Camden got behind the steering wheel and I climbed in the passenger side as Gus got into his car and roared out of the desert.
“You okay to drive?” I asked him, knowing he could have a cracked rib even if the bullet didn’t go through.
He gave me a cocky smile. “Baby, I’m Camden McQueen.”
I grinned back. “Okay, then let’s make this fast.”
“I’m good at that,” he said, winking at me as he floored the Coop forward, growling after Gus’s trail. “Remember? Best five minutes of your life?”
I put my hand over his. “Let’s make it the best fifty years of my life. And then some.”
“It’ll be the best of everything.”
Calexico’s “Fortune Teller” came on the radio, bringing back a million memories, all of them rising up with the sand around us, flying forever into the atmosphere. I looked though the sunroof up at the impossibly blue sky, the color of Camden’s eyes, and smiled to myself.
He was alive.
I was alive.
We had our lives left to live.
New paths.
New journeys.
New hope.
“Let’s go say hi to Ben,” I whispered.
We left the desert behind us in a cloud of dust.
EPILOGUE
“That’s a beautiful tattoo,” the barista behind the counter said, looking down at the woman’s leg.
The woman looked down at herself. She’d taken to wearing shorter skirts lately, even though the wind off the Pacific was known to flip them up at a moment’s notice and flash the world your underwear. The woman didn’t care though. Her legs were now a work of art.
“Thank you,” the woman said with a gracious smile. She was a stunning woman in her early thirties, high cheekbones, dark brown eyes and long blonde hair that cascaded down her back. Her face was tanned from days spent outside, sunscreen no match for the Californian sun.
“I love cherry blossoms,” the barista commented, handing the woman her massive café mocha. “And I love that moon in the middle of it all.”
The woman smiled to herself, not wanting to share the whole story with the barista. There wasn’t many people she could tell the truth to, that the tattoo of the moon was not only for the man who inked it there but to cover up the scars of a bullet wound. The coast north of San Francisco wasn’t exactly known for high crime, unless you counted Eureka, but no one ever counted that.
“Where did you get the tattoos done?”
“I know a guy,” she said slyly. “Has a shop in Gualala. Only works part time though.”
“I love Gualala,” the barista exclaimed. “They have an amazing barbeque joint there. Really quiet though. You live near there?”
The woman nodded, eager to get away from the Chatty Kathy. “I do. But I work up and down the coast. Makes driving down to Bodega Bay worth it just to get Starbucks.”
She then thanked the barista and left before she had to start talking about her job. Not that she minded, but it always made her feel a bit edgy when people asked too many questions about her.
She got in her car, a sexy black 1973 Dodge Challenger that she drove way too fast up and down Highway 1, and looked over her shoulder to the back seat to make sure her photography equipment was still there. Satisfied, she gunned the car, taking it north. Today’s photography session was a pretty simple one, engagement photos on the beach, a happy young couple in love.
The woman felt a bit sad at the fact that she never got to have engagement photos. But then again, no one could do a better job than she could. She would have never been satisfied with them, and besides there was no point in photos when her wedding had been such a simple one. Just her, her husband and her father on the beach at Gualala State Park.
And their son and dog of course, two unreliable ring bearers.
She flipped through the radio stations, pausing when she heard Guano Padano over the air and grinned to herself. The little-known Italian band was finally getting some airplay in the States. She rolled down her window and stuck her head out, smiling like a fool into the waning sun.
When she finally reached the house, the sun was close to setting. She had to hurry. She hated missing sunsets.
She parked in the gravel driveway and grabbed her camera. She looked over the edge of the dunes in front of her house and saw two children chasing each other on the sand, a dog darting between them.
Gus was sitting down on a beach blanket, having a beer and trying to throw the ball for the dog. Sammy wasn’t having any of it, preferring to run down the kids instead, barking and wagging her tail.
In front of them, out in the surf, stood her husband and his strong, solid silhouette, ankle deep in the waves, watching the sun begin its descent.
Her heart bloomed and she ran down the wooden steps to the beach, her feet running through the warm sand, one of her most favorite feelings in the world.