Moonstone Heart

PART ONE

KATHLEEN

1

July 1995

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Kathleen hoped the buzzards would let her die before they started pecking at her. But she didn’t really care anymore. As long as she could stop pedaling the damn bike, the buzzards were welcome to whatever they wanted.

The road started to grade upward again, so she put her hands back on the handlebars and adjusted the gears to ascend yet another rolling hill. If there was nothing after this hill—no campground, no town, no car, no other sign of life—she decided she would simply give up. Stop the bike, take one last look at the ocean, and collapse.

She crested the hill and pressed on the brake, allowing her bike to come to a stop. She lowered her right foot to the mercifully steady ground and raised her head, hoping and praying to see civilization. Or anything.

About a half-mile up was a sign, and a road leading off to the west, where she could see homes dotting the bluffs overlooking the beach of Cambria.

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The daylight waned at the window, the air cooled around her. Kathleen sat up in bed, confused and disoriented. The tidy room was a small attic space, with white pine plank flooring and a chintz flowered bed covering that she hadn’t bothered to pull back. Her hands flew to her stomach—moneybag safe there, cinched around her waist, and her shoes were still laced to her feet. The only other expensive item she owned—her precious Sony Discman—broke back in Santa Barbara. Hopefully it hadn’t been stolen out of her bike bag, but the zippered pouch it came in was worth more at this point anyway.

Her bike bag was tucked neatly into the back corner, a folded towel on top of it. All she remembered was guzzling a giant glass of water and collapsing into this bed. How long ago was that?

She saw that a granola bar lay on the towel left for her, and she ripped it open and ate it quickly, choking on the dry, crumbly texture. She drank more water—trying to slow herself so she wouldn’t throw up, but too thirsty to care much. Kathleen looked around the room and tried to get her bearings. Before she did anything else, she desperately needed a shower.

She took the towel and her toiletries bag and her single change of clothes from the bike bag, and walked down the hall to the small but clean bathroom. She stripped off the clothes she’d traveled in that day—filthy and sweaty, even by her standards. Her socks were coated with dust, and an angry smear of black bicycle grease slashed down her shorts. She stepped into the shower and was horrified at the streams of filthy water running off of her body.

Well, don’t you look better! A petite blonde woman with huge purple glasses smiled at her when she dressed and went downstairs. I didn’t think I’d see you up and about until tomorrow, earliest.

Kathleen peered at this woman and smiled back. The front living room and the large oak desk in the corner of the inn looked only vaguely familiar. She remembered stumbling into this room after dumping her bike out front, and throwing money on the desk. But she didn’t recall much else.

I’m sorry, I think I have the flu. I hardly remember arriving here.

You were dehydrated. Shouldn’t have done those last miles in this heat. All you backpackers tote around those heavy guidebooks that don’t bother to tell you how hard that last stretch of road is.

This happens a lot? People passing out in front of you?

All the time.

I thought I was losing my mind.

You were, a little bit. Dehydration can do that to a body. I gave you a Gatorade—do you remember that? And got you into bed. Then we brought up your things for you.

Den we brought up yer tings fer ye. Her familiar accent soothed Kathleen’s aching brain. You’re Irish?

The woman’s shoulders pulled back with just a touch of endearing pride. I am, yes. From the town of Doolin, in Clare.

No kidding? I spent last summer working at the youth hostel in Lisdoonvarna!

Did you now? Ah, the west coast is magic, isn’t it?

’Tis, yeah. Kathleen reverted to the accent she’d adopted while she lived in Ireland, and then smiled at the woman again. Thank you, so much, for all your help. I really appreciate it.

Ah, sure, sure! the woman chirped. I’m Charlotte Trainor, in case you don’t remember. And this is my husband Diarmud. We are the owners of the Trainor Inn. They were joined by an older man now, with short-cropped grey-black hair and a craggy face. He looked Kathleen up and down, narrowing his piercing blue eyes as he examined her.

Well, at least we didn’t have to take this one to the emergency room, he muttered to Charlotte. His accent was harder; this man did not suffer fools. From Cork, Kathleen guessed.

Charlotte laughed, and Kathleen blushed. She must have really made a scene when she arrived. No, and thank goodness we didn’t. The girl just needed a nap and some water.

I’m sorry, Kathleen said, sincerely. My father and stepmother would tell you that was yet another example of me being reckless. Funny enough, the whole point of this trip was for me to show them both that I am responsible without their help. I’m obviously not entirely succeeding.

She couldn’t think of the last time she’d volunteered information about her father to anyone, but Charlotte’s face softened, and Kathleen resisted an impulse to hug her. Diarmud, however, peered at her even more closely.

How far have you come?

From Chicago. The long way—I took bus trips through most of the south of the country, and then bought a bike in San Diego and am going up to Canada.

The whole way? By bike?

Kathleen nodded, though without much conviction. Well. That was the plan. It didn’t seem so intimidating at first, but now I’m starting to doubt myself.

And last summer you were in Ireland? Charlotte asked.

For the summer, yeah, and most of the rest of the year in other parts of Europe. Backpacking, working where I could find it.

Are ye never going home, then?

Kathleen shrugged and attempted a smile. She could see a shadow pass across Diarmud’s face. Perhaps he was wondering what kind of person disliked her own family so much she purposely lived like a hobo in order to stay away from them. Kathleen didn’t have the energy to explain the many reasons for her escape to this sweet woman or her gruff husband.

Charlotte reached across the desk and put her hand on Kathleen’s arm. Sure, an’ this was just a tough stretch of road, so. Now you know how to spot those in advance, and you’ll be better prepared for them.

Kathleen already liked Charlotte immensely. To her relief, Diarmud left without another word, and Charlotte smiled at her. Are you going to rest some more?

No. I thought maybe I’d explore the town and get some dinner.

Well, there’s not a lot to see tonight. I can fix you some dinner and then you can explore tomorrow.

Tomorrow? No. No way. I didn’t really intend to stay here that long.

You’ll be needing to take it easy for a while. And you couldn’t recover in a nicer place.

Kathleen shook her head. As nice as Charlotte seemed, she never intended to stay more than a night in Cambria. It was a byway, just a place to pass through.

What is there to do around here? Besides see Hearst Castle? She tried to feign interest in the town.

Oh, the castle’s just one little thing to do. We have the best coastline in all of California, and you’ll practically have it to yourself. And you can go see the elephant seals. And we have antique shops, and loads of hiking. Downtown is so pretty! And, of course, you have to get pie—everyone who comes through town eats a piece of ollalieberry pie.

Ollalieberry? Did you make that word up?

Charlotte laughed. I most certainly did not. It’s a cross between a loganberry and a youngberry. It’s delicious.

Kathleen didn’t believe those were actual words, but she tried to look enthused. Mm. Sounds good. Well, I guess I’ll have to get some. But in all honesty, I do need to be on the road early tomorrow. I’m supposed to be in San Francisco for a job in two weeks, and if I delay, well... She shrugged as if the situation was out of her control, but really nothing was further from the truth. Cambria sounded like a snoozefest, frankly, and she wanted to get the heck out of here as quickly as possible.

She thanked Charlotte, took a map from the front desk, and walked out the door into the salty evening air. It seemed pleasant enough, but definitely not for her. This was a town for grandparents. No way would Kathleen waste her precious time and dwindling cash here. It was the kind of town you visited when you were too old to appreciate real cities. San Francisco was waiting for her, and after that, Portland and Seattle and all of Canada. No time for the snoozyberry capital of the world.

She found an easy pine walkway paralleling the main beach, and dozens of people walking the path, enjoying the sunset, holding hands. Kathleen saw that the beach was only a beach in the academic sense—far from what she’d dreamed beaches to be growing up in Chicago. She already found her sunny dream beach in the hard-bodied coast of Los Angeles. This Central California Coast was all rocky shores and cold, roaring waves. She didn’t know how they got away with calling them beaches, in fact; there wasn’t a whole lot you could do there. Several people picked their way through the rocks, bending over and examining what they found along the way. How was that supposed to be fun?

Kathleen settled on a bench facing the water and looked through her guidebook, the pages worn nearly translucent with use. The distance she’d tried to cover that morning hadn’t been unreasonably far. But the inn’s map showed actual changes in elevation, and they were significant. Now she knew better.

She looked ahead to the ride she faced tomorrow. Another long stretch, and she could see the elevation changes were not quite as big. She could make it easily to Hearst Castle in the morning, and then stay in San Simeon for one night before moving on. She counted the days up the coast. She’d need to make better time. Her funds were running low, and she needed to make some money soon.

Above all, she would not cut this trip short and head home. Not that she was welcome back in Dad and Randi’s cushy Gold Coast home back in Chicago. They’d made it clear when she left for Europe last year. She couldn’t bear the thought of the look on her Evil Stepmother’s face, the smug I told you so condescension of Randi’s waxy red lips in her father’s ear. No way. Kathleen would sell her bike, sell her limbs if necessary. No going home, no matter what.

A young couple caught her eye. They walked together, but didn’t touch, and they looked melancholy and lonely. The boy was exceptionally handsome—smooth, pale skin, his cheeks kissed by the sun and salt spray, with a shock of wavy, dark hair and flashing black eyes. The girl with him looked meek and shy. A riot of blonde curls came off her head in wild ringlets, blowing in the air and tumbling down her back. Kathleen nodded at them, and the girl smiled back, her face strained and pale underneath the whipping hair.

Kathleen couldn’t fathom the crushing boredom of being a young person stuck in this small town. No wonder they both wore such desperate, hungry looks. She couldn’t imagine what they might do with their lives, and she guessed they couldn’t either. Walk this path every night? Eat that Frankenberry pie every damn day? She wanted to shout after them to stop wasting time, and get out of here and see the world while they could. Wasn’t that the whole point of being young?

She admitted to herself, however, that being so near the sea had a calming effect on her. Kathleen noticed her own heartbeat slowed, and her breath came evenly, just in the short time she’d been sitting here. She knew people in Chicago who had never even seen the sea, and now she’d seen oceans on both sides of the United States, and from two coasts in Europe, and even from the northern tip of Africa. Cambria was not a terrible place. But to live here? At this age? No way. Tourist towns were just that—for tourists only, and for the boring people who catered to them. People who stayed were relegated to listening to everyone else’s life story. Kathleen couldn’t imagine anything more dull.

2

An ollalieberry was essentially just a glorified blackberry, a fact that vaguely annoyed Kathleen when she bought a slice of the famous pie that night. She wolfed it down the next morning for her breakfast. Even the horrible cup of instant coffee she drank in the dark kitchen couldn’t ruin the delicious pie. This time she only had a few miles to go, and she packed plenty of food and water in her bike trunk pack. She was prepared and sure of her success this time.

She wheeled her bike out to the highway again, dawn barely breaking, and started pedaling. Kathleen blamed the icy morning weather for her sluggish movements; she knew once her body warmed up, she could get moving a little faster. The air snapped cool and crisp in her lungs, and she watched the gulls wheeling overhead. Pine scented from the trees on the cliffs, and she tasted the salty sea breeze.

No music for her today, sadly. Who knew how long it might be until she could afford a new Discman? Only the road ahead and her deeply tanned arms in front of her to look at, and the rhythmic sound of the waves and her breath and the wind whistling in her ears to keep her company. Didn’t matter. She knew every eighties pop song by heart, and even some really old-school stuff, thanks to her mom. Music from the seventies, sixties, even rock ’n’ roll from the fifties. She could sing it all, and she would. She’d sing louder than the crashing waves, so loud they would hear Public Enemy all the way up to the castle.

It seemed to her that the gears moved oddly today. Kathleen glanced down at her gearshift and tried to adjust again so she could move faster. She focused on what lay immediately ahead of her on the journey. Hearst Castle. Mom, I’m seeing this one for you. Remember all those times we talked about it?

She took a deep breath and pumped harder, trying to get her feet to find the rhythm of her breath. The first half-hour or so was always the hardest part, she reminded herself; after that she usually found it grew easier to move quickly and efficiently on her bike.

Her thoughts drifted again; she looked behind her and was surprised to notice the town of Cambria still visible. She’d been riding her bike for ages already; how was it possible she wasn’t so far out of town yet? Maybe the pie for breakfast hadn’t been the best idea. Maybe she should stop for water. Maybe Charlotte was right and she shouldn’t even be on this trip.

No. Those were Zombie Dad and Randi’s words. Charlotte was kind and sweet, with soft hair and giant purple eyes. Like a pretty bug. Kathleen could remember nothing soft about Randi, and nothing soft about her dad since he married Randi.

"Dammit to hell!" she shouted, but her voice lacked strength and her curse came out in a hoarse whisper. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. She stood on the pedals and pushed down with her full body weight, even though she was on flat road. She tried to hold the bike steady on the road, but her vision grew blurry. Kathleen saw the pavement coming toward her slowly, almost as if she was leaning into it. She landed hard on the asphalt, and, when she opened her eyes, saw the car headlights. She turned her head away and waited for the impact.

Kathleen woke up in the back seat of a car, feeling the road bouncing beneath her. A young man drove the car, his jaw set in an angry, sharp edge. His dark, thick eyebrows went over his eyes like thunderclouds. She tried to remember if she knew him. Where was her bike? Why did her arm hurt? She groaned, and saw him looking at her in the rearview mirror, which he cocked at an angle so he could see her.

Hold tight. We’ll be there in just a minute.

Where? she croaked. Where are you taking me?

Hospital.

She let herself drift off again, her head bouncing against the seat.

They swerved suddenly, and the car came to a stop. I’ll get a nurse. Stay here, the driver said, and jumped out of the car. As if I’m going to go anywhere, Kathleen thought. She wondered if she’d said it out loud.

The car door by her feet opened, and it was the dark-haired young man again. I have a wheelchair. Do you think you can sit up? I can help you into it.

Kathleen tried to sit up, but fell back again, dizzy and nauseated.

OK. Here’s the deal: there is only one nurse in there today, and she’s with someone else. So I’m the one who has to get you in to Dr. Pearce. I’m just going to slide you down the seat a little bit, and then I can pick you up into a sitting position. OK? Do you hear me?

Kathleen must have nodded, because the man grabbed her around her knees with his right arm, using his left to clutch her shoulder. She could feel his face over her belly. He began to tug, but his hand caught on her spandex bike shorts and they came down over her waist, past her underwear.

Oh, God, I’m so sorry. The man dropped her legs and turned around, reaching back to pull her shorts back up. He wasn’t looking at her so his hand was flailing around the back of the car, bumping into the seats and over her belly.

Stop it! she yelled. Just stop. I can do it myself. She yanked her shorts back up, keeping her eyes averted from him. She couldn’t remember which underwear she’d put on when she dressed in the dark this morning, but she knew she didn’t have anything pretty to look out. She’d packed light for the trip, and nothing got washed often enough.

Well, not like she’d ever see this idiot again. He ran over her with his car? What was wrong with this stupid cow town? You’d think they’d never seen a damn bike before.

She used the headrest of the front seat to pull herself up, clenching her jaw to quell the sudden nausea.

Just give me your arm to lean on, she said through gritted teeth.

She accepted his proffered elbow and stood up, only to collapse into the wheelchair set up next to the open car door. Kathleen put her head between her hands and spread her knees out, vomiting on the ground below her. The man stopped and let her finish. She kept her hands pressed over the back of her head, wishing she could disappear herself right into the ground, or at least back into unconsciousness. She couldn’t imagine how this situation could get any worse.

Are you finished? he asked, and his voice was calm and quiet.

I think so. But just hold on. I’m sure I’ll think of something else even more horrifying to do any minute now.

The wheelchair started moving again, and she heard him chuckling as he pushed it very slowly to the front door.

Well, anyone who can crack a joke isn’t going to die.

The jerk actually thinks this is funny. What is wrong with everyone here? They are drunk on those damn berries. She didn’t have the energy to tell this guy how awful his life was about to become, since he’d chosen to run her over.

He pushed the wheelchair inside to a makeshift nurses’ station, which was really just a small office desk. A white-haired, bearlike man stood behind it, polishing his thick eyeglasses with his necktie.

She been conscious this whole time? the older man asked her driver.

Mostly. She got up off the pavement and got into my car, but has been in and out ever since. She just threw up outside.

The doctor nodded at this, and looked Kathleen up and down, peering through the giant glasses and bunching his eyebrows together like a fuzzy white caterpillar.

You’ll need some stitches, and I’ll clean up your face. Your arm hurts? You’re holding it funny. I’ll want to do an x-ray. He nodded a dismissal at the driver, who turned to Kathleen.

I’ll go back and get your bike and take it to the inn. Someone will come get you when you are finished with Dr. Pearce. OK?

Kathleen nodded dumbly and watched him leave the office. The doctor pulled a black leather satchel from under his desk, exactly as one might see a doctor using to visit patients out on the prairie.

Where the hell am I? Kathleen muttered.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. You’re in Cambria. Do you not remember that?

That can’t be right. I left Cambria really early this morning. Made it pretty far out.

No, you didn’t. You barely got out of town. He was dabbing her arm with a cold liquid; Kathleen looked down and saw a large red gash along her outer elbow. She groaned and looked away,