March 17
Seaside Village, California
Sam sat at her kitchen table after a long day that felt longer than long because of the public relations stint followed by a surprise chat with her boss.
She wore flannel pajamas, ate homemade meatballs and spaghetti, and watched an evening newscast on the small television that sat next to the toaster oven on the countertop.
Yes, pj’s, a made-from-scratch dinner, and a portable television in a kitchen that featured an avacado green stove. It all seemed old fashioned for a young professional, which, according to age and income brackets, she was.
She worked with people who got the news on their smartphones and ate takeout and trolled clubs on a nightly basis. They lived in high-rise condos with ocean views and direct-deposited rent checks to a faceless management agency. They did not live in a compound of stucco cottages built in the 1920s, in the old San Diego community of Seaside Village, three blocks from the beach. Their landlady did not live on the premises and hand out her homemade dishes like a jolly Santa with toys and a dozen good boys and girls.
But it suited Sam. She sometimes wondered why the Casa de Vida complex, aka House of Life, remained her sanctuary after four years and a monthly salary that surpassed what her mother had ever seen in a year. It could be that deep down she was still simply Samantha the Weirdo, bucking the system without really trying.
She hoped the girl she’d met earlier in the day, Lisa Kingman, would not be saddled with that same moniker for the next twenty years. Maybe having a dad as mayor would make a difference.
At least her boss, Randy, accepted her for whatever she was. That afternoon, when she had told him about the PR session ending with the Lisa Kingman personal tour, he stood and reached across his desk to give her a high five.
“Way to go, Sam!” His grin had been unbelievable.
“Yeah, well, thanks, but don’t send me again anytime soon, okay?”
“Okay.” He had paused, keeping eye contact in his way that both unnerved her and made her feel safe.
She liked Randy Hall a lot. Forty plus years, marriage, and fatherhood were attractive on him. His three towheaded boys looked like mini versions of their dad, minus the expanding waistline. He understood engineering inside out and always had her back.
She had seen his eye lockdown thing before. He was concocting some wild plan. He wanted to color outside the lines. Somehow, she was involved.
“Sammi.”
Oh, no. He used the nickname. It was a dead giveaway.
He blinked away the lockdown and his hazel eyes shone. “I have an idea.”
No kidding.
“Here, take a look at this.” He spun his laptop around.
The screen showed a page from UC Berkeley.
She bit her lip and reminded herself that once in a while his schemes did not see the light of day.
“Trust me,” he said. “See this?” He clicked and scrolled, clicked and scrolled. “Six weeks and you’ll have these two courses under your belt. You haven’t taken these, right?” Not bothering to wait for an answer because he already knew it, he went on. “It’s perfect for Collins and Creighton. You’re already our go-to person for environmental remediation, but the firm is still lagging. Just six weeks out of your summer—and wow. You’re on your way to another master’s, maybe a PhD, and you make us look good, really good.”
He wasn’t talking about a boost up the ladder. This was serious business impacting the firm. She had earned her master’s in civil engineering at UCLA. The environmental side of things intrigued her. She’d dabbled in it enough to pad her credentials.
But…summer school? Out of town?
It was way worse than the PR gig at the community center.
“Randy, I can do it online.”
“And lose your sanity.” He glanced at her. “Sam, you already give us twenty-four/seven. Besides, there’s no hoity-toity factor in that.”
In spite of herself, she smiled. Prestige was C and C’s middle name. Randy liked poking fun at it.
“And it would take too long.”
“Too long for what?”
He gave a one-shoulder shrug.
The gesture indicated something was up, something big, but he couldn’t discuss it with her. “Think of it this way. It’s not PR.”
She muffled a groan. “Berkeley?”
“You’ll love it there. But don’t pack your bags yet. I have to run this by Collins. Ever been to San Francisco?”
Now, in her cottage, she groaned out loud and opened another plastic container from her landlady. No, she’d never been to San Francisco. Not interested. Not interested in a PhD, either.
She took out a brownie. Cream cheese filled. Ooey-gooey milk chocolate frosting.
Who was going to feed her at Berkeley? More importantly, where would she sleep? She did not want to move, even temporarily. She was home. Casa de Vida was the best home she’d ever had in her life.
Sugar melted on her tongue as she watched the news. A video was running from the Midwest. Frame after frame after frame of rubble.
She swallowed and placed the brownie back in its container.
What would it take to construct a completely tornado-resistant school or house? Maybe she’d learn that at Berkeley.
She snapped shut the lid, moved aside her plate, and slid her laptop into its place. No reason to delay apartment-hunting. At least the relocation would be for only a short while.
And, at least, unlike those people on the news she would have a home to come back to.