The Sunset Witness (3 page)

Sarah had told me the house came completely
furnished, and it certainly appeared to have everything I'd need as far as
furniture, linens, kitchen utensils, and appliances, including an older small
television on the pine shelves in the kitchen, and a single CD player/radio
next to the bed.  I'd brought only my clothes, toiletries, laptop, printer,
miscellaneous computer accessories, eBook reader, MP3 player, compact disks, a
few decorations, and my pillow.  Anything that didn't fit in my car, I left behind. 
I was disappointed that there was no washer/dryer combo in the beach house.  I
disliked using public laundries, especially in a beach town like Sunset.  It
occurred to me that I'd not seen a laundry or even a grocery or gas station in
Sunset, and I made another mental note to ask Sarah where they were located.

I made up the futon in the living room with the
sheets and comforter Sarah had set out and then went to the car for my pillow,
the small case with my toiletries, and the suitcase I'd packed to avoid
unloading the entire trunk whenever I stopped for the night along the way to
Sunset.  It was getting dark by the time I changed into my pajamas.  When I
opened the jalousie windows on either side of the picture window in the living
room, I realized I'd missed seeing the sun go down.

I'd looked forward to hearing the soothing rhythm of
the surf while I drifted off to sleep or awoke in the morning.  I was not
expecting to feel afraid.  The ocean roared into shore toward high tide as I was
slipping out of consciousness.  I remembered the signs warning TSUNAMI HAZARD ZONE
and TSUNAMI EVACUATION ROUTE.  That night I dreamed an earthquake caused the
kitchen mural to crumble at my feet.  I was scrambling up the hillside above
Sunset with a monster wave menacing toward me when I woke up screaming.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The next morning I allowed myself the luxury of
waking up slowly while enjoying the same surf that gave me nightmares the night
before.  My mind wandered.  Darkness makes everything seem more sinister than
it is.  Perhaps it is because darkness conceals everything, good and bad, and
makes it easier for something evil to overtake us.  Children aren't afraid to
nap in the daytime.  It is only at night that monsters lurk beneath their
beds.  Even cemeteries evoke fond memories of loved ones during the day.  It is
only at night that the dead rise from their graves to menace us.  If I was
going to assume Sarah's lease, I'd have to conquer the fear I felt when the
ocean I loved in the daylight became a black, roaring, lethal mass at night.

I was eating a bowl of cereal at the drop leaf table
in the kitchen when I saw a booklet with tide tables on the pine shelving.  The
cover had an anthropomorphic beaver wearing a hat and life jacket on the front
and the caution to be aware of the tides.  The tide for the night before was
the highest it would be when I was falling asleep for another week.  Once I was
asleep, I'd not notice the rising tide.  With another high tide at 1:40 p.m., I
had ample time to find a line of debris on the beach from the previous night. 
That would tell me how close I came to being swallowed up by the ocean.

After dressing in tan capris and a hot pink blouse, I
slipped into my flip-flops and locked the door.  The parking lot was empty, so
I placed Sarah's key under the loose brick and walked through the lot until I
came to the steps leading to the beach.

A man who appeared to be in his early seventies had
almost reached the landing.  He was out of breath by the time he stopped,
wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that showed the outline of stubborn
stains left behind after washing. His face was pale and clean shaven except for
a bushy, brown mustache.  He was taller than I, and his belly was barely
contained above his belt.  He wore shorts that ended at the knee, revealing
legs that were hairless, smooth, and shapely for a man.  He kept walking across
the street as I descended the stairs.

I reached the bottom of the single flight of stairs, and
looked for a line of debris from the high tide the night before.  Tangled
masses of kelp, broken shells, pebbles, sand crab skeletons, a water bottle,
and a Frisbee formed a line about twenty feet from the short bluff on which the
beach house was built.  Ordinarily, a high tide would not be a threat to me as
I slept.  I supposed the tsunami warnings I'd seen were the result of the
devastation in Indonesia in 2004 and, more recently, in Japan.  I made another
mental note to ask someone if a tsunami had reached Sunset in the past.

While I was trying to remember the other mental notes
I'd made since arriving in Sunset, I saw the same couple I'd noticed the day
before as they exited the public restroom in the parking lot.  The woman's
cutoff jeans and camisole reminded me that I needed to find something to put in
front of the mural.  The soiled jeans worn by her companion reminded me that I
needed to find a laundry, grocery, and gas station.

I returned to the beach house, brushed sand off my
feet and legs, and changed into a pair of hot pink wedges.  I checked my phone
for a message from Sarah and then headed in the direction of Twyla's Tea Room.

The restaurant appeared to be a box about twenty feet
by forty feet with a simple pitched roof that needed new shingles.  Five gulls
rested at the apex, lending a certain charm which would have been missing
elsewhere.  I was reminded of the type of buildings described in the brooding
novels by Bronte and Hardy.  The long, north-facing side that I could see was
covered in rough cut cedar that matched the distressed look of the lumber at
the shorter, east-facing front.  The entire building was a drab, grayish brown
with an odd assortment of windows.  Those at the top of the building were of
such size, shape, and placement that I supposed it was the living quarters for
the owner.  The lower part of the building had only three, evenly-spaced
windows that were about a foot wide and about eight feet from the ground.  The
building looked at least a century old, and I supposed it had once been used for
something else.  A white sign above the door was shaped like a tea kettle and advertised
Twyla's Tea Room.  The menu was posted outside and enclosed in a small box. 
When I peered into the front window, I could see that at least four tables in
the rear had a view of the ocean.  The restaurant appeared to have settled about
a foot lower than the adjacent sidewalk.  As I came closer to the entrance, I
saw two window boxes on either side of the door.  They were painted the same
Newport blue.  The door, boxes, and assortment of red and yellow flowers in
them gave life to the drab building and were enticing welcomes to go inside.  I
opened the blue door and knew instantly that I'd entered a place I'd never
forget.

It was mid-morning, and the restaurant was quiet. 
The blended aromas of items baked that morning made it impossible to tell what
it was that I craved.  A teenager behind the counter cheerfully asked what I'd like.

"I'd like one of everything," I said. 
"But I really need to see Twyla.  I'm a friend of Sarah Duncan."

The girl's expression changed from welcoming to
disapproving.

"She's upstairs," the girl said.

"Can I wait?" I asked.

"Sure.  I'll tell her you're here.  What's your
name?"

"Rachel Douglas.  I think Sarah mentioned me to Twyla." 
I tried to stay upbeat as if I'd not noticed the chilly reception.  The girl's
nametag spelled Tiffany, and I filed it away to ask Sarah about her later.

When she came to the bottom of the stairs, Twyla was
not at all what I expected.  Instead of being heavyset with a bib apron and
hairnet, she was about ten years older than I, shapely, and allowed her blonde
hair to fall over her right shoulder.  Her eyeglasses were framed in red
rectangles that brought out her blue eyes and lent warmth to her pale face. 
Unlike Tiffany, Twyla gave me a warm smile and extended her hand.

"I'm so glad you're here!" she said.

"It's great to be here.  But I think I've gained
ten pounds inhaling the air in here."  I laughed.

"You'll get used to it.  Are you ready to
start?" she asked.

"I assumed you'd want to do an interview and
have me fill out some forms," I said.

"No hurry for that.  Sarah gave you a great
recommendation, so that's good enough for me."

"Sarah was pretty vague about her plans.  When
did she leave this job for the one in Hoquarten?"  I asked.

"She took a job in Hoquarten?" Twyla looked
like somebody who received bad news.

"I probably shouldn't have said anything.  I
assumed you knew."

"Sarah told us she was going back to
Pennsylvania.  She said you'd be arriving last week, so we wouldn't have to
look for someone else," Twyla said.

"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding.  I'm sure
Sarah knew I couldn't be here before yesterday.  I'd have come in then, but I
didn't realize you expected me last week.  I can't explain the miscommunication
about her returning to Pennsylvania.  She left a message yesterday that she'd
be working late and didn't want to drive to Sunset and then back to Hoquarten
in the dark," I said.

"I suppose I could have misunderstood about
Pennsylvania.  The important thing is you're here now.  This is a good time to
show you around while it's relatively quiet," Twyla said.

"Sarah did tell you my experience is limited to
working as a dining room attendant while in college, I hope."

"She did.  But you sounded like the type of
person I'd like for an employee.  It's harder to get someone dependable these
days than it is to train someone.  I prefer a clean slate.  I'd rather teach
you to do things my way than break you of bad habits."  Twyla laughed.

She showed me the tables in the formal dining area
with a view to the ocean and then took me into the kitchen.  She introduced me
to the baker and luncheon chef, Henri, who worked from early morning until after
the lunch crowd left.  Simone would take over until closing at 9 o'clock p.m. 
The menu had a lunch and dinner special every day.  The dinner menu was limited
to one entrée each of beef, chicken, or fish along with a side and either salad
or soup.  The chefs did not prepare sandwiches.  A luncheon quiche, torte, or
soufflé along with a vegetable of the day was standard fare.  The wine list was
limited, and cocktails were not served.  Desserts were very popular and brought
customers in all through the day, although they were required to sit near the
bakery counter at the front in an area of smaller tables that allowed for
self-serve beverages with desserts.

After giving me a quick tour of the kitchen, Twyla and
I went upstairs to her office.  She told me she lived above the restaurant and
was there for me whenever I needed her.  She stressed that customer service was
paramount and reminded me that the customer is always right.  However, she was
adamant about not varying from the menu and told me to refer customers who wanted
sandwiches, burgers, and a truck-driver breakfast to the deli and diner across
the street.  She explained that she could not stay in business by duplicating
those establishments.  Instead, she catered to those with more discerning
palates who were looking for atmosphere and a view of the ocean while they dined. 
She promised I'd get generous tips if I gave good service and said I'd start at
$8.50 per hour, the current minimum wage.  I completed the required employee
forms, and she showed me where the time cards were located.  Joel and the
dinner chef, Simone, would train me in the kitchen routine.  I promised to be
back at 4 p.m. dressed in black slacks and a white shirt and eager to prove
myself.  Before I left, Twyla offered to treat me to something from the
bakery.  I settled on an orange-cranberry scone and coffee and watched
customers come and go for a while.

After I left the tea room and while I was puzzling
over the miscommunication between Sarah and Twyla, I realized I still had not
heard from Sarah.  I decided to wait until noon when she would be at lunch to
call her.

Then I saw the man who was catching his breath when I
was about to walk down the stairs to the beach.  He came out of one of the
cabins, got into an older Buick that was parked at the curb, did a U-turn, and
drove past me.  That was the first time I noticed the road leading south from
the junction and following the coast.

Before I returned to the beach house, I crossed the
street and walked to Frank's house.  He was sitting in a rocking chair on the
front porch.

"Good morning, Frank," I said.

"Hello there, young lady.  I guess I don't know
your name."

"It's Rachel Douglas.  I was just hired as a
waitress at Twyla's and don't have anyone to share my good news with."

"Well, congratulations.  I'll make it a point to
eat there," he said.

"I'll be working the dinner shift until 9 p.m. 
I'm taking over Sarah Duncan's place."

"Don't believe I know her.  Say, could I ask you
a favor now that you're here?"

"I'd love to do you a favor.  What do you
need?"

"I lost a button off my blue sweater yesterday. 
I had it in my hand one minute, and the next it was gone.  I think it rolled
under the bed.  Could you find that for me and thread a needle so I can sew it
back on?"

Frank's request was unexpected and reinforced my
feeling that I belonged in Sunset.   I had a job and my first new friend, too. 
I went into the bedroom, found the button easily, and located the blue thread
and needle on top of his dresser.  I brought the items to the porch and sat in
the rocking chair next to Frank.  I insisted on sewing on the button.  I was
happy he did not insist on paying me.

"How long have you lived in Sunset?" I
asked.

"Not long.  I'm from Seattle originally, but I've
lived in Billings, Montana for the last twenty-four years.  I never did get
used to it, so I came back to the ocean to die."