Cypress Point Page 9

  “Hey! Girl!” one of the boys cried out.

  Still, she didn’t turn, figuring the boys were planning to play some sort of joke on her.

  “Girl! Your father!”

  She turned at that and saw her father lying several yards behind her, on his back in the sand.

  “Daddy!” she cried, racing back to him. Kneeling next to him, she rested her hand on his heart but could feel no beating against her palm. His face was the color of the old ashes in the fireplace. She turned to the boys who were watching, stock-still, from the dune.

  “Get help,” she said. “Hurry!”

  She rested both her hands on his chest, holding them there, praying to God to save him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to send her love into her father, but knew she should have questioned Carlynn more about her ability to heal the night before. What had she meant when she’d talked about sending “everything good” inside herself into someone? How did she do that? How?

  She held that position, crouched over her father, telling him out loud that she loved him, while his face turned from ash to white. She could hear the sirens in the distance, but by the time the ambulance pulled into the small parking lot, she knew it was too late. Her father, her champion, was gone. It was, in some ways, his own fault, she thought. He had taken the wrong twin sailing with him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joelle turned off Highway One and quickly found herself in a line of five cars, all of them waiting to enter the gate to the Seventeen Mile Drive. When she reached the tollbooth, she smiled at the young man waiting for her money.

  “I’m Joelle D’Angelo,” she said. “I’ll be visiting Dr. Carlynn Shire.”

  He checked a list inside the booth, then looked up. “Go ahead,” he said.

  She looked ahead of her, but wasn’t certain if she should take the road to the left or the right.

  “Which way do I go?” she asked, and he pointed to her left.

  “The Kling Mansion is that way,” he said. “Just past Cypress Point.”

  “Thanks.” She started driving again. She passed the lodge at Pebble Beach, where the road was clogged with cars and golf carts and tourists, and after a few minutes she came to a spit of rugged land that jutted out into the northern end of Carmel Bay. If she’d had binoculars—and the time to stop—she thought she might be able to see across the bay to her condominium from there. Damn. How could she possibly leave Monterey?

  She could probably hide her pregnancy until she was four or five months along, she thought. She’d seen young women come into the maternity unit who had hidden their pregnancies right up until the end, not wanting their families to know, so surely with some loose clothing and by keeping more to herself, she should be able to pull it off. She wanted to hold out as long as she could and keep working, because she doubted she’d be able to find a job as a five-or-so-month-pregnant woman, and she’d need every cent she could hang on to when she moved.

  She didn’t think she could handle living with her parents for more than a week or so. They were wonderful people, but they would drive her crazy long before the baby was born. If she could afford an apartment in proximity to them, though, that might work. She’d thought of her friends who lived in different parts of the country, wondering if living near one of them might be feasible. Her college roommate lived in Chicago and had two little kids, so she would be a great resource. But Chicago? After Monterey? She was going to have to let go of her need to live someplace perfect. That could not be her priority right now.

  But Joelle forgot that promise to herself as she passed the lone cypress, where it rose out of the rocky coastline. Within a few minutes, the road slipped from the open, oceanfront vistas into a dark, thick grove of Monterey cypress. Finally, she spotted the turnoff to the Cypress Point Overlook. Pulling her car to the side of the narrow road, she checked her directions. The house should be ahead and to the left, and she lifted her gaze to see a gray stucco mansion nestled in a stand of cypress. Letting out her breath, she stared at the large, Mediterranean-style building, with its red tile roof and seemingly flimsy hold on the edge of the bluff. What a setting! A car honked as it passed her on the too-narrow curve, and she put her foot on the gas pedal, drove forward a short distance and turned into the gated driveway of the Kling Mansion.

  The stone post to which the gate was attached bore a touchpad of numbers with a buzzer beneath it. She pressed the buzzer as she’d been directed to do, and the gate slid open with a barely audible grinding of metal on metal. She drove into the estate, its thick, emerald-green landscaping enveloping her, and parked her car close to the mansion. There was a stone path leading from the driveway to the house, and she walked up to the huge double doors. Although a mother-of-pearl doorbell graced the wall next to the door, she opted to use the heavy dolphin-shaped knocker for the sheer pleasure of lifting it and letting it fall.

  After a moment, a woman drew open the massive door. She wore a lavender dress, her gray hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she smiled at Joelle, her eyes crinkling behind narrow, stylish wire-rimmed glasses.

  Joelle held out her hand. “Dr Shire?” she asked.

  “No, dear,” the woman said, but she squeezed her hand with a smile. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. McGowan. And you must be Shanti.” There was a touch of Irish in her voice.

  “Oh,” Joelle said. “Yes. I have an appointment with Dr. Shire.”

  “Come in, love.” The woman stepped back to let her in, then guided her through a beautiful foyer with a terra-cotta-tiled floor into a living room dominated by a fireplace so enormous, Joelle felt as though she’d stepped into the mansion in Citizen Kane. At one end of the room, huge arched windows and a set of French doors looked out onto a terrace, and beyond that, framed by windswept cypress, lay the blue Pacific.

  “This is breathtaking,” Joelle said, her feet sinking into a rich, red oriental carpet.

  “I’ll tell Dr. Shire you’re here,” the housekeeper said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman disappeared from the room, and Joelle thought she should probably take a seat on one of the love seats or the sofa, but she was drawn to the rear of the room and the view. Looking through one of the arched windows, she could see that the edge of the stone terrace was irregular, cut at rough angles to match the rugged coastline. There should be different words to describe the smidgen of ocean she could see from the balcony of her condominium and the expanse of water and greenery that could be seen from this mansion, she thought. The word view simply could not cover both extremes.

  Toward the side of the terrace, she spotted a man whose back was to her. He was a gardener most likely, a black man with graying hair and pruning shears in his hands, and he was working on a shrub of some sort. A younger man was grooming something below the level of the terrace. She could just see the top of his head. What a fabulous place to work! But the evidence of servants and caretakers distressed her somehow. Carlynn Shire obviously had plenty of money, and that made Joelle think of her as a con artist, making millions off the desperation of the sick.

  “Hello!” The voice came from behind her, and she turned around to see a small woman walk into the room, one hand on a cane.

  Joelle smiled at her uncertainly. “Hi,” she said. “Dr. Shire?”

  “Yes.” The woman held out her hand. “Please call me Carlynn.”

  Joelle shook her hand. “How do you do?” She was surprised to see the cane and the frailty of the woman. This was a healer?

  “Have a seat,” Carlynn said, pointing to the sofa adjacent to the windows.

  Joelle sat on the sofa, and Carlynn took a seat in the leather armchair, lifting her feet onto its matching ottoman with surprising energy and resting her cane against the chair’s arm. There was a spryness just beneath the surface of her fragility, as though the woman’s body was not quite ready to give in to whatever nature and age had in store for it. Her voice had a lyrical quality, and her gray hair was cut i
n a short, youthful bob with deep bangs. Her blue eyes were lively, and she wore a short-sleeved navy-blue blouse with a pink-and-blue scarf tied around her neck. There was a bit of dirt on the knees of her pale blue slacks, and Joelle wondered if she might have been helping the gardeners in the yard. She looked the type who would not mind getting her fingernails dirty, but would her body allow her to crawl around in a garden? All in all, Carlynn Shire was nothing like Joelle had expected. Somehow, the mystical, gifted woman described by her parents had sounded tall and sinewy and mysterious. There was nothing mysterious about the seventyish woman sitting in front of her.

  “So.” Carlynn leaned forward in her chair. “You are little Shanti Joy.”

  “Yes.” Joelle smiled. “But I go by Joelle D’Angelo now.”

  Joelle thought she saw understanding in the older woman’s smile. “When did you change your name?” she asked.

  “When I was ten. My parents and I left the Cabrial Commune then, and even though we were living in Berkeley, the name Shanti was just a bit much for me.” She grinned. “So I took a combination of my parents’ names. John and Ellen.”

  “Ah,” Carlynn nodded. “That’s how I came by my name, too. Only Carlynn is a combination of my grandparents’ names—Carl and Lena.”

  Joelle cocked her head to one side. “Do you remember when I was born?” she asked.

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Do you think you really healed me, or do you think I simply started breathing, finally? Forgive my skepticism.”

  “It’s difficult to know, Joelle,” she said, using her chosen name easily. “I put my hands on you. You began to breathe, whether it was a coincidence or not. Neither you nor I will ever know. But here you are, alive, looking lovely, and that’s what matters.”

  “I guess so,” Joelle said. “But just in case it was a true…healing, I’m glad you were there.”

  “I am, too.” Carlynn narrowed her gaze at her. “But what brings you here now?” she asked.

  “I have a friend,” Joelle began. “Mara. She had an aneurysm that left her with severe brain damage. She’s in a nursing home, and she’s not expected to regain any more of her functioning. I know it’s a long shot, especially since I am, as I already pointed out, a skeptic—” she smiled at Carlynn “—but I thought it was at least worth talking to you about it, because there’s no other hope. Do you think there’s anything you could do for her?”

  She expected Carlynn to smile with sympathy and tell her, as the woman over the phone had already made clear, that she no longer took special requests for healings. So she was surprised when the older woman settled back in the leather chair as though expecting a long conversation and said, “Tell me more about this friend of yours.”

  Joelle was not certain what to say. What information would help a healer? “Well, she was a psychiatrist, and she—”

  “No,” Carlynn interrupted her, but her voice was soft and kind. She stood up and, without her cane, walked slowly across the room to sit facing Joelle on the sofa. “Tell me about Mara through your eyes, Joelle,” she said. “What was your experience of your friend?”

  Instantly, Joelle pictured her best friend in a collage of images. Laughing with her on a hike, talking with her about a case in the hallway of the Women’s Wing, holding Liam’s hand as she struggled to give birth to her son, lying in the nursing home asleep, her jaw slack, her head rolled forward.

  Mara.

  Joelle was going to cry. The sensation came over her suddenly, and she felt the liquid burn in her eyes, the swelling of her nose. She pressed her hand to the side of her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as a tear slipped over her fingers.

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” Carlynn stood up again and walked over to the end table near the leather chair for a box of tissues, which she brought back to Joelle, setting it between them on the sofa. “She’s obviously someone you care for deeply,” she said, taking her seat near Joelle again.

  Joelle could only nod, pulling a tissue from the box and pressing it to her eyes. “She was my best friend.” She choked the words out, and Carlynn nodded.

  “Take your time,” she said.

  It was another minute before Joelle could continue.

  “I started working as a social worker at Silas Memorial ten years ago, when I was twenty-four, just out of graduate school. I was pretty green. The opening they had was in the maternity unit, so that was where I landed. The second day that I was there, I was given this difficult case.” Joelle smiled to herself. “At least, it seemed difficult to me back then. It was a woman who had lost a baby and was slipping into severe postpartum psychosis. I needed to get a psychiatrist in for a consultation. Someone recommended I contact Mara Steele, so I called her, and she came in to see the patient. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her. That she was an M.D., I mean. She was only twenty-six years old, but she was one of those kids who just flew through high school and college and then on to medical school.”

  Carlynn nodded. “She already sounds quite special,” she said.

  “Yes,” Joelle agreed. “Her expertise was in working with maternity issues—pregnancy loss, infertility, neonatal intensive care, that sort of thing. She was drawn to that type of work, even though she never wanted a baby of her own.

  “Anyhow, it was late in the day after she’d seen the patient, and she suggested we get something to eat and discuss the case over dinner. Dinner lasted four hours.” Joelle smiled at Carlynn with the memory. She and Mara had talked about the patient, yes, but that conversation had segued into everything else under the sun. Joelle told her about Rusty, whom she had married only weeks before. How she had met him in graduate school, how he had dropped out to pursue a career in computers. He was making more money than she would ever make as a social worker, and she knew it had been the right move for him: he’d never been cut out for working with people. Rusty and machinery were a far better fit. She’d been attracted to his intelligence, and perhaps, as she later admitted to herself, to the fact that her parents thought he was completely wrong for her. She should have listened to them.

  Mara had talked about her lack of a social life. The previous years had been dedicated to her education and to getting a private practice off the ground, and she’d had little time for men. Joelle knew that Mara would have trouble finding a man who was not threatened by her intelligence, education and beauty. Back then, Mara had worn her shimmery dark hair to her shoulders. She had intense, large, dark brown eyes, clear fair skin, and was undeniably extraordinary-looking. Sitting with Mara in the restaurant that night, Joelle had felt physically small, girlish and simple, although Mara did nothing to intentionally cause that feeling in her. She treated Joelle as a peer, and by the end of the evening, they had made a date to go hiking together over the weekend.

  “We hiked for hours that Saturday, and we got so close, closer than I’ve ever been with another friend,” Joelle said to Carlynn. “I knew I could tell her anything. I really admired her and held her up on a pedestal, but as time went on, our friendship became much more of an equal partnership. She was like a sister. I’d never had a sister, and Mara met that need for me and then some.” Joelle hoped that the mention of a sister would not bring back bad memories for Carlynn, but it was the truth. The forever bond that sisters possessed best described what she’d had with Mara.

  She noticed, with embarrassment, that she had twisted the tissue into a long rope, and she set it down on her lap. Did Carlynn really want to hear all this?

  “Have I told you enough?” she asked the older woman, who shook her head.

  “You’re just getting started,” Carlynn said.

  That pleased her, because she was finding an unexpected comfort in this telling.

  “I fixed her up with her husband,” Joelle said. “There was this guy who started working in the social work department a few years after Mara and I had become friends. His name is Liam. He’s attractive, smart and just a nice guy—” she felt her cheeks growing ho
t and quickly continued “—and he played folk music semiprofessionally at some of the clubs in town. Mara was also into folk music. She played guitar and she sang, but just as a hobby. I knew Liam was single and hoping to meet someone, but he seemed resistant to being fixed up. So I had a party and invited both of them. I told everyone to bring musical instruments, even if it meant a comb with tissue paper over it, which it did in my case.” Rusty had hated the idea. He’d endured the get-together rather than enjoyed it. Remembering how poorly he’d fit into her social scene made her cringe.

  “So everyone came,” she said, “and we had a great time. By ten o’clock, Liam and Mara were singing and playing their guitars together, which was exactly what I’d hoped would happen, and by midnight they were off in another room, working out different songs, teaching each other their favorites. By one o’clock, they’d put down their guitars and were deep in conversation. Everyone else had left, so I just closed the door to the room they were in, while Rusty and I cleaned up and went to bed. They were gone in the morning, but that was the start of their relationship.”

  Liam and Mara had thanked her over and over again once they realized her role in bringing them together. They’d never stopped thanking her.

  “I’m telling you way too much,” Joelle said.

  “No, honey, you’re not.” Carlynn moved a bit closer and took her hands, holding them on her knees. The older woman’s hands were delicate and bony, with a yellowish cast to the dry, warm skin. “Tell me about their wedding,” she said.

  “Well,” Joelle said, feeling only a bit awkward with the new intimacy between herself and the healer. “They were married a couple of years later, on the beach at Asilomar. I was their matron of honor.” She recalled her happiness at seeing her two friends together, a happiness that was tinged with envy because she knew she and Rusty would never have the sort of relationship Mara and Liam enjoyed. “They started playing together at clubs then. They called themselves Sommers and Steele, and they had a real following.”