When Whales Watch Read online

  Mara Purl

  When Whales Watch

  A Milford-Haven Story

  Bellekeep Books

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. The names of actual persons are used by permission.

  Milford-Haven

  PUBLISHING, RECORDING & BROADCASTING HISTORY

  This book is based upon the original radio drama Milford-Haven ©1987 by Mara Purl, Library of Congress numbers SR188828, SR190790, SR194010; and upon the original radio drama Milford-Haven, U.S.A. ©1992 by Mara Purl, Library of Congress number SR232-483, which was broadcast by the British Broadcasting Company’s BBC Radio 5 Network, and which is also currently in release in audio formats as Milford-Haven, U.S.A. ©1992 by Mara Purl. Portions of this material may also appear on the

  Milford-Haven Web Site, www.MilfordHaven.com, or on www.MaraPurl.com

  © by Mara Purl. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bellekeep Books

  29 Fifth Avenue, Suite 7A, New York, NY 10003

  www.BellekeepBooks.com

  Front Cover – Original Watercolor by Mary Helsaple ©2011

  Front Cover design by Reya Patton &

  Kevin Meyer, Amalgamated Pixels

  ©2012 by Milford-Haven Enterprises, LLC.

  Copy Editor: Vicki Werkley.

  Proofreader: Jean Laidig.

  Author photo: Lesley Bohm.

  Published in the United States of America

  E-Book Creation 2012

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to: my publishers, Eric Kampmann and the entire team at Midpoint Trade Books; Margot Atwell, Patrice Samara, Kara Johnson and Tara Goff at Bellekeep Books; to my gifted editorial team, Vicki Hessel Werkley, editor, Jean Laidig, proofreader; to Mary Helsaple for exquisite watercolors for my book covers, and to Kevin Meyer and Amalgamated Pixels for superb cover design and graphics.

  Thanks to my marketing team: Dianemarie and Doug Collins at DM Productions for PR and marketing; Jonatha King for MH Novels list-building and Central Coast events; Amber Ludwig and Sky Esser for Internet design and wizardry; Kelly Johnson for Social Media expertise and creativity.

  Thanks to those who provide expertise during my research. On wildlife painting—artists Mary Helsaple, Caren Pearson; on whale-watching, boating and marine lore—Captain Gary Wiley of Harbor Breeze Cruises in Long beach, California, Captain Kevin Winfield of Sub Sea Tours in Morro Bay, California, and Becka Kelly, Habor Patrol Supervisor at Morro Bay, California. Thanks to Greenpeace colleagues, particularly those with whom I had the honor to serve on the fourth Pacific Voyage to save whales including then-President of the L.A. chapter Phil Caston, owners of the R.V. Peacock the Edwards family and First Mate Owen Edwards, and all my shipmates.

  Thanks to Charlie Itok Edwardsen for sharing the Native Inuit perspective on whales and for his long service on the International Whaling Commission.

  Thanks to the many organizations whose members work tirelessly to protect our ecology, and save species from extinction, including Greenpeace and Ocean Alliance.

  On the science of whales, thanks to Dr. Roger Payne for great conversations and great work as one of the world’s foremost cetacean biologists, the leading expert in whale vocalization, and a true poet. His 1967 discovery that humpback whales are singer-songwriters, complete with structure and rhyme, has opened the door for humans to save whales, and for whales to save humans.

  And most important of all—thanks to you, my readers! I’m thrilled to welcome those of you who are new to my books. And I extend a special heartfelt thanks to the core group of readers who’ve been with me from the beginning and are continuing with me on the journey.

  Dear Reader —

  Welcome back to Milford-Haven! Or, if this is your first visit, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my favorite little town and to a few of its many residents—all of whom are described in the Cast of Characters for the series, near the end of the book.

  This short story features artist Miranda Jones, and gives you a glimpse of her life in a small coastal town. The story stands alone as a complete tale, but also is woven into the overall tapestry of the Milford-Haven saga. Chronologically, When Whales Watch occurs just before Where the Heart Lives, book two of the Milford-Haven Novels. Indeed, to give you a seamless transition—and to let you pick up the first thread of the ongoing mystery— you’ll find the Prologue and Chapter One of the second novel are waiting for you at the end of this short story.

  Each prequel short story takes you on a painter’s adventure with Miranda. How do artists find, choose and research their subjects? In the case of a wildlife artist like Miranda, she must go where the creatures live. In this case, she boards a small boat to observe close-up the behaviors of the coastal cetaceans. She’s expecting to observe the gray whales at the beginning of their annual migration. Yet what she finds is an unexpected species, and the startling revelation that the watcher is being watched. As she tries to answer why, she begins to discover the great heart of a whale.

  This brief sojourn in California’s glorious Central Coast is a window opening outward to sheer escape, and a window opening inward to pure reflection. For you, it might be either . . . or both!

  As this short e-book unfolds, follow my footsteps over the interconnected pathways of those who inhabit Milford-Haven, then leave the land behind to travel across the water where those who watch just might be the whales.

  -Mara Purl

  When Whales Watch

  Miranda Jones moved carefully through the winter twilight, treading the wobbly concrete stepping stones of the unfamiliar path.

  A breeze caught at her long hair and she glanced down the residential lane to see dried seed balls from sycamore trees skittering down the lane.

  Though Christmas was almost a month away, she could see a few holiday lights begin to blink on homes down Shelbourne. Certainly makes a cheerful display in the gathering gloom, she thought.

  The tidy-looking one-story home in front of her seemed to hunker down against the evening winds that now blew up from the Pacific Ocean at its back. After a few more steps, she reached the front door and slipped the borrowed key into the lock, twisting it to the right.

  Frustrated when it wouldn’t turn, she rolled her wrist harder. Nothing. Not even a tiny snick. In the failing daylight, she bent over to squint at the mechanism, but saw nothing unusual. Shifting the backpack she’d slung over one shoulder, she lifted up on the door handle while turning the key to the left, again without success.

  I must look like I’m trying to break in. Squirming at the uncomfortable suggestion, she glanced around, but didn’t see that anyone had noticed her inept attempt to enter Shelly Larrup’s house. Peering up at the sky, Miranda tried to gauge how much time she had left before the entire front of the property would be plunged into darkness. Just as she swung her backpack to the ground to rummage for a flashlight, a voice called out, “That door always sticks! You just have to know it’ll open!”

  Heart hammering, Miranda darted a glance in both directions, but still didn’t see anyone. Who said that? Was someone behind that window next door? Maybe a neighbor who’s familiar with the idiosyncrasies of Shelly’s house. . . .

  Shelly had moved here to Milford-Haven a few months ago, and opened her shop, Shell Shock. Originally from New Zealand, she’d moved with her family to Australia, then become a true world
-traveler. Shelly’d recently left on her first journey back to Sydney since settling here. Miranda had been surprised, but honored, when in Shelly asked her to house-sit and cat-sit for the week she’d be gone.

  “At first,” Shelly’d explained in her distinctive down-under lilt, “I thought I’d go home for Chrissie, you know?”

  Miranda hadn’t known, until Shelly’d explained “Chrissie” meant “Christmas.”

  “But then,” Shelly’d continued, “my brother announced his engagement and wedding—all at once, mind you—and I thought I’d better nick out, even though it’s a bit exy.”

  “Exy” apparently was short for “expensive,” which Miranda could well imagine for such a long round-trip booked so close to her departure date.

  “Besides, we already had the biggest holiday shop of the year over Thanksgiving weekend, and the shop did well. Plus I’ll be back in time for my customers’ last-minute gifts.”

  After congratulating her friend about the big shopping days over Thanksgiving, and agreeing those first days of December would work with her own schedule, Miranda had said she’d house-sit, and put the dates in her own calendar . . . remembering she’d also be doing at least one day-trip during that week to go whale-watching.

  Now, Miranda tried to focus on getting inside. She lifted the key again, her hand shaking slightly. What had the woman’s voice said? ‘You have to know it’ll open.’ Well, I was beginning to doubt I had the right key . . . or even the right house. “Know it’ll open,” she muttered softly under her breath, and, as if by magic, the key twisted and the door released so quickly she nearly tripped over the threshold.

  Relief mingled with startlement to produce a laugh that burbled its way up Miranda’s throat. Wow! I’ll have to remember that “knowing” thing!

  She stood in the half-lit foyer, taking a moment to orient herself. Here’s a hallway . . . runs adjacent to a long kitchen bar . . . similar to mine, though situated on the opposite side. As she placed her backpack on the floor and began looking for a light switch, she was drawn to an orange glow that seemed to emanate from the rear of the home.

  I thought Shelly said there’d be no lights on . . . maybe it’s a nightlight. Leaving her backpack for now, she made her way past the kitchen to step around a partial wall. She couldn’t help but gulp air at the view in front of her. The living room angled away like the prow of a ship aimed at the 180-degree panorama of ocean. The recently-set sun left its orange glow painted in vermilion stripes that formed a semicircle toward which she seemed to be sailing.

  This is what Shelly sees every evening? I’d have a collection of a thousand sunset paintings by now if I lived here!

  Unable to resist the rapidly shifting colors of the sky-show, she knelt down on the plush dark-blue carpet and watched until the twilight left only the dimmest glow in the sky.

  After several minutes, she noticed the house itself was now truly dark. Miranda felt a soft nudge at her wrist, and looked down where she could barely see Shelly’s tortoiseshell cat peering up at her.

  “Hello, Tortie! There you are.” Miranda stroked the cat, remembering it from visits to Shell Shock. “Are you ready for your guest?”

  Tortie didn’t respond vocally, but she followed as Miranda made her way carefully back toward the kitchen and felt along the nearest wall for a switch. When she flipped it, recessed overhead lights illuminated a softly gleaming granite countertop swept so clean of any papers, mail or knickknacks, Miranda began to wonder whether Shelly actually lived here at all.

  She located Tortie’s empty food bowl and a self-filling water dispenser side-by-side on the floor. Per Shelly’s instructions, she filled the bowl with dry kibble, watching as the cat eagerly attacked her dinner.

  Recalling that Shelly had mentioned the corridor leading to the bedrooms, Miranda used it now to find the two guest rooms separated by the bathroom they shared. Each was lovely, both decorated in nature themes.

  The first was vanilla white, soft beige and delicate cream: a matelass duvet with matching shams, pickled-wood end tables and, by the window, a matching set of chairs with a small round table that supported a charming conch-shell lamp. The decorative throw pillows each had printed shell patterns, and here and there, strategically placed starfish and tritons, sea urchins and chambered nautilus added charming accents. This looks like a showroom for her store . . . imaginative ways to decorate with shells.

  The second guest room seemed more masculine, but also more conducive to sleep. Its moss-green walls blended to a deep-forest carpet and, on the wide queen-sized bed, a pattern of huge fern leaves stretched across a comforter. This is the room for me . . . love the feeling of sleeping in a glen. Wide-slatted blinds at the double window revealed a glimpse into a lush, green front garden, and the buffed-oak furniture seemed as beautifully understated as the simple lines of the house itself.

  If these are the guest rooms . . . I can hardly wait to see what she did with her own master suite. Miranda stepped back into the hallway, walked to its end, opened a door into Shelly’s private domain and flicked on the wall switch. “It’s the captain’s quarters!” she said aloud.

  Cleverly concealed lighting—some in the ceiling, some in the built-in furniture—must’ve been controlled by a dimmer that created a soft glow throughout the beautifully sleek room. Teak paneling . . . built-in closets, headboard and armoire. All so neat . . . or should I say ship-shape?

  Between the paneled sections, the walls were painted a soft medium blue, a color that complemented the dark-marine carpeting. On the king-sized bed an Ikat-printed pattern of blues seemed to pull together all the tones. The bed backed up to its multi-compartmented headboard and faced a wall of glass—which meant one could sit up in bed and watch the ocean. Or sail off into sleep as if every night’s a new adventure. The view’s so magnetic . . . and so unobstructed, I feel I might be able to see all the way to Australia. Maybe that’s why Shelly loves it here so much.

  Miranda stood in the room a moment longer, watching the silvery undulation of the ocean beyond the windows. How utterly perfect to be staying here on the eve of my whale-watching trip. I know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight! As she glided back to her own guest room, she had to smile.

  Ed Stone opened a bloodshot eye to squint at his bleating alarm clock. He wanted to wham the blasted thing into oblivion—or at least knock it across the room. But his arm had temporarily lost sensation as he’d slept on it wrong—again.

  His head pounded, and he knew he wouldn’t start to feel better until he’d chugged his first beer of the day. Hair of the dog.

  Still wrapped in his sheets, he listened for a moment to the sea lions that congregated seasonally near Morro Rock. Their cries ricocheted across the water and bounced up the sloping neighborhood, the mournful chorus of barks and wailings a fitting underscore to his mood.

  He pictured himself marching laboriously through his morning routine: walk the few steps across his small Morro Bay apartment to his efficiency-kitchen; hit the coffee machine On button; while it burbled, inhale a beer; stand in the shower stall; pull on jeans and what could pass for a clean T-shirt; drive the ten blocks to his shop; unlock the door; sell kitchen and bath fixtures all day; lock the door behind him; hit the Sandy Bottom Bar; repeat.

  He couldn’t claim it was a good life. Indeed, the “good life” had walked out the door more than a year ago with his ex-wife and their two boys.

  In fairness, she’d warned him. “One more time, Ed, and we’re outta here!” But her voice—though shrill, according to the neighbors—had sounded to him as distant as a buoy dinging softly, way offshore.

  Drinking problem? Bull! He’d always been able to handle his liquor. And how the hell else was a guy supposed to let off steam after the daily grind? So, he’d ignored the warning signs—both the external ones, and the internal ones, which were always easier to squelch.

  One night-out-with-the-boys too many; one binge too far; one violent argument over the top.

  So Ma
rsha’d up and left him with empty closets and dirty dishes, unwashed laundry and an unpaid mortgage. The house went away in a short sale; the family went away with his money. Now, it was just the Sandy Bottom, the guys . . . and Ed Stone barely keeping his head above water at the shop.

  Sinks and tubs, toilets and drains, faucets and pipes, shower heads and plungers.

  He thought he should rename the shop “Sink Like a Stone.” His buddies at the bar had roared with laughter—then started to dissuade him from changing the legal name.

  “No, no, Ed, that’s a bad idea,” Jacob-the-lawyer had warned. “My advice? Stick with Coastal Kitchen & Bath.”

  Jacob . . . he’s always right. Better not make my life any more of a bad joke than it already is.

  The thought of his buddy Jacob jerked Ed upright in bed so suddenly that his throbbing head nearly toppled off his shoulders. “The boat!” he exclaimed. That’s right! Today’s the day! We’re off on our excursion!

  Jacob had bought himself a boat a few months ago, though what Jacob knew about ocean-going vessels, you could fit in a thimble. Still, the guy had a taste for adventure and the bank account to support his habit. Ed would be more than happy to go along for the ride.

  His arm now tingling with pins and needles, Ed pushed himself out of bed and headed toward the fridge for his beer. Don’t need to make coffee today. I’ll grab some at the donut shop on the way to the marina.

  He glanced at the yellowed-plastic wall clock, which read seven a.m. If he didn’t get a move on, he’d be late arriving at the dock.

  The Sperm Whale rocketed toward the light, his fins tucked against his sleek, gray skin, aiming his fifty-ton body in a perfect trajectory upward.