They sat still a moment, breathing. Allowing the moment of panic to pass.
The vista of the ocean from their high perch was so overwhelming, so all-encompassing, that it took Allie a few seconds to notice there was a house just a few dozen yards down. It wasn’t the house Allie might have expected in such a lavish location. It was fairly small and made of dark-brown, weathered wood. Funky. Almost poor-looking, except in light of its surroundings.
“I think we lost him,” Allie said.
“Well, great.” But it sounded sarcastic. “That’s just great. Now we’re on private property. I’m sure the owner will call the cops. Nice to know there’s one so close by to answer the call.”
“You worry too much. We’ll just turn around and—”
A knock on the passenger window near her ear made Allie jump so hard and so suddenly that she felt as though she might leave her body behind.
A man stood outside the window. He looked to be in his fifties, with a porkpie hat and a creased face that looked both impassive and sad.
“Can I help you ladies?” the man asked through the glass.
“I’m no good at these things,” Bea hissed. “I freeze up. This was your idea. You fix it.”
Allie took a deep breath, smiled at the face outside the window, and opened the passenger door. She stepped out of the van and into the dirt. Into the ocean breeze. The place felt like heaven, like a place you might conjure up in a guided meditation, but Allie had no time to focus on that.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is obviously private property. It was all my fault. It was totally my mistake. My grandmother was driving, and I looked over and I saw her start to nod off, and it scared me, because this is not the place you want to fall asleep while you’re driving.”
“Well, no place really is.” His voice sounded flat. Deadpan. As if he could hardly muster the energy needed to participate in the conversation. “Granted, this place is worse than most. And there’s nowhere to pull over for miles.”
“Right! My point exactly. So I saw this chance to pull off the road and I told her to take it. But this is your house. Our mistake. Sorry. We’ll just get out of your way.”
The man rubbed his chin for a moment. As if Allie’s simple offer to leave required mulling over. He had a soul patch—a tiny, beard-like rectangle of facial hair under his lower lip. Both it and his immense and shaggy eyebrows were blond, shot through with gray.
“She can take a nap here if she needs to. Don’t want you two going off the road.”
Allie breathed deeply. They were no longer in trouble. She could stop being afraid.
“That’s very nice of you. Thanks.”
“No problem. If you need anything, I’ll be in the sculpture garden.”
“Sculpture garden?”
The man pointed. Maybe words were too much trouble. He raised a hand laden with heavy silver rings and indicated a gate to the right of the house.
He walked away.
Allie jumped back into the van.
“Pull over there,” she said to Bea, pointing. “Behind those bushes. Just on the off chance that cop comes back wondering where we went.”
“Wait. What are we doing?”
“He said we could stay.”
“Stay? What do you mean, stay? Stay how long? Why would he say that? He must be some kind of weirdo. Who tells some strangers off the highway they can stay?”
“Will you please relax? I told him you were falling asleep on the road. He said you could take a nap here before you try to drive on. He just doesn’t want us driving off the edge of the cliff.”
“Oh,” Bea said. She sounded disappointed to have to admit the man was likely only being kind.
Bea looked again at the spot Allie had indicated, well concealed behind heavy brush. Then she shifted the van into gear and slowly, carefully drove there. It was shady in that spot, which Allie thought was extra nice, and the view of the ocean was astounding. Bea shifted into “Park” and shut off the engine. The silence was strangely complete. Just a light whistle of wind.
“Well,” Bea said. “You’re getting to be quite the experienced liar, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Allie said. “That’s unfortunate. I was just thinking about that myself.”
Allie listened to Bea snore for maybe five minutes. Maybe ten.
She didn’t know why Bea needed a nap. It had been a made-up story about her falling asleep on the road. Besides, it was still morning. They’d driven barely a couple of hours since leaving Cambria. Still, there was no doubt that those two hours had taken a lot out of Bea.
Allie couldn’t warm up to the idea of a nap.
She let herself out of the van and stood outside in the sun and wind for a moment, staring. Being hundreds of feet over the ocean made the view stretch out impossibly far, as though Allie could see to the edges of the earth. Or, at least, halfway to faraway lands.
She sighed, then headed for the gate the man had pointed out. It was heavily grown with ivy. Allie had to brush tendrils of green leaves out of the way to open the gate and move through it.
On the other side, Allie saw a zoo of rust-colored wrought iron animals. Life-size whales and dolphins surfaced out of the grass. Long-legged seabirds stood with wings spread, as if just touching down. Coyotes and mountain lions paced in between iron trees and oversize flowers.
In the middle of it all, the man stood wearing a welder’s mask and working on a statue of a woman. More specifically, on her hair. She had amazing hair, that iron woman. Long and curly, separated into coiling strands by the wind. Or so the sculptor had made it seem.
For a few minutes she watched him adding strands to that astonishing head of iron hair.
Then he stopped, turned off his welding torch. Lifted the face shield of his mask. He noticed Allie there. Allie could see him notice her. See his roving gaze stop on her. He raised one hand faintly in recognition.
Allie walked closer.
“I hope it’s okay that I’m here,” she said. “You said if I needed anything. But I don’t. I just got tired of watching my grandmother sleep. And I wanted to see the sculpture garden.”
“No worries,” he said, setting the torch in the grass.
Allie moved in another step or two. She didn’t know this man. Bea was right about that. But the statue was drawing her in. And besides, she was strangely sure this man did not have the inclination—or the energy—to cause her trouble.
“I love her hair,” Allie said. She waited, but the man did not reply. “Is she a real person? Inspired by one, I mean.”
For a long set of moments, no words were spoken. Allie thought her question did not warrant a reply in her host’s mind.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “My wife.”
“Oh. Good. Got it. She must love that. I mean . . . does she? Does she like it? Does she think it looks like her?”