is looking old, Katherine. From the looks of his redhead, he’s feeling old too—young blood is wanted!”
Kate laughed, suddenly aware that Jerome did look old—and he seemed to be somebody she had met a long time ago; in fact, he resembled his father to an uncanny degree.
“Well, I’m off. I see that Minnie has arrived to chaperone you for the rest of the evening.”
Aunt Bette looked over toward the bar, where her young companion was sharing a club soda with an acquaintance. “Oh yes. She’s the religious one—always trying to scare me with hellfire.”
Kate kissed her aunt on the cheek. “I don’t think that anything scares you, dearest.”
Aunt Bette snorted. “Not much. But as for you—”
“I already admitted that I’m a coward. I love you and good night.” Kate kissed her aunt on the cheek, then grabbed the bill from the table and walked away.
She felt remarkably cheerful when she went home. Maybe the scar tissue from Jerome was healed at last. The man had seemed almost a stranger to her—and the redhead was welcome to listen to his academic pontifications. She brewed herself a cup of tea and changed into sweats, humming an Elton John song about surviving life’s tribulations.
She had a stack of mail that her cleaning lady had left on the table, and she sorted through it while listening to her telephone messages.
“Fair Katherine, I am he born to tame you—but I can’t do that if you won’t let me near. Please let me know if you can make it to Cambria.” Nick O’Donnell’s message was timed earlier in the evening. Suddenly, her good mood evaporated. She liked Nick very much, but wasn’t at all certain that she was ready for a romantic fling with him. Something in her body rebelled at the idea of a man touching her—then again, her experience had been pretty limited since the era of herpes and AIDS began, and the bitterness of Jerome’s betrayal stung like nettles at times.
She lifted her phone to call and tell Nick O’Donnell that she simply couldn’t make it to Cambria. Then her eyes lit on a big manila envelope from Dr. Kingston at the Manuscript Museum, so she hung up the phone. She opened the envelope eagerly and extracted the contents.
In addition to Mr. Kingston’s bill, two carefully printed sheets of paper were enclosed, obviously the result of his transcription. Kate found that her hand trembled a bit as she read them.
My Dear Miss Benton:
I regret to inform you that only two sheets of the seven that you submitted for restoration had writing that was suitable for recovery. I have taken the liberty of transcribing such words as I have seen, and will preserve the remainder of the documents in a suitable manner. Perhaps, future technological developments will provide you with more information. I would also suggest that you consult a textile expert if you wish to take trouble with the lace sample.
My bill for this restoration is attached. Please advise me of what storage arrangements you wish to make. I am truly sorry that I could not, as this time, be of more assistance.
Very truly yours,
Edmund Kingston
April ??, 1787
My children, it is with such sorrow that I tell you of the death of your dear father Samuel and my (blank spots here). He suffers no more from the evils of this world …
(Many illegible spots here) … my black girl … put a fence around the grave, and I shall plant … and shall join …
All well here but heavy of heart …
Your Loving Mother, Rebecca Cobham
The other document:
(Appears to be torn from a diary or some such book. Most of it is totally illegible except for this section, and very dim traces suggest 1800 as the possible date.)
. . . and, dear children, remember that I love you and always will. Time and distance may separate us, but we can still maintain that warm bond, which holds back the madness of the world. I keep you in my heart. Take my love and blessings into the new century …
Kate pushed the papers away, angry and disappointed. So little of the writing had survived, and so many careless hands had destroyed Rebecca’s words during the past two centuries. She must have been writing to her family in western Virginia or the pioneering group in Tennessee and Kentucky. In thirty more years, much of that family would move west again to Missouri and Arkansas. Thirty years more, they would fight a civil war and seek a cure for their defeat in Texas and Oklahoma. Thirty years beyond that, they would arrive in California and stand watching the sunset over the vast Pacific Ocean.
Kate walked out onto the balcony and gazed out into the moonlit night. The ocean glittered and celebrated the moon with restless tides. She could hear waves on the beach below, a sound both indifferent and consoling. Soon, she would travel into a new century. Would she make that journey alone, as had Rebecca?