What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (19 page)

Astronomers, however, paid little attention to the Terran views, mostly sleeping during the day so they could be up all night gathering stellar data. Cornelius had spent his September observing-time searching for undiscovered planets.

He’d managed to do some of his observation during a previous full moon, because his object-of-interest at the time was in a different part of the sky than where the bright orb blotted out the stars.
Well, that wasn’t the only reason. I was doing spectroscopy. Much easier than photometry would’ve been with those cirrus clouds—especially with a full moon lighting them up
.

As usual, he’d gone back to Ames with so much raw data it would take him weeks, or maybe even months, to reduce it—making all the corrections for the atmosphere, the electronics, and several other factors, in order to get an accurate picture of what the stars were actually
doing
—like wavering in response to gravitational pull, which could indicate the presence of a planet. Data reduction was the kind of work he could do anywhere: at Lick, at Ames, or here, on the laptop he’d brought to his parents’.

He continued for another hour, glancing out the window again to see that the moon had color-shifted to gold.
Must be under 15°. That’s where the atmospheric effects really start to happen
.

In deep concentration, he didn’t look outside again until four a.m.
I did say I’d work till moonset, and here it is. It’s setting just 3 degrees of due west … and setting in the constellation Aquarius
.

He shut down his computer, walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he’d shed his jeans, when something on the desk caught his eye.
Oh, that’s right, I brought my mail but never opened it. Okay, here’s my bank statement, that program flier I requested from JPL, and … something unfamiliar
.

He changed into his pajamas—he never wore them at home, but at his parents’ it seemed polite. Then he settled himself in his cozy bed and switched on the reading lamp. The return address of the unopened letter indicated it was from Stanford Inn by the Sea in Mendocino.
Probably just a sales piece, but you never know
. He ripped it open. “Dear Dr. Smith … blah blah blah … wondered if you’d be interested in creating an evening star program for our guests.”

Now they’ve got my attention
. He re-read the letter from the top. The Stanford Inn designated itself an eco-lodge. He’d been hearing about these cropping up here and there in various parts of the world, and found the concept intriguing. Along with offering a vegan menu in their dining room, and biking and canoeing in the nearby Big River estuary, they also ran some educational events. The Inn had never offered an astronomy program, but would he like to discuss the possibility?

Would I ever! I could design a star party! Something not too technical—but really fun
.

Ideas began to swirl in his mind as his eyes drifted closed. Soon visions of the star party blended with a dream of Aquarius riding a wave off Milford-Haven’s shoreline.

Samantha Hugo squinted at the morning sun streaming into her kitchen window, pulled the chair-stool closer to sit at her high built-in table and inhaled from the fresh mug of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Shoving aside the teetering stack of fliers, postcards and catalogues—and careful not to disturb her collage of sticky-notes—she placed the steaming mug on the tiled top, picked up the morning newspaper and scanned the front page.
Nothing unexpected there, just the usual: City Council arguing over water; funding tight for education
.

While she turned the next few pages, she took a first sip of the rich brew. But when a bright beam of sun spotlighted the center-page feature article, she nearly spit out her coffee.
Samantha Hugo, Elegant Environmentalist
. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “The article was supposed to be about the EPC, not about
me!”

She recalled her conversation with Emily Wilkins, who, until now, had always seemed a responsible journalist with the
Milford-Haven News
. They’d discussed the delicate balance between the need to keep their local economy healthy while maintaining a close watch on important environmental matters—not cutting down too many trees to clear the way for new houses; adhering to coastal erosion regulations; water conservation. Taking a deep breath, Samantha resumed reading.

Ms. Hugo’s living room is a reverie of Art Nouveau. She seems to have chosen curvaceous objects that mirror her own lines, such as the graceful clock with pewter embellishments that sits on a large armoire.

Her own coloring resonates through her home as well, her vibrant red hair echoed by furnishings of burnt orange and soft brown, ochre and dark chocolate. She appears to have a passion for autumn flowers, as evidenced by an arrangement that seemed to pulsate on her coffee table—orange lilies, bright yellow sunflowers, burgundy dahlias, red Hypericum berries and coral zinnias.

Sam rolled her eyes. “Emily calls herself a serious reporter, and she writes about my
furniture?”
Exasperated, Sam left the paper on the table and marched off to her bedroom to get dressed for the day. She’d showered earlier, and now slipped off her robe and put on brown slacks and a favorite mocha-and-cream paisley blouse. She’d pick up her suede jacket on her way out.

I suppose I’ll have to read the rest of that article. Everyone else in town certainly will. This attention was the
last
thing I needed
.

In the bathroom, she applied her usual quick-but-careful makeup and combed out her short, upswept hairstyle.

The phone rang.
Now what?
She grabbed her jacket and headed toward the kitchen. There were so many messages already filling up the cassette in her answering machine, that she hated to add yet another. Still, she let her machine pick up the call.

“Hello, this is Samantha Hugo. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
She only wished that were true.

The instant the machine clicked over to accept the incoming message, her assistant’s voice—with an edge to it—boomed out of the speaker.

“—antha, this is Susan at the office. I thought you said you’d be here by nine. But you’re working on a flower arrangement. In any case you have an urgent letter—it just arrived. You better get down here right away and see what it is.”

Sam sighed.
She’d obviously already read the paper. Susan with attitude? Why should today be any different?
Not for the first time, Sam wondered whether it’d been wise to hire a twenty-one-year old, even though she came through the special program of the Chumash Tribal Council.

But there was no time to worry about it this morning, not with an urgent letter waiting. She slipped into her jacket and began to pack her briefcase.

Susan Winslow bent over to open a filing cabinet. With a sickening surge, blood rushed to her head and she leaned on the edge of the desk to steady herself.
Stupid-number-one: coming to work with a hangover; stupid-number-two: leaning over when my head’s throbbing
.

She’d attempted to get the day off to a good start by coming early to the Environmental Planning Commission office. After unlocking the front door and flipping on the lights, she’d made coffee and managed to read some of the
Milford-Haven News
. “Geez, I didn’t know Samantha matched her own house!” she’d muttered, and just then the mailman had arrived. “Express Mail.” He handed her a thin package.

“Thanks,” she’d said to his back.
He must be a new guy. He’s kind of dorky, but he does have a cute butt
.

After he left, she checked the return address of the envelope: S.C.A.A.A.
The first two letters probably stand for Southern California like they usually do. Don’t know what the three A’s stand for … not one of the regular agencies we deal with. But they must be government, because they used the Postal Service. And it does say “urgent.” She’ll probably be pissed if I don’t call her
.

So she dialed Samantha’s home number.
But all I got was the machine. I had to listen all the way through that dumb announcement of hers, and she doesn’t even pick up! What’s the point of “taking initiative” like she always says
.

Now, sinking slowly into her desk chair, she squinted at the two stacks of papers Samantha had left for her to file. The first were the hand-out and her personal notes from the recent meeting she’d attended in L.A. “October 6, 1996, California Coastal Commission, Agenda.”
Ugh, the sticky note says I have to type all these notes, then put the file back on her desk
.

The second stack was topped with a sticky-note on which she’s scribbled, “Oil.”
Swell. But “oil” has about a zillion subcategories
.

She hefted the papers to her lap. First among the pages was
a report on the latest disaster in Wales. Leaning again over the open file drawer—carefully this time—she used her fingers to walk through the “O” labels. She found a file titled “Oil: spills.” But there were also files labeled “Oil: coastal” and “Oil: Wales.”

As she considered her options, the stack of papers slid from her lap and scattered under her desk. “Perfect! Stupid-number-three!” Blowing out a sigh of frustration, she lowered to her knees and began gathering the sheets. Her head began throbbing again, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I got here as soon as I could.”

Startled by Samantha’s sudden voice, Susan pulled up too quickly, banging her head on the underside of the desk. “Shit,” she said. “No,
this
was stupid-number-three.”

“Good morning to you too, Susan. What are you doing under there? Are you all right?”

Susan pushed herself up till she stood at her full height, which—even in her three-inch-soled Doc Martens—still made her a foot shorter than Samantha. “Why did you come in here like a ghost? Can’t you make some
noise
when you walk into a place?”

“The
place
I’m walking into happens to be my own office. Where’s that letter?”

“It’s right here.” Susan thrust the envelope at her boss. “Who’s it from?”

Samantha brought cool amber eyes to bear on her.
Geez, they look like a cougar’s eyes
. “Really, Susan, you ask rather personal questions.”

“What do you mean? It came to the office. And it’s from an
agency or something.”

Samantha huffed. “I knew you’d already looked.”

“I was just … like … curious.”

“I’ll be in my office.” Samantha walked across the room and closed her door with a firm click.

Samantha Hugo inhaled a long breath. Now that the physical door between herself and her troublesome assistant was closed, she wished she could close the mental one as well.

Susan—a jumble of pluses and minuses—presented Sam with a constant series of challenges. When it came to her office skills, some days the girl showed initiative and efficiency. Yet, most of the time, she either made mistakes, or apparently forgot some of the careful training Sam had given her. On top of that, her insolent attitude sometimes pushed Sam to the edge of patience.

Then there was her nosiness, which some people regarded as a liability. True, any employee who read someone else’s personal mail could be reprimanded for it. But on the other hand, curiosity was an essential trait in life. A favorite quotation from the poet Nancy Willard sprang to mind: “Sometimes questions are more important than answers.”

If Susan’s not curious about things, she won’t ask the right questions. I don’t want to dampen down her instinct to have an inquiring mind
. Sam looked down at the Express package in her hand.
Why wouldn’t Susan be curious about this? We don’t often get this kind of urgent delivery
.

Running her finger over the return address, she wasn’t surprised to see it was from So Cal Associated Adoption Agencies. Ambivalent about what the contents would reveal, she paused before opening it. In the next moment her own
curiosity won out over anxiety, and she tore open the envelope.