Once in a Blue Moon (32 page)

Kerrie Ann wondered if she was dreaming. Incredibly, she’d managed to nod off while curled in the chair by the window, and when roused by the sound of a vehicle noisily rattling its way down the drive, it seemed at first to be happening in her dream. Then her eyes flew open, and she jerked upright. She felt momentarily disoriented, like in the old days, after a night of partying, waking in an unfamiliar place not knowing how she’d gotten there. But confusion quickly gave way to a thud of recollection: Her daughter was missing. That was why she was sitting here in the clothes she’d been wearing the night before, the phone clutched in her hand.

She struggled to her feet, wincing as her cramped muscles released their knots. Her sister had fallen asleep, too, and in the kitchen she could hear the tap running—Miss Honi making another pot of coffee, no doubt. Outside, the rattle of the approaching vehicle grew louder. Kerrie Ann ran to the door and jerked it open, darting out without bothering to slip on her shoes. In the darkness, the twin beams of headlights jounced their way down the rutted drive. Then the vehicle swung into view, and she saw that it was Ollie’s Willys.

She felt a quick, hot burst of disappointment: not the police with her daughter. But her disappointment quickly gave way to a kind of relief. Ollie would make it better. He would help her through this. In that moment, as she stood there with her stomach seesawing and her arms wrapped around herself to keep from shivering, she couldn’t think why she’d dumped him. He was the best guy she’d ever known. Maybe
too
good. Maybe the reason she’d chosen Jeremiah instead was because she’d felt she didn’t deserve any better.

She ran to meet the Willys as it lurched to a stop. Watching Ollie clamber out from behind the wheel, she realized he wasn’t alone. Someone was buckled into the passenger seat beside him—a small, droopy-headed figure. Kerrie Ann let out a choked cry. Could it be?. . . Then she saw that it was and let out a cry of joy, her heart taking flight.

“Bella!” She darted forward, mindless of the sharp bits of gravel digging into the soles of her feet. She was at her daughter’s side within moments of Ollie’s hoisting her from her seat, and then Bella was in her arms and the two were hugging each other while they both sobbed.

At last she turned to Ollie, managing to choke out, “Where on earth did you find her?”

“Asleep on somebody’s front lawn. She’d gone looking for help and gotten lost.” Ollie looked a little shaken himself, as if thinking of how close they’d come to a very different outcome.

“Oh, God.” Kerrie Ann clutched her daughter more tightly to her.

“I saw on the news that she was missing. I thought I might as well join the search party.”

“But how did you know where to look for her?”

“I didn’t. Not at first. But I asked around, and that’s what led me to your ex-boyfriend. He’s fine, too, by the way, in case you’re wondering. I dropped him off at the police station on my way.”

“I don’t give a shit about Jeremiah. He can rot in hell for all I care,” replied Kerrie Ann through gritted teeth.

Ollie was glad to hear that she felt that way, though he was quick to inform her, “Not that it’s any excuse, but I don’t think he knew what he was doing. He was pretty high.”

“Figures,” she muttered.

The whole story came out once they were inside and Bella was tucked in bed. While the four adults sat drinking coffee in the living room, Ollie told how he’d tracked down Jeremiah’s dealer. He played down his role, feeling a bit ashamed of his old connection, from the days when he’d been a druggie, too. The only thing that separated him from a guy like Jeremiah was that he wasn’t a born addict. And it truly had been a lucky break, finding Bella on the lawn of a house not more than half a mile from the dealer’s. Luckily, too, the sergeant on duty at the police station was an old friend of his family, so Ollie had been given the okay to bring Bella straight home.

All Kerrie Ann could think of was that, if it hadn’t been for Ollie, her daughter might still be out wandering around, alone and scared. She recalled Miss Honi’s words about there being an angel on her shoulder. Kerrie Ann now knew who her guardian angel was: She was looking right at him.

“I imagine that fella’s neighbors got the surprise of their life when the cops showed up,” said Miss Honi of Jeremiah’s dealer. “And all that time, them thinking he was just the nice guy next door.”

“Thanks to Ollie, it wasn’t something worse than a drug bust,” said Lindsay. “If he hadn’t come along when he did. . .” She wasn’t thinking only of what might have happened to Kerrie Ann’s little girl; she was remembering the long-ago night when she and Miss Honi had searched frantically for the then three-year-old Kerrie Ann. So much had happened since then, yet they’d come full circle in a way. She could only hope the outcome in this case would be a happier one once all the dust settled.

Color rose in Ollie’s cheeks. “It was just a good guess,” he said modestly.

“No, it was more than that.” Kerrie Ann looked at Ollie with tears in her eyes and said, “You were smart and brave and. . . and I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Ollie held her gaze as he sat there with his heart beating in slow motion. His present state of consciousness bordered on an out-of-body experience, but at the center of it all was a single clear thought:
She needs me
. He smiled at her. “Lucky for you, you don’t have to.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
HE FALLOUT WAS
as Kerrie Ann had feared. The Bartholds, Mrs. Silvestre, and the state of California all held her personally responsible. Unsupervised visits with Bella were suspended for the foreseeable future, and the Bartholds were so cold to her over the phone whenever she called to speak with her daughter that she’d remarked bitterly to her sister that it was a wonder she didn’t have frostbite. Her lawyer had informed her that her position was so shaky right now that the judge, if pressed to make a decision now, would most likely grant custody to the Bartholds. The only thing she had going for her, it seemed, were the once interminable and now welcome delays of due process. She was using the time to redeem herself as best as she could.

Jeremiah had gotten off lightly, all things considered; the Bartholds, bent on punishing Kerrie Ann, hadn’t pressed charges against him. He wasn’t so lucky where Kerrie Ann was concerned.

“It won’t happen again, I swear,” he’d pleaded, looking so repentant she’d felt a flicker of pity. Wasn’t it the same face she’d so often seen in the mirror after having sworn not to use again, then breaking that vow? But she’d remained firm. “I hope not, for your sake,” she’d told him. “But whatever you do, don’t do it for me. We’re done. And if I have any say in it, you’ll never see Bella again.”

Meanwhile, Lindsay was doing her best to forget Randall Craig. She hadn’t returned any of his phone calls and had deleted all his e-mails, unread. He was history as far as she was concerned. A regrettable chapter in her life from which she’d learned a valuable lesson: Never trust a stranger offering candy. In this case, the candy had been Randall himself. He’d sweetened her up by charming, then seducing her. He’d made her feel desirable and filled her with romantic hopes and dreams best left to the pages of Danielle Steel novels. Even if he hadn’t betrayed her, it would have run its course eventually, she told herself. Maybe not this soon, but soon enough—like a sugar crash.

In contrast, what she had with Grant was solid and real, if not always exciting. He had his faults, sure, but he’d never been less than honest and aboveboard, which was more than she could say about herself. She counted herself fortunate that he’d never suspected anything—even if that was only because he hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice. Better to be with someone like her boyfriend than with a charming trickster.

But no amount of rationalizing could change the fact that she missed Randall. She’d known him only a short while, but each moment had been like gold, to be hoarded and treasured in memory. She missed the sound of his voice over the phone. His infectious laugh and the stories he told that were like glittering threads shot through the otherwise muted tapestry of her life. Their spirited discussions about books they’d read, about which they didn’t always agree. The way he frequently sought her opinion and always listened when she needed to vent frustration or voice a concern.

What pained her most was knowing that in all likelihood, she’d never again know the kind of passion she had experienced with Randall. Just the one time was all it had taken to awaken her senses and give her a delicious new awareness of her body. It was as though he’d drawn an erotic map to all its hidden recesses and nerve endings, setting a course that, once embarked on, couldn’t be reversed. Making love with Grant, she’d often indulge in fantasies about Randall that left her burning with shame afterward. She told herself it was wrong, as well as unfair to Grant, but it was no good; she couldn’t seem to keep her mind from straying.

The one bright spot was that business had picked up at the book café. The latest installment in the Dragon Hunter series had proved hugely successful and had spurred sales of other titles as well. And with the rise in profits had come a renewed sense of optimism. Cautiously she began to think that the future might not be so bleak after all. With a little bit of luck, she just might be able to hang on until her case was settled without losing either her home or business.

Nonetheless, she was haunted by the very real possibility that it could go up in smoke. Which was likely if Lloyd Heywood got his way. Each time her gaze fell on the check that she hadn’t cashed or had the heart to tear up, she felt her stomach clench.

The day before they were due in court, Lindsay had lunch with her lawyer. They met at a small seafood place in Montara, where, over drinks and a shared appetizer of fried calamari, he explained tersely that there was a new wrinkle in the case. “I heard from Mike the other day.” Mike Hubbard, a former colleague of Dwight’s who now worked as a top-level aide to the governor, was his eyes and ears in Sacramento. “Apparently some new guy—fellow by the name of Curtis Brooks—just took over as head of the Lands Commission. Anyway, Mike has it from a reliable source that Brooks intends to rubberstamp this if the judge rules in the county’s favor tomorrow.”

Lindsay experienced a small jolt. “Can he do that?” She’d been told it was typically a long process—months, sometimes years if there was a backlash in the community.

“It may be unorthodox, but it’s not illegal. It does, however, suggest that this Brooks has some influential friends.”

Lindsay had thought herself immune to panic at this point, but a little alarm bell went off inside her head nonetheless. “Heywood,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Most likely.” Her lawyer frowned and sipped his drink.

“So what do we do?”

He frowned. “Legally our hands are tied. But it would help if we had some political juice of our own.” Dwight nibbled on a piece of calamari, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “All we’d need is the backing of one or two legislators.”

“How would we go about getting that?”

“By lighting a fire under them.” Becoming suddenly animated, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “What’s the one thing guaranteed to get an elected official motivated? Pressure from voters. We just have to make voters aware of what’s going on.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.” There had been articles in the local press. There was also the piece Randall had planned to write, though that had most likely been scrapped by now. She felt a fresh stab at the memory of that ghastly day.

“Yes, but I’m talking mass scale. Major city newspapers, TV news, talk radio. Generate enough publicity and suddenly you’re a
cause célèbre
. You’re in
People
magazine. You’re on
Oprah
. Everyone loves a story about the little guy going up against the corporate baddies who’re out to screw him . . . or in this case, her. The public will eat it up. Then there won’t be any sliding this through; it’d be too much of a political hot potato.” His brown eyes, which matched the conservative brown suit he wore, flickered with excitement.

Listening to him speak, she nodded slowly, taking it in. It seemed pretty far-fetched. What were the chances of this becoming a
cause célèbre?
She’d promoted enough author events to know how hard it was just to get people to come to a book signing. This would be like that, only on a much larger scale. And in the unlikely event that she pulled it off—what then? The thought of being thrust into the public eye filled her with dread. Also, wouldn’t it defeat the purpose? The whole point was to be able to enjoy the peace and serenity of her surroundings, which she could hardly do if she were running around the country appearing on TV and speaking to reporters.

“I don’t know, Dwight,” she said, shaking her head. “Somehow I can’t see myself on
Oprah
.”

Some of the fire went out of his eyes. “Let’s just play it by ear, okay?” he said. “Who knows; maybe it’ll go our way tomorrow.” He didn’t sound too hopeful.

Lindsay managed to hold it together for the rest of the meal. It wasn’t until the drive home that she let loose some of her frustration. “Damn it!” she cried, bringing the heel of her hand down on the steering wheel hard enough to bruise it. Why
her
? Why not some other desirable piece of property where a resort could be built? And for that son of a bitch, Lloyd Heywood, to sink so low as to enlist his own son to seduce her into accepting his offer. . . Her eyes filled with helpless tears. It was one of those rare cloudless days, the sky the deep crystalline blue of late summer and the ocean glittering with a billion star points of reflected light, but she couldn’t enjoy it. Over the course of lunch, the fledgling optimism of the past few weeks had given way to despair. All she could see was bleakness ahead.

At the first red light, she jammed a CD into the player, and “Hotel California” came pouring from the speakers. She cranked up the volume, losing herself in its familiar rhythms. For her mother, it had been opera and classical music and for her father, jazz and rhythm and blues, but for her, rocking out to the Eagles . . . or the Grateful Dead . . . or Led Zeppelin was what helped clear her head. She sang along, closing her mind against the clouds gathering on her inner horizon.

Thank God she didn’t have to face this alone. She didn’t know what she would do without Miss Honi and Kerrie Ann. Lindsay’s expectations had been so low during those first rocky weeks with her sister that it had been nothing short of a revelation to watch her blossom over time and become someone she could lean on, as opposed to someone who is always in need. Kerrie Ann worked hard and these days kept a low profile, though her “toned-down” look was still over the top at times. She pitched in around the house and even remembered to pick up after herself most of the time. In studying for her GED, she’d also developed an interest in reading—she’d recently discovered the Judy Blume books, which she couldn’t believe she’d missed growing up. And despite her recent setback, she hadn’t knuckled under. She’d faced the wrath of the Bartholds, the censure of Bella’s caseworker, and the scolding from her own lawyer with an even-temperedness that had amazed Lindsay, given her sister’s tendency to fly off the handle. She took full responsibility for allowing Bella to go off with Jeremiah, making no excuses. In short, she’d gone from acting like a bratty teenager to behaving like a grown-up.

There had been a change in her sister’s attitude toward Ollie as well. She no longer batted her eyes at him only to leave him trailing in her wake like a lovesick puppy. Now they went on actual dates. Usually nothing more than grabbing a bite to eat after work or renting a DVD that they would watch over at her house. But, though Kerrie Ann continued to insist that they were just friends, Lindsay had seen the way they looked at each other. Regardless, she no longer worried that Kerrie Ann would either corrupt Ollie or crush him under her heel. It wasn’t just that her sister had reformed; Ollie had proved himself to be more of a man than she’d given him credit for. If not for his quick thinking and brave actions, the scary episode with Bella might have ended tragically. If he could handle something like that, she didn’t doubt he could take care of himself where Kerrie Ann was concerned.

Lindsay was calmer by the time she arrived back at work. She’d dried her tears and put her worries on the back burner. She had no time for dwelling on dire thoughts, with calls to make and customers to attend to, a meeting with her web designer, and flyers to send out for the book event they were hosting the following weekend.

She walked in the door and a voice fluted, “Lindsay!” She looked up to find Darla Humphrey bustling over. Darla, a retired schoolteacher with an inexplicable appetite for horror novels—the scarier the better—was one of her best customers and also among her most loyal supporters. She’d even started a petition to save Lindsay’s land. Right now, though, it wasn’t a petition she was holding but a magazine, folded open. “Oh, I’m glad I caught you. Do you know about this?” Darla thrust the magazine into Lindsay’s hands.

It was the magazine section from the coming Sunday’s
Chronicle
. Darla explained that her nephew, who worked at the paper, sent her an advance copy each week. In it was the article that had Darla so excited. The title and byline jumped out at Lindsay: “PARADISE INTERRUPTED, written and photographed by Randall Craig.” The accompanying photo was the view of the ocean from her front yard.

Her heart bumped up into her throat as she scanned the opening lines.

This is Steinbeck country. Thirty miles or so south of San Francisco, along Highway 1, between the rocky fist of Devil’s Slide and gentle reach of the Monterey Peninsula, lies a stretch of coastline so unspoiled, you have the sense, driving down it, that you’re in the Northern California of
Tortilla Flat
. Development has largely been a dream deferred or a threat unrealized, depending on one’s point of view. Vast tracks of farmland still dominate, and the million-dollar ocean views are primarily left to passing motorists and the migrant workers tending those fields to enjoy. The California Coastal Commission ensure that most of it remains unspoiled. But there are unincorporated areas which fall outside the commission’s purview. Such as the town of Blue Moon Bay, which has recently become the focal point in an ongoing war between the self-proclaimed prophets of progress and those who worship a more ancient god. At the center of it all stands the unlikely five-foot-six heroine who has become the David in this battle against Goliath. . . .