When Hummers Dream Page 2

  Randi Raines looked around the rustic café and pouted. Already the long weekend wasn’t panning out to be all she’d hoped. Her boyfriend—if he could really be called that yet—had promised a “romantic getaway” up the coast.

  She’d made special arrangements to take both Thursday and Friday off from her high-pressure job as an L.A. radio talk- show host, and she’d pictured someplace glamorous and sophisticated, expensive and well-manicured. For accommodations, she’d imagined a suite at the Ritz Carlton in Santa Barbara. Instead, they’d stayed the night at some two-bit motel in this dumb little town she’d never heard of called Milford-Haven.

  For two and a half days, now, Will had talked about nothing but how “fantastic” the Central Coast was, and done nothing but drag her off to “explore.” First, it was a hike into a bunch of trees he’d called a forest. All she’d gotten there was a case of poison oak. Second, it was dinner at some hole-in-the-wall that claimed to be fancy. In a pig’s eye. In fact, she’d had the pork—refusing to allow them to cook it in the plum sauce they’d recommended—and found it nearly as dry as her date’s stories.

  Now he’d convinced her they had to have lunch at this “magical garden” place. All she saw were redwood tables and benches where she’d probably get a splinter in her tush. Thank you very much. And across the garden, sat an artist poking at a piece of paper with a brush. How quaint.

  Since the rest of their weekend stretched out ahead of her, all she had to look forward to was another boring meal followed two more days of the same. So she’d decided to drown her sorrows. That was one thing this area of California was known for—wine. She’d ordered a whole bottle of local Chardonnay, and now she was working her way to the bottom of her second glass. “You’d think a nice restaurant like this could afford to paint

  their tables, right?” Randi giggled, enjoying how Will winced and looked around to see if anyone had heard her comment. So what if I’m talking loud? He doesn’t listen to me anyway!

  They’d ordered a while ago from a cute waitress. Will looked at her a moment too long. I may not be the hottest Hollywood babe, but I’ve got a tight body and just had my hair frosted. Think I’ll pull my top a little further off my shoulder. “Say, why is the service so slow here?”

  “Randi, the service isn’t slow. They’re just giving us a chance to enjoy our drinks.”

  “Oh! Goody!” She giggled again and managed not to stick out her tongue when someone at a nearby table darted a look in her direction.

  The cute waitress came back to deliver some pita chips. Randi swiped at the bowl, nearly overturning her wine glass. Will caught it, then set it down carefully, a tiny grimace pinching his expression.

  “Nice weekend, Will. Thanks!” Randi took another sip of wine. “Course, in this secluded place we’ll never manage to see anybody. Or be seen by anybody, for that matter.” She cut loose with a high-pitched laugh. “There’s probably not enough culture to make anybody important come to this town. Although we came here, didn’t we?” She slapped the table. “Why did we come here anyway? We could still hurry on down to Santa Barbara where the beautiful people are.”

  “We don’t have to go anywhere, Randi.” Not sure what he meant, she asked, “Really?” “Oh, yeah. All the ‘beautiful people’ are right at this table.” Not sure whether or not Will had just made a joke at her

  expense, Randi threw back her head and laughed just the same.

  Miranda’s hand jerked, an involuntary reaction to the shriek of laughter that’d pierced the air. Since the hand held a paint- saturated brush close to the five-by-eight Claybord she’d started to work on, the movement left a streak of blue as a memorial of the event.

  Startled, she had a sudden, brief sensation of hovering above herself, watching her hand, the brush, the painting. For just a moment, fragments of a dream came back to her: something about a garden . . . a hummingbird with its beak in a rose. Odd, because roses don’t have nectar. But the hummer could’ve been drinking water captured in the petals. Traces of the dream lingered, but they were burning off as quickly as the marine layer that’d blanketed the shore in the early morning.

  The quiet of the Rosencrantz Café & its Guildenstern Garden had been shattered, as had her reverie of work. When she’d chosen the ideal spot to take advantage of the view, she’d been alone in the garden. Now, Miranda sat on a redwood bench in front of her art-table, closed her eyes and inhaled, then blew air slowly from between pursed lips.

  People on vacation . . . they just don’t realize how much noise they make. To be expected. August weekends always bring the tourists. She sighed. Since they’re crucial to the economy, I shouldn’t complain. In fact, I’m benefitting too, since the gallery that sells my work is doing a brisk business this summer.

  So—obnoxious and oblivious though they could be—these tourists served an important function. They came with their backpacks and leisure suits, their sensible walking shoes and colorful baseball caps. They came with their money. And they came with their noise.

  The shrieking woman continued to laugh at her own jokes, her demeanor evidently loosened by too much wine.

  I have to admit, Milford-Haven’s an ideal spot for a weekend getaway. A good four-hour drive from either Los Angeles or San Francisco, the tiny coastal town remained just slightly beyond convenient reach for most, and that suited her—and all the other residents in town—just fine.

  It was a dichotomy, she supposed. On one hand, it was a pristine haven with a core value of privacy and a cherished goal not to be found out. But on the other hand, it survived in good measure at the caprice of those who did discover the well-kept secret of a jewel at the heart of the Central Coast.

  Actually, today’s a perfect example. Now that the clouds have lifted, everything looks polished as jewelry. She took a moment to savor the visual treat: ocean spread out below the bluff like a sea of sapphires; bright sun gilded the leaves; hummingbirds winged through the garden like floating emeralds and rubies.

  She inhaled, smiled, then looked down at her palette to check her colors. Summer generally suffused a light haze over the landscape, gentling the tonalities and softening all the edges. But now the slight cloud cover had cleared, leaving the air clear as fine crystal, the colors deep and rich.

  Miranda squeezed another dot from the tube of Cerulean Blue Chromium and swirled her brush, tapering it off the edge of her board.

  With the sky brighter, now, it’s actually perfect having this streak of vivid color across the top of the picture. Let the painting come through, she schooled herself. It’s not really yours anyway.

  Samantha Hugo headed toward the front door of the Rosencrantz Café, smiling with anticipation. She and her young friend Miranda had agreed to treat themselves today and would soon be enjoying their favorite R&G signature meal: fish- and-chips with red-cabbage slaw.

  But if I know Miranda, she’s not waiting alone at a table. She’s still painting. Better go check the garden. Changing direction, Sam walked through the shade of the nursery entrance, then back out into the sun to glance around the Guildenstern Garden.

  Catching sight of Miranda sitting at her worktable, she watched as the artist waved her paintbrush to greet Sam. “Hi!” Sam stepped close enough to catch sight of an array of tiny watercolors, and a nearly-finished book-sized painting of the garden. “Oh, how gorgeous! Look at those colors!”

  Miranda stood up and gave Sam a light hug. “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Famished. Oh, there’s Lorraine having lunch with some friends. Do you mind if I tell her one quick thing?”

  “Of course not.” Miranda plunged her brush into water. “I need to clean my brushes and close up a bit here.”

  “Sorry, I won’t be a moment.” Sam hurried across the garden to greet Lorraine Larimer. Known affectionately as the “crone” of Milford-Haven, Mrs. Larimer served as head of the Town Council and ruled their small burg with the proverbial iron-fist-in-velvet-glove.

  “Hi, everybody, hi, Lorraine. Pardo
n me for interrupting. I just wanted you to know I did find that report I promised I’d look for. Do you want me to drop it by your office, or will you send someone to pick it up?”

  “Good as gold—as always, Sam. I’ll come get it myself. This afternoon okay?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be back at my desk by two or so. Enjoy your lunch.”

  Sam walked toward the back door, Miranda met her there, and the two made their way upstairs, where Sam had reserved their favorite corner table with its ocean view. Lucy greeted them, guided them to their table, and as they were seated asked, “I imagine you ladies know exactly what you want?”

  Laughing, Sam gave the order without so much as a glance at the familiar menu.

  Smiling, Lucy said, “I’ll tell your waitress.”

  After Lucy left, the two friends sat in silence for a long moment, staring out the wall-to-wall plate glass windows, allowing the sparkles off the Pacific to dance in their eyes.

  Samantha murmured, “Glad that earlier marine layer burned off.”

  “I love it clear like this, but I love the cloud cover too,” Miranda confessed. “The colors vibrate under that diffused light.” She turned to look at Sam. “Lighting is so important . . . like looking at your hair right now. . . transparent Pyrrole Orange mixed with Quincridone Red Light, with a base color of Primary Magenta. Yup, that’d capture it I think, though no paint could ever do your color justice.”

  Sam could feel herself blush at the compliment. “That’s very kind, Miranda. But you know, these days, it comes just as much from a tube as your paints do.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve seen photos. That was your natural color. Incredible.”

  Their waitress brought two tall glasses of iced raspberry tea, and Sam took a sip of hers. What a sweetheart. If I’d ever had a daughter, she’d be about Miranda’s age, and I hope she’d be just like her.

  “Okay, Sam, so catch me up. What’s going on in those secret meetings behind closed doors at the Environmental Planning Commission?”

  Sam laughed. “I don’t know. Every time I think we’ve got a really good piece of legislation ready to place on the next ballot—something everyone in town could agree on—another objection comes out of left field and blows a hole right through the center of it.”

  Miranda tossed her long brunette hair back over her shoulder. “What is it this time?”

  “A coastal erosion protection measure. Basically, all it says is that houses can’t be built right up to the edge of a bluff.” Sam took another sip of tea. “I mean, why would anyone want to build that close anyway?”

  “Exactly.” Miranda nodded. “With the constant erosion, it’s not like the location of the bluff is the same now as it was a hundred years ago.”

  “I’d hate to wake up in the middle of the night wondering if my bed was about to crash over a cliff.”

  Miranda grimaced. “Nasty thought.”

  “There’s even a provision for older homes, grandfathering them an exemption. We’re not asking people to dismantle their houses.”

  Miranda reflected for a moment. “But they can’t necessarily build new decks if their house is already too close to the edge?”

  “Right.”

  Sam saw the waitress bringing their food, the fragrance apparently wafting past other customers whose heads turned in appreciation.

  “Here we go,” she said cheerfully. “Anything else I can bring you ladies?”

  “We’re fine for now. Thanks.” Sam spread a blue linen napkin across her lap.

  Miranda dipped an end of crisp fish into tartar sauce and sank her teeth into the delicate cod. “Mmm,” she said, wiping sauce from the edge of her mouth. “I always forget just how terrific this is until I taste it again.”

  Sam, savoring the excellent slaw, closed her eyes. “Wish I could figure out their secret ingredient,” she murmured. The friends ate in silence for a while, each lost in her own

  thoughts. Then Sam continued their conversation. “I don’t know, Miranda, it feels as if this town is getting more and more polarized. We’ve got the developers against the environmentalists, the artists against the construction workers—”

  “Against?” Miranda asked. “Well, I don’t have anything against the construction workers.”

  “Unless they come along and chop down your favorite tree.” “True,” Miranda admitted. “You know what I mean. This was always a haven for

  artists, crafts people, folks with a sense of beauty and nature who wanted to keep it that way. Now we’re getting a lot of pressure to build and develop, scrape away hillsides and put in shopping centers.”

  Sam looked up just in time to see Lucy approaching with two more diners—one of them Jack Sawyer. Oh, no! Of all times . . . of all places! The last thing she needed was an unscheduled encounter with her primary adversary, the head of Sawyer Construction—a man who also just happened to be her ex- husband, though no one in town other than Miranda knew about their personal relationship.

  To make matters worse, she couldn’t help but notice he attracted plenty of female attention. Barrel-chested and still as ruggedly handsome as ever, he wore tight jeans poured into work boots that pounded across the floor. As usual, his employee Kevin Ransom followed like a tall, thin shadow.

  Apparently noticing her friend’s preoccupation, Miranda glanced around, then swung back to Sam. “Well, those two were the last pair I expected to see here.”

  “You and me both,” Sam agreed. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s like we’re in a town of left-brains and right-brains.”

  Tables had filled up quickly, and now Lucy was seating the dynamic duo at a table separated by only a few feet.

  “Make that half-brains,” retorted Jack’s deep voice.

  Sam twisted her neck around, then scowled. “This is a private luncheon, Jack. Or had you failed to notice?”

  “I didn’t fail to notice that we didn’t get the table we asked for. We do have a meeting with an important client.” Jack’s voice boomed after Lucy.

  Sam rolled her eyes and hissed, “Oh, why do I bother? Once a boor, always a boor.”

  “Or a wild boar,” Miranda mumbled.

  “Beware the tusks,” Sam said, spearing a morsel of her seafood.

  Lucy, having returned, asked, “Sorry, Mr. Sawyer? Did you want to be reseated?”

  “We most certainly do. As far from this corner as possible.”

  “How about the opposite corner at the far end of the restaurant?”

  “Fine. And when my client Mr. Clarke arrives, direct him there.”

  “Of course.” Lucy led the two men away.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Sam. “Okay, kiddo. Your turn. What’s going on with you?”

  Miranda paused, then answered her question with a question of her own. “What do you do when you have a weird dream?”

  “Write it down,” Sam answered without hesitation.

  Miranda smiled. “You and your journals. How long have you been writing them?”

  Sam looked out at the water as though it would help her see through time. “I really can’t remember not journaling.”

  “I can’t imagine writing so much,” Miranda reflected. “I do keep journals, but they’re mostly sketches and paintings. I’m thinking about turning my miniature watercolors into postcards I can send out to people. But writing down my thoughts on a regular basis just for myself? Not likely.”

  “Well, you record your thoughts in a different way, with your art,” Sam observed.

  “I figured I was just recording what’s out there, not really recording my own impressions. Never saw it that way, but I suppose you’re right.”

  The two friends spent the rest of their lunch sharing other news, their mutual surprise that summer was nearly over, and discussing some of the details of their current projects.

  “Hate to say it,” Sam remarked, “but I really have to get back to work.” She placed cash inside the bill wallet the waitress had brought while they were talking.


  “So do I.” Miranda added her money to Sam’s. “The docent here at the nursery lent me a pamphlet and I want to review it.” Sam smiled. “That’s one of the things I love about your

  work, Miranda, that you pay such attention to the details.”

  Miranda felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, but she resisted turning to see who might be observing her.

  Why do people do that? All they have to do is ask if they can watch. How would they like it if someone were sneaking around behind them, studying them while they tried to focus?

  As an artist, she enjoyed working in the privacy of her studio, or out in the field, where she could enter a meditative state she thought of as “flow.” But she also understand the natural curiosity that drew non-artists to watching a creative person at work. However, the last thing she wanted to do was draw a crowd.

  Well, not really drawing a crowd, drawing a crowd.

  The play on words did little to ease her annoyance. If only she could work with words instead of paints. Would strangers walk over to someone who’d chosen a private, secluded spot to write, then demand the author read the manuscript aloud?

  She glanced up to check the details of what she was adding to her painting—the shadow cast by a market umbrella at the far end of the garden. From behind her, she overheard an exchange between a husband and wife.

  The woman’s voice said, “Oh, she won’t mind. Painters like to be noticed, you know. After all, they want folks to admire their work. Isn’t that why they do it?”

  “I suppose so, dear,” the man answered.

  Miranda heard the reluctance in his voice, and wished she could tell him his instincts were right.

  Of course, Zelda McIntyre, her artist’s rep, with her focus on sales and marketing, wouldn’t agree at all. Zelda would tell me to make the most of the opportunity. Thank them for their attention, and send them to the local gallery to buy my work. ’Course I value the sales. But I have to listen to my heart, trust my own process.

  A lecture began to build in Miranda’s brain—logical and articulate—on the vital need to synchronize head and heart. It developed into a detailed explication of her own need, as a wildlife painter, to retune her senses to the natural world, breathe with the landscape, quiet the human chatter to be able to hear the animal conversations already in progress.