Page 14 of The Night We Lost Him

I turn toward the window as the plane jerks forward, then back, and then we are heading away from the gate and toward the runway. The plane picking up speed, about to leave the ground behind.

“You let me know when,” I say.

* * *

It takes us just over ninety minutes to drive up the coast to Windbreak from LAX, Sam curling our rental car along the Pacific Coast Highway and the 101, roadside signs starting to appear for Carpinteria.

I look out the window as Sam takes the exit into town, climbing over the railroad tracks until we are driving down Padaro Lane. The afternoon sun disappears beneath the tree shade, the light slipping through the fog and the dome of branches, the world around me entering a permanent kind of shimmery dusk.

And it happens, like it always seems to happen when I turn onto this road—I am six years old again, seeing it for the first time.

My father took me here on his own, my parents already at the beginning of their end. And he was nervous—I could feel that he was nervous. He wanted to make sure I was comfortable and happy. The whole drive from the airport he’d talked about how we were going to drop our bags and head straight down to the beach, straight into the ocean. But the clouds started setting in as we got closer to Carpinteria, and by the time we got to Padaro Lane, there was heaping rain and crushing thunder. So we raced into the house, drenched, and waited for it all to stop.

After the rain let up, it was too late to swim. But my father took me out to the cliffside and we drank milkshakes and ate tomato sandwiches and watched the sun set, a silvery-orange hue.

Maybe not the best first impression, Nora-Nu, he’d said, kissing me on the forehead, calling me what he always called me. But she’s showing up now.

Then we took those creaky steps down to the beach and the ocean some eighty feet below, my father not letting go of my hand the entire time. Not on the way down, not on the way back up. My hand in his, safely. And I asked him if we could move there. He loved to tell me, every time after, that I asked him that. Does he remember what he said in response? Why did he say it? Windbreak doesn’t just belong to me.

“We’re here,” Sam says.

Sam’s voice pulls me from the memory, as he turns down a driveway, a large gate greeting us. We pull in front of it and Sam reaches out the window to tap out the alarm code onto the keypad.

The gate creaks open and the property comes into view behind it. The driveway taking us over the stones, toward the expansive lawn, the open sky and ocean beyond it.

And the house itself. This cottage, proud and hopeful, holding its own against the expanse, the light in the trees, all that showing off. This small, perfect cottage: two bay windows circling the front door, a wraparound porch, the rocking bench perched on the corner, oceanside, taking in the bluffs.

“It gets you, huh?” Sam says.

I nod, feeling uneasy.

He pauses, looking straight ahead. “So you think you’ll keep it?”

I turn and look at him. “What?”

“I’m just asking,” he says. “ ’Cause if you sell it, it’s worth a lot of money. The land alone is worth eight figures…”

“I’m not thinking about that, Sam.”

“No reason to be testy. Dad knew you didn’t want any part of the company, and you’d never take any money from him, so maybe this is his way of trying to make it, I don’t know, even.”

I turn away from him, my skin suddenly on fire, my nerves heightened. The last time I was here was a little over two years ago. The last time I was sitting on that rocking bench, Jack was sitting there with me. It was the only time Jack had come to visit Windbreak. My father handed him a glass of wine, kissed me on the top of my head. A hazy and warm recollection. Jack’s hand resting on my knee, my father’s smile.

My voice catches in my throat. “The red-eye leaves at eleven fifteen tonight,” I say. “I’d like to be on it.”

“Can I put the car in park before you make an exit plan? We can always stay at Uncle Joe’s place, if we need more time. Or we can stay here.”

“Why would we need more time?”

“Once again, I’m going to need to actually get out of the car before I know how to answer that.”

Sam kills the ignition. And two men walk out of the front door to greet us. The one on the left I recognize. His name is Clark, and he has been taking care of Windbreak since before my father even bought it. It’s been years since I’ve seen him in person, but he hasn’t seemed to age. He is still strong, tall and wiry, in his jeans and work boots. His skin tanned and uncreased, his smile keeping his face young.

The other man I don’t know. He is linebacker large and burly in a too-tight suit, his hair buzz-cut short, his skin red and ruddy. He is also much younger than Clark, probably close to Sam’s age.

Close to his chest, he holds a clipboard. I can see, even from here, that it’s covered with police department decals.

Sam motions to him. “That’s Detective O’Brien,” Sam says. “He’s our liaison at the police department.”

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