Chapter 1

Cliff Demont eased his silver Porsche off the two-lane blacktop road and onto the rutted gravel driveway. The car bounced along the ruts a hundred yards and came to a stop near the concrete foundation of an old farmhouse that had burned down long ago. It was mid-November and dappled morning sunlight filtered through the leaves of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the middle of what had once been the home’s front yard. Beyond the tree, the land sloped downward toward Highway 101, a quarter mile away.

Wearing jeans and work boots, he got out of the car and zipped his jacket against the cool morning breeze. He wanted to walk the entire property and feel the land before the bulldozers and contractors arrived to transform this pasture into the new headquarters of Evergreen Scientific Corporation.

           He envisioned a glass and stone building with wide overhanging eaves nestled among the trees. Its façade would be a gentle S-shape, with the recessed part of the “S” accommodating the oak. The big tree would provide afternoon shade and frame the view from the lobby of the building, a panorama of the valley below. That’s what he envisioned, but the plans actually specified a concrete tilt-up, designed for maximum efficiency and little regard for the beauty of the land. What a shame, he thought.

           An old red pickup truck turned into the driveway and rattled to a stop next to the Porsche. The woman who climbed out of the truck looked about sixty, dressed in denim and cowboy boots, with an old Stetson on her head.

           “You the bastard whose gonna cut down these trees and pave Buffum ranch?” She pointed a hostile finger at him as she spoke.

           “Not exactly. I’m the architect for the building that’s going up here.” Cliff sucked in his gut and hooked his thumbs in his jeans, unconsciously trying to look more like a rancher than an architect.

           “See that house up there on the ridge?” She pointed toward an old ranch house across the road a quarter mile up the hill. “That’s my house, and that property on the other side of the road there, that’s my ranch, the Hilliard ranch. My name is Alice Hilliard. I grew up on this land and I don’t think you ought to be puttin’ up any goddamned buildings in Buffum’s pasture.” She stared at him in disgust. “You oughta know better than to cut down these trees and pave this good grazing land.”

           “It surely is beautiful,” Cliff agreed, “But the Buffum family has chosen to subdivide it and sell it.” He swept his arm across the landscape, “Of course we want to preserve the natural beauty of it, as much as possible anyway.”

           She laughed in his face, “Oh that’s rich. You might be able to sell that load o’ manure down in LA, but I know better. You won’t be satisfied ‘til you’ve paved everything from here to Frisco.”

           Cliff gave her his friendliest smile. “Well, there’s no stopping progress, but I’m going to save as many of these trees as I can. I’ll show you what we’re planning to do here.” He took a roll of blueprints from the Porsche and spread them out on the tailgate of her truck. “This is the site plan, it shows the property lines and where the building will be.” He pointed out the details on the blueprint.

           She studied the drawing a moment, then looked toward the oak tree. “Looks like your building is going to be right over there.”

           “Yes ma’am.”

           She squinted at him. “Hell, I know I can’t stop progress so I’m not going to try. But that tree, when I was a child we used to play under it, the Hilliard and Buffum kids. Their house was right there,” she said, pointing at the foundation, “Oh my, did we have fun here.” She kicked at the gravel with a booted toe. “Now the kids are all grown and gone, and the grandkids don’t ever come here. Nobody remembers much about this place anymore.” She paused another moment, staring at the tree.

           “What happened to the farmhouse?” Cliff wanted to know the history of the place.

           “Oh, it burned down forty years ago, back in forty-seven. The Buffums built a new house farther up the hill. You can’t see it from here. They didn’t want to see this place from the new one.”

           “Why not?” Cliff pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead and studied the woman’s weathered face.

           “Tom Buffum died in the fire. Things were never the same after that.”

           He stared at the ruins of the farmhouse and imagined the flames. “Who was Tom Buffum?”

           Alice looked off toward the west a moment. “Tom was the youngest of the Buffum boys. He joined the Marines in ’43, right after he turned eighteen. He went to fight the Japanese on those islands, I don’t remember the names anymore. When he came home, he wasn’t right in the head. Had terrible nightmares. One night he took a gallon of gasoline into his bedroom and locked the door. They said he poured it all over the room and struck a match. It was more like an explosion than a fire.” She took a deep breath, “I was seventeen when Tom enlisted. He asked me to marry him before he left, right under that old oak tree.” She paused a moment, then sighed. “I told him I’d wait for him. But he died before we got married.” She nodded toward the tree and said in a quiet voice, “I’d be obliged if you let that one live.”

           Cliff looked her in the eye. “Miss Hilliard, I promise you, I’ll do my best to save that tree.” He rolled up the plans and tucked them under his arm.

           “Well, I don’t put much stock in what you people with fancy sports cars and sunglasses say.” She nodded toward the Porsche and cocked an eye at the glasses perched on his head. “If I catch you takin’ a chainsaw to that tree, I’ll come after you. Don’t you forget that.” She turned to get into her truck.

           “I understand, ma’am. Nobody’s going to cut down that tree.”

           She put the truck in gear and drove away.

           Alone again, he glanced at the oak tree and frowned. He hadn’t intended to promise not to cut it down, but that’s what it sounded like: A promise.

           Back in his office at the firm of Larsen Haines, he sketched a new façade for the building that curved behind the tree, the way he had envisioned it. When he was finished, he took it into Bob Larsen’s office. Bob was the president of Larsen Haines.

“Evergreen’s board is going to love this,” Bob said with a sad smile. “Those guys who sit in paneled offices in LA are going to drool over it until the accountant does the math and says they can get ten percent more space in a square building for less money.”

“Let’s at least present this alternative to them. A concrete box in that beautiful landscape is going to be ugly. Let’s use that setting to do something inspiring instead of another tilt-up.”

“Hey,” Bob retorted, “We do very well with concrete boxes.” He pointed a finger at the rendering. “This façade is beautiful, Cliff, but you know curved walls are expensive to build. Plus we’d have to charge them more for the design, and that’s not in the budget.”

Cliff felt his blood beginning to boil. “Architecture isn’t just about money, dammit.” This was an argument they’d had before, and one he always lost. He thought of the promise he made to Alice Hilliard and vowed not to give in this time. “All I’m asking is that you present this option to Evergreen.”

 “Sure, I’ll present it,” Bob said. “If they sign off on it, great. But if they want a concrete tilt-up out there in Buffum’s pasture instead, that’s what we’re going to design for them.”

Cliff knew Bob would fold at the first sign of resistance to the more expensive design. Back in his office, he stared out the window and fumed.

He left the office at five. Friday rush hour traffic in downtown San Luis Obispo was heavy but it thinned out long before he arrived at his house in Avila Beach. When he pulled into the garage, his wife’s car was gone. Already in a foul mood over the Evergreen project, he was downright irritated that Janet was working late again. On a Friday night.

Muttering to himself, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and flicked on the TV, scrolling through the channels until he found a football game, a rerun of the Raiders beating the Chiefs. He tried to watch the game but he found himself checking his watch every twenty minutes and growing more irritated with Janet. After an hour, he called her office.

“Majestic Properties, how can I direct your call?”

Cliff knew the perky voice of Helen, the receptionist. Though it was nearly eight on a Friday night, she was still in the office.

“Hi Helen, Cliff Demont. Is Janet still there?”

“No, she is showing property way out in Creston today. A beautiful home on twelve acres, with a vineyard.”

“Sounds fabulous. Thanks.” This is the third night this week that she’s worked late, he thought, I’m getting damn tired of it.

He was sitting on the deck off the bedroom when Janet arrived home. He’d built it right after they bought the house and it was his favorite place to be. Made of thick redwood planks, it faced southwest, offering a spectacular view of the ocean and the setting sun. To preserve the view he made the railing of glass and later added a hot tub and a stone fire pit. He was staring into the embers of a dying fire when she opened the sliding glass door.

“Sorry I’m late, I got tied up with a buyer at the property,” she said while she kicked off her heels.

“Until ten?” His smoldering anger showed in his voice.

“The house is in Creston, an hour away. I’m going to take a shower. I hope you’re in a better mood when I get out.”

He continued to stare into the fire while she showered. The sky grew overcast, obscuring the gibbous moon.

She came out of the bathroom wearing a thick terrycloth robe, toweling her hair. “Aren’t you cold sitting out there?”

He rose and went inside.

Tall and slender, with long, dark hair and luminous green eyes, Janet reminded him of an actress, Jacqueline Bisset.

“What are your plans for tomorrow? Working?” He undressed and climbed into bed.

“I’m meeting a client at ten.” She slid under the covers, facing away from him.

“It seems like I have to make an appointment to see you.”

“I have a job.”

“Yeah, well, tomorrow’s Saturday. What about a home life? What about us?” He reached for her under the blanket and she stiffened.

“I don’t complain when you work long hours.” She moved to the far edge of the bed. “My job is just as demanding as yours.”

“Of course it is, but when you started working, we agreed it would be part-time, until we saved enough to open an office of our own. Remember?”

“That was five years ago.” She turned to face him. “The truth is, you’re never going to open an office.”

“That’s not true. I’ve made up my mind, I’m going to quit Larsen Haines as soon as the Evergreen project is finished. It’s time for me to go out on my own.”

“Remember the dental office you designed three years ago?” Janet’s voice was quiet and cutting. “You were going to hang out your shingle after that project too.”

He had created a bold design for Dr. Kelvin, a prominent dentist in San Luis Obispo. Kelvin loved it, but then opted for a less expensive plain stucco building. Cliff had been incensed at the time and threatened to quit, but somehow, he never did.

Janet went on in a disdainful tone, “You’re always going to work for Bob Larsen. It’s not what you dreamed of but it’s good enough for you. I have dreams too. I’m a very good real estate agent and I’m going to make a lot of money. It’s what I want to do.” She turned off the light and fluffed her pillow. “Goodnight.”

He had to admit she was right. Three years back, he swallowed his pride and redesigned the dental office. It was a good building, but it was uninspiring as architecture, and he knew he was better than that. Sure, it’s difficult to sell a client on a bold, imaginative design, but Bob didn’t even try, he thought bitterly. Bob doesn’t care about anything except getting the contract. And my own wife thinks that somewhere along the way I’ve given up on my dreams. He lay awake stewing over these thoughts while she slept.

***     

           Janet was gone when he awoke. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling while her words came flooding back. They stung last night, but now they aroused anger. He threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. In the kitchen, there was still-warm coffee in the pot and he gulped down a cup. Damned if I’m going to mope around the house today, he thought. He rummaged in the closet for surf trunks and a hooded sweatshirt. When he passed the dresser mirror and caught a glimpse of himself, he froze. There were dark circles under his blue eyes. His light brown hair was neatly trimmed but uncombed. He pushed it back on his forehead, noticing that his hairline had receded a bit. The boyish dimples Janet used to tease him about suddenly looked more like creases. He stood back and studied his body in the mirror. It was the first time in a while that he’d taken a good look at himself. The view was of a man on his way to middle age, not the Cliff Demont he perceived himself to be. At thirty-eight he was six feet tall and well built, but there had been a definite migration of muscle from his arms and shoulders to his midriff, and it wasn’t muscle anymore. He tore his eyes from the mirror and headed for the garage.

           “Fucking Porsche,” he muttered a few minutes later as he attached surf racks to its roof. He used to just toss his board in the back of his truck and go. The Porsche had been Janet’s idea. She wanted him to drive a status symbol instead of his trusty Ford pickup. Now he had to be careful not to scratch the paint putting on the racks. He tossed a towel and wetsuit in the backseat and strapped his board on top.

           He sped south on Highway 101 and took the Orcutt exit to Highway 1 through Lompoc. A few minutes later the coupe was on the winding two-lane road to Jalama. He pulled over when the beach came into view and scanned the ocean below. The sky was clear and a light offshore wind riffled the tops of the waves that rolled in from the southwest. Jalama waves, big and powerful, were not for inexperienced surfers, and he counted only a few guys in the water.

           As a kid in Huntington Beach, Cliff used to go sailing with his father on weekends. When he was twelve, Jack Demont was killed in a fiery car crash. His mother sold the boat almost immediately after the funeral, so Cliff turned to surfing.

           Nearly every day before school he surfed with his friends. But as he got older, he grew impatient with the hordes at the good surf spots. He got in the habit of waiting for those days when the surf was big and the crowds thinned out. Eventually, he gained a reputation as a big wave rider, and the other kids would sit on the beach and watch him on those rare days when the surf was too big for them.

“Dude, you should enter surf contests!” his buddies would tell him.

“Nah,” he’d reply. “I just surf for fun.” He figured the competition would ruin the pure pleasure of surfing. Instead, he savored having the big waves mostly to himself. After his father died, he found solace in the ocean, and spent many long afternoons riding waves in solitude. Nowadays he still preferred the finely calculated risk and thrill of riding big surf, and it was worth it to make the long drive to Jalama.

Paddling out, he gasped when the first wave broke over him and sent frigid water inside his wetsuit. He hadn’t surfed in three months and had to work hard to get through the white water to the waves, but it felt good to be surfing again. Sitting on his board, he waited for the next set of waves and took off on the first good one. Paddling hard, he dropped down the face and cranked a hard bottom turn, then the wave collapsed and swallowed him in a maelstrom of whitewater. It was Mother Ocean’s way of scolding him for being out of shape and neglecting her too long. He came up sputtering and laughing at the same time and turned his board seaward to paddle out again. After that he got better rides with each wave he caught, regaining his balance, timing, and poise on the board. The waves revived his spirit and he forgot about Janet and Bob Larsen, and old Alice Hilliard while he surfed.

           A couple of hours later, he rode his last wave to shore. Exhausted, he threw himself down on the sand and lay there letting the sun warm him while, eyes closed, he replayed the best rides of the day in his mind.

           A few minutes later, a shadow fell across his face. He opened his eyes and squinted through salt-crusted lashes at the tall, lanky man in a wetsuit standing above him. His face was hidden in the glare of the sun.

           “I thought that was you out there,” said Jon Hartmann. he had just come out of the water and beads of it stood out on his wetsuit like shimmering diamonds. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

           Cliff rose to his feet and picked up his board. “Yeah, been busy at work.”

           They walked together up the beach discussing the odds of a big swell arriving next week.

           “I’m getting back into surfing,” Cliff said as he strapped his board to his car. “If that swell shows up I’ll be here next Saturday,”

           “Want to ride along with me?” Jon drove a Volkswagen van and they used to occasionally cruise along the coast together, searching for good waves. But as Cliff became more involved with work their trips had come to an end.

           “That’d be great. I’ll buy the coffee and donuts.”

           “Alright, I’ll pick you up at six.” Jon waved and headed off toward his van.

           Arriving home, Cliff pulled into the driveway and when he opened the garage door, Janet’s car was gone. Irritated again, he put his surfboard away, showered, and ambled out to the deck with a drink. Ominous clouds rolled in from the west, blotting out the sunset.