PROLOGUE
March 1997
Borrego Springs,
California
The young woman stared at the well-dressed lawyer across
the squalid room. A man in his late forties, he hadn’t
smiled once since she let him in. Nor had she – not since
he’d offered her money for her baby.
Wearing a three-piece suit and monogrammed socks that cost
more than she made in tips on a good night, with shoes
that dared to shine through a fine layer of Borrego dust,
he was as out of place here as filet mignon at a fish fry.
His crisp, spotless business card lay on the arm of the
ripped love seat where she waited, mute and terrified, for
him to stop talking. Arthur Litton, from the firm of
Somebody, Somebody, and Some Other Lawyer, had made the
three-hour drive from Long Beach to meet with her – but
just now he was brushing at the knee of his suit. A waste
of time when a fine coating of sand covered every surface
in the room.
Even the mute images of Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz on
the television cavorted beneath a dusty haze.
The lawyer’s voice was well modulated and cool, betraying
no hint of emotion. It made the young woman’s skin
crawl. She watched his thin lips move, tried to
concentrate on the words.
“Now that you’ve heard the terms, are you willing to
accept my clients’ offer?”
She opened her mouth, but didn’t trust what might come
out, so she swallowed and tightened her arms around the
six-month-old infant in her arms. Her baby boy. Her son.
Her hands shook as she shifted Christopher to her
shoulder. That morning she’d dressed him in pale blue
sleepers with little brown bears romping over them. She
wished it was still early instead of nearly noon – wished
she could turn back the clock and start the day over.
“Let me get this straight,” she said softly. “You came
here to buy my baby?”
“That’s putting it bluntly. His grandparents want him.”
“They expect me to just hand him over and walk away?”
“They’re willing to pay a seven-figure settlement for the
privilege of raising their only son’s child. They want
nothing but the best for him, and they want things their
way.”
“You mean they want me out of the way. I’m his mother.”
“They could file a petition for guardianship.”
She didn’t know anything about the law but enough to know
she didn’t want any part of a custody fight – not with her
background.
“We’re prepared to prove the child will be better off with
the Saunders.” He paused, pointedly gazed around the room
again.
The place looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Her
roommate, Wilt, always said he “wasn’t expecting f-ing
Martha Stewart, and if people don’t like the way I keep
house, they can f-ing stop coming over.” His old trucking
buddies never minded the mess, and since this was Wilt’s
house, she never insulted him by cleaning.
The living and dining rooms were full of pieces of cast-
off furniture. Art supplies were strewn all over –
canvases, tubes of paint, rags, and turpentine. A palette
of fingerprint smears marred the door frames.
Her own desert landscapes, from her earliest attempts to
her latest, were scattered around the room. Smaller
pieces hung on one wall in the dining room, just above a
battered Early American table.
A moonscape complete with a howling coyote and an eerie
silver-blue glow – Wilt’s latest passion was painting on
black velvet -- rested on an easel near the kitchen door.
When the lawyer showed up at the door asking for her, Wilt
took cover in the kitchen. Now she heard the sound of ice
hitting the bottom of a glass and the freezer door close.
She knew that her roommate was close enough to hear every
word.
Litton spoke again.
“My clients are certainly in a position to raise the boy
the way Richard Saunders would have wanted him raised.”
“Rick wanted to marry me. He wanted to raise Christopher
with me.”
“But Richard is dead, isn’t he? He’s not here to say what
he did or didn’t want.”
“I’m Chris’s mother. They can’t have him, and they can’t
take him away from me.”
“A private investigative firm has started a background
search on you.” Without even looking at documents, he
began listing all the things they’d dug up, reciting them
like a litany.
“You were born in Albuquerque, a drug baby whose mother
walked out and left you at the hospital. You were raised
in a series of foster homes. Social services listed you
as a problem child with tendencies to disrupt the
environment in every situation in which you were placed.
You were charged with shoplifting when you were fourteen
and ran away from the last home you were in at seventeen.
Six months later, you applied for a California driver’s
license. You have been openly living with Mr. Walton, a
sixty-four-year-old retiree, for four years . . .”
“We’re just roommates.”
“My clients can make this extremely hard on you. The
Saunders are very wealthy people with a lot of influence
in Southern California. You haven’t enough money or
connections to fight them.”
He leaned forward, as if he had no stake in the outcome of
her decision, as if he were speaking from the heart. “If
you’re smart, you’ll take the money.”
“But, surely they can’t just buy my baby . . .”
Mr. Litton’s hand closed around the handle of his
briefcase. He paused, then sighed heavily. He stood,
looked directly into her eyes. “Take the money and we’ll
draw up a contract. They will legally adopt the boy.
You’ll be a very wealthy young woman with your whole life
ahead of you.”
Anger quickly replaced her initial shock. She shook her
head, knowing in her heart that this wasn’t right. None
of it was what Rick would have wanted for her or for
Christopher.
She and Rick Saunders had spent only a month together, but
they’d been lovers right from the start. He’d blown into
town like a desert dust devil, riding around in a hot, new
Porsche, buying up land he planned to develop as soon as
he returned from a year in Japan, working for his father’s
shipping company.
He’d never made her any promises. She’d expected none and
never asked for any. It was enough to be with him, to
bask in the warmth of a smile that burned bright as a
comet in the midnight desert sky.
At the end of the month, Rick left for Japan as planned.
She hadn’t heard from him again until three weeks ago when
he had shown up on the doorstep. That was the day she’d
told him that she had given birth to his son.
Once he had laid eyes on Christopher, he shocked her by
immediately proposing. Deep in her heart, she knew it
wasn’t out of love, but that Rick wanted to be with his
son. He told her that he wanted them to be a family, and
she accepted his proposal, hoping that his love for their
son was enough to build a marriage on.
A few days later, Rick drove to Long Beach to break the
news about her and Christopher and their plans to his
parents. She had been packed and waiting the day Rick was
on his way back to Borrego to pick them up and take them
home, but he never made it.
The Porsche went off the road, and Rick died at the bottom
of a ravine amid a twisted tangle of metal and sandstone
boulders.
Three days later, while she mourned not only Rick but the
end of a dream, the Saunders finally returned her calls,
told her they would be holding a private memorial, but
that she was not invited. She tried to understand, to
make excuses for them. The Saunders didn’t know her, they
were grieving. Perhaps they blamed her for Rick’s death.
If he hadn’t been on his way to get her . . .
“Rick wanted to marry me.” She spoke softly, more to
reassure herself than anything else. “Just because he’s
gone, that . . . that doesn’t mean I don’t want his son.
I gave birth to Christopher because I wanted him. I
intended to raise him by myself before Rick found out our
baby even existed. Once he saw Christopher, he wanted us
to be a family.”
“I’m afraid we only have your word on that.” Litton
pointedly gazed around the room again. “Do you honestly
think he would want his son raised like this?” He leveled
his cool, emotionless gaze on her. “Perhaps the amount
the Saunders are offering isn’t enough. If that’s the
case, I’m sure they’ll up the ante.”
Christopher stirred. Caroline patted his bottom, juggled
him against her shoulder. Fear crept in to close around
her, enough fear to give her a burst of courage. She
stood and continued to stare up at the lawyer.
“Get out, Mr. Litton.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll reconsider.”
“Get out.”
“You’ll be hearing from my clients again. They don’t take
refusal lightly.”
As soon as the door closed on Litton, she sat down again,
too drained to move. She heard the slap of Wilt’s bare
feet on the kitchen linoleum before the sound was silenced
when he stepped onto the balding shag carpet. His heavy
hand, reassuring, solid, soon came to rest on her shoulder.
“Goddamn it to hell.” Wilt always had a way of summing
things up in as few words as possible.
She couldn’t make her mind work. Christopher was fussing,
kicking his sturdy legs, tugging at the front of her T-
shirt.
“What am I going to do, Wilt?”
“Hell if I know, but whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
He cleared the back of the couch, walked around and sat in
the lima-bean-green velour chair that Litton had just
vacated. A glass of ice water in his hand dripped
condensation, forming a moist stain on the arm of the
chair. His plaid flannel shirt was rumpled, slept in; his
baggy navy-blue sweatpants oozed over the sides of his
suntanned bare feet. More gray than blond, a heavy walrus
mustache hid his upper lip.
Wilt had been her rock, her savior when he picked her up
on the side of Highway 40 in Arizona four years ago.
She’d been walking alone, hitching, dazed and confused and
too out of it to care what happened to her when he pulled
his rig over and offered her a ride. After miles and
hours together, he’d opened his home to her, offered to
keep her off the streets.
Over the past four years, Wilt had become the grandfather
she never knew. One day while he was painting, he gave
her a blank canvas, a few hints on blending color and
filled a palette with paint for her. He had seen some
doodles she’d done on scratch paper and encouraged her to
sketch landscapes, recognizing what he called raw talent.
Slowly, with his guidance, she learned to paint.
She came to trust him with her life and would trust him
with Chris’s too. But that afternoon, sitting there amid
the dust and the oddly comforting chaos, she had a feeling
that even Wilt couldn’t help her now.
She waited until late afternoon when he drove down to the
fruit stand for grapefruit. She dressed Christopher,
packed his diaper bag.
Wilt kept his emergency money in an old Folgers’ coffee
can in plain sight on a shelf in the kitchen cupboard.
He’d shown it to her when she moved in, told her that he
was being up front with her and expected the same, even if
she was just a kid. He also added that if she ever needed
the money for a real emergency, she was welcome to it.
As she took the can down off the shelf and pulled off the
plastic lid, she figured there probably would never be a
bigger emergency in her life and that Wilt would agree.
There was a sizable wad of bills inside the can. She
didn’t stop to count them, just divided them in two and
shoved the rolls deep into the pockets of her jeans.
She grabbed an envelope from some junk mail lying on the
cabinet by the phone, found a pencil.
Dear Wilt,
There’s nothing I can ever say or do to thank you for what
you’ve done for me. You’ve treated me better than anyone
has in a long time, so it hurts me to repay your kindness
by taking your savings stash, but I’ve thought and
thought, and I can’t seem to figure out anything else to
do but go where the Saunders can’t find us.
I’ll be easier on you if I don’t tell you where I’m
going. I’m not real sure where I’ll end up, but I can
only hope it will be someplace one-tenth as good as what
I’ve had here with you.
Take care of yourself and keep painting. If there ever
comes a time in my life when I can pick up a brush to
paint again, I’ll think of you.
I wish I didn’t have to go.
Love,
C.
She set the note beneath the empty coffee can in the
middle of the table where he would see it first thing when
he walked in.
As she threaded her way through the living room, she
purposely avoided looking at all of the paintings she
would leave behind. There was a piece of her soul in each
and every landscape, a vision in every ghostly shadow
figure she’d been inspired to include in each of them.
She’d miss the desert with its ever-changing natural drama
as much as she’d miss Wilt, but there was no looking back
now.
Holding Christopher close, she took one last glance around
the living room before she shut the sliding glass door
behind her. She was scared, but she was more frightened
of the Saunders than being alone on the road again.
She had reinvented herself once before. She could do it
again.
CHAPTER ONE
Six years later . . .
California Coast
Jake Montgomery left Long Beach before dawn on Thursday
morning, leaving town a day early to avoid the weekend
traffic headed up the coast. After three hours of
driving, the dense population centers thinned, and the
land unfolded, spread out spring green and inviting. He
drove past Santa Maria, cut over to old Highway One and
followed the coast through Oceano and Pismo Beach.
A half owner of a private investigative firm he had
founded, most of his days were spent not only enduring
bumper-to-bumper traffic but L.A. road warriors venting
their rage and the crowded, pulsing noise of city life as
he gathered minutiae – details that among other things
helped solve missing person cases, put an end to lengthy
divorce proceedings, helped employers decide whether or
not prospective employees had enough integrity to hire or
promote.
Today the quiet solitude of the long drive helped ease the
coil of tension in his gut, a coil that life in Los
Angeles County tended to tighten deftly. This was the
kind of getaway that his ex-wife used to talk about
taking, but that was eons ago, back when they were still
kids and newly married, long before they were consumed
with their careers. Before there was no going back, and
the marriage had ended.
Lost in thought, he missed the turnoff to Twilight Cove.
Cursing under his breath, he made a U-turn and followed
Alamitos Canyon Road, a two-lane highway that wound down
to the ocean alongside a creek of the same name. The
gentle slope lined with low-growing chaparral ended
abruptly after a sharp curve, and the picturesque town of
Twilight Cove appeared suddenly, like a mirage.
The canyon road traveled through the heart of a seaside
village complete with a central plaza park with an old-
fashioned, tiered Spanish fountain in the middle of a
wide, grassy bluff overlooking the Pacific.
He slowed, checked out the various shops and stores, noted
the location of The Cove Gallery before turning onto
Cabrillo Road, which ran parallel to the ocean. Heading
north, he found himself winding through residential
sections of town, past wooden Craftsman-style houses.
Most appeared to have been freshly painted. Many
displayed flower boxes overflowing with alyssum,
geraniums, and impatiens in delicate hues from white to
pink to scarlet.
When he reached the point on the south end of the cove, he
pulled into a scenic overlook, killed the engine and set
the brake.
The moment he stepped outside his SUV, the onshore breeze
kicked up, forcing him to zip his brown leather jacket.
He walked to the guardrail. Even with mirrored
sunglasses, he had to shield his eyes from the intense
sunlight reflecting off the water. He watched distinct
lines of swells form peaks offshore and counted six
surfers in full wet suits cutting the waves on short
boards. Then he turned full circle, taking in the view.
Lazy rolling hills covered in green spring grass and
wildflowers tapered down both sides of the canyon to hug
the cove. A few homes were scattered here and there on
the hillside.
As he looked back toward the town with its idyllic Plaza
Park and avenue of historic storefronts, he shook his
head. The place might look like Mayberry-by-the-Sea, but
as long as real people inhabited it, Twilight Cove wasn’t
as bucolic as it appeared to be. He’d been in the
investigative business long enough to know that.
The town still resembled the California dream of a hundred
years ago – what so many other beach cities would still
look like if not for overdevelopment, smog, and too many
rats in the maze.
The salt air was tinged with the sea and time. Standing
in the cool breeze off the ocean, Jake easily imagined a
clipper ship racing under billowing sails, her hold filled
with wares to sell to the Spanish dons, Indians, and
padres living in the shadow of the missions.
Steep steps and a narrow trail below the bluff led down to
the beach. Limited parking and lack of accessibility to
the cove had kept the town from becoming overrun by
seasonal tourists the way Monterey and Carmel were.
Twilight Cove’s small strand was still pristine. Only the
hardy and the surfers didn’t mind tackling the steps.
If it hadn’t been for obligation and the driving need to
see if a hunch would pay off, he would have lingered to
inhale the fresh salt air and let the strong breeze whip
through his hair and clear his mind. But he wasn’t here
on vacation. He’d come on what just might prove to be a
wild-goose chase, but he was more than willing to risk
taking the time if it meant finally winding up a case that
had been open far too long.
He’d driven to Twilight Cove because he was a man of
detail who hated loose ends, but most of all, he had come
because of a personal obligation. He’d come to Twilight
out of duty to a friend as alive as ever in his memory.
* * *
The Cove Gallery was exactly as it appeared in the photos
he’d seen in the Budget Traveler magazine. Uncluttered
and open, with glossy golden oak floors and white walls,
the interior was the perfect backdrop for the artwork
displayed on the walls and freeform sculptures on
platforms scattered around the room.
Jake had no sooner cleared the threshold when a slim young
man sporting an artfully trimmed, pencil-thin beard along
his jaw-line started across the room to greet him. He
wore wire-framed glasses and was dressed entirely in black.
Geoffrey Wilson introduced himself, extended his hand in
greeting, his smile both wide and genuine.
Jake shook hands. “My name’s Jake Montgomery.” He
reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded page
carefully town from a magazine, opened it. “I saw this
article on your gallery in Budget Traveler.”
The article stated that Geoff Wilson was twenty-nine years
old, had moved west from Chicago three years ago after
having grown tired of the brutal winters in the Windy
City. The gallery had been open for a year and showcased
local talent.
“Wonderful!” I’m glad you stopped by. Go ahead and have a
look around,” Wilson invited.
“Actually,” Jake pointed to the page that showed a photo
of Wilson standing in front of a painting, “I’m interested
in the piece on the wall behind you in this photograph.
The sunset seascape with the transparent figures in the
foreground.”
“An excellent choice, but I sold that a month ago.”
“Who’s the artist?”
“A local. Carly Nolan. Cove Gallery handles her work
exclusively. She’s one very talented lady.” He started
moving toward the far corner of the room. “Carly brought
in a new painting just last weekend. I’m sure you’ll find
it equally stunning."
“So, she lives around here?”
Wilson paused, as if assessing Jake’s character for a
second. “She lives nearby, yes.”
Jake followed him across the room, their even footsteps
echoing in unison on the bare wood floor. The painting on
the wall was of good size with a weathered frame that
added to the tone of the piece rather than detracted from
the drama.
The painting showed the huge dark boulders that ringed the
cove and hugged the bluffs as violent storm waves crashed
over them. The sky was gun-metal gray, dark and
forbidding as the ocean. There were no buildings, no town
above the cove, just wild grasses and two ragged junipers
battered by the wind.
The artist had depicted a ghostly image of a young woman
dressed in the style of the early 1800s standing at the
edge of the bluff overlooking the water. Entirely painted
in a sheer white, as if transposed over the painting, the
woman stood with the fingers of one hand clenching the
fabric of her long, flowing skirt. In the other hand she
held a hat as if she had forgotten it was there. Long
ribbons streamed over the brim, rippling just above the
ground. Her hair was unbound, in wild disarray.
She was tall and light but her features were as subtly
depicted as the rest of her, almost as if the artist
wanted the viewer to wonder if there was actually a woman
in the painting at all.
She could have been beautiful, or perhaps not. The artist
left it up to the viewer to decide.
”This oil is of Twilight Cove from a different angle, one
of the most dramatic pieces Ms. Nolan has done to date.
Any work that showcases the cove tends to sell quickly.
Visitors are so impressed by the beauty of this place that
they want to take home a memory that will last a
lifetime.” Wilson rolled up onto his toes, settled back
on his heels and smiled. “Not to mention the good
investment that original oils become.”
The Nolan piece was appealing in a haunting, ethereal
way. Staring into the waves on the canvas was almost as
hypnotic as watching the ocean. Not only that, but Jake
found himself haunted by questions. Why was the young
woman alone? Why had she gone to the edge of the bluff
during a storm?
Except for a change of weather and time, it was a perfect
rendition of the view he’d seen from the scenic viewpoint.
A label on the wall beside the painting listed the title
as “Waiting.” The price was more than adequate for a
local unknown. The name Carly Nolan was printed neatly
beneath the title.
“This one’s a little dramatic for my taste,” Jake
said. “Do you have anything else she’s done?”
Wilson’s smile luffed at the corner like a sail losing
wind. “Not at the moment. Are you staying in town or
just passing through?”
“I was planning on staying until Monday, if I can find a
place.”
Geoff leaned forward conspiratorially. “Luckily it’s the
off-season. I can call a fine B and B right here in town.”
“That’d be great.”
Jake followed him to the counter to pick up a business
card.
Wilson picked up the phone and punched in a number. He
held his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “This is
a wonderful place. So romantic.”
Within two minutes Jake had a room reserved at the Rose
Cottage a few blocks away. Geoff Wilson made a sticky
note to himself with Jake’s name on it with the reference –
Nolan painting – and pressed it against the back of the
counter.
Jake noticed a couple of tall baskets sitting near the
cash register. One was stuffed with Chamber of Commerce
maps. The other was filled with five by seven inch cards
printed with bios of the gallery’s featured artists.
Flipping through, he realized that all but Carly Nolan’s
bio card showed photographs of the artists.
He picked one up and read the scant information.
Carly Nolan is a local artist new upon the scene. Her
haunting painting of Twilight Cove and the surrounding
landscape peopled with ghostly figures from California’s
colorful past are quickly becoming favorites of collectors
up and down the coast. Primarily working in oils, she has
captured life in the very early days of the area using her
own unique vision of color, style, and imagination.
“Please, take one,” Geoff urged. “Actually, if you’d like
to meet her, Carly will be working here this evening.
I’ll tell her you might drop by.”
“Really?” Jake looked down at the card, at the blank spot
where the artist’s photo should be, and wondered if he’d
hit pay dirt.
It was his partner, Kat Vargas, who’d found the article in
Budget Traveler, not him. The painting in the background
of the photo had reminded her of a small oil hanging on
the wall above his desk.
Noting the similarities, Kat tore out the article, brought
it in and slapped in on the desk in front of him. Then
she folded her arms, cocked her head, and asked, “Think it
could be her? Your Obsession?”
Jake pulled his thoughts back, quickly thanked Geoff,
adding that he wasn’t certain he’d get by tonight but that
he’d be in touch either way.
Before he left, he picked up a map as he turned to go and
shoved both the biocard and map into the pocket of his
brown leather jacket.
He had justified the drive up here by telling himself that
he hadn’t had a weekend off in so long that he couldn’t
remember when. But technically, this wasn’t exactly a
weekend off.
He was here on the off chance that Caroline Graham had
finally slipped up. After six years, the young woman who
seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth might have
just reappeared.
It was a long shot. In fact, it was downright ridiculous
to think there might be only one artist using the
technique, but if Caroline Graham had surfaced, if she
were still painting and now calling herself Carly Nolan,
then he might have just stumbled onto a woman who had
managed to elude one of the top investigative firms in
Southern California.