The Lost Coast: A Novel

Tara Moore sat on her living room sofa, rubbing the surface of the pendant.

“He was happy,” she said. “With her.”

She looked up at us. Grief had softened her face, her voice.

“Yes,” Regina said. “He was.”

“And it’s a pretty spot she chose.”

“Beautiful,” I said.

“Do you have pictures? Can I see it?”

I said, “Once we sort everything out, we’ll send you some.”

“Maybe I could go visit, sometime,” Tara said. “I’d like to meet her. I think that would be nice. Don’t you think it’d be nice?”

Regina nodded.

Tara said, “I think it would.”

She crushed the pendant to her chest, folded over with a moan.

Regina got down on the dusty carpet and held her as she sobbed.

Roy Trujillo, in his office at UC Merced library, let out a low whistle. “Holy Moses.”

The manuscript was stacked up on his desk — all three thousand, eight hundred forty-six handwritten pages of it.

He pressed his palms together. “Appreciate you, friends.”

“Any chance we can get reimbursed for our expenses?” Regina asked.

Trujillo smiled regretfully. “Not sure we have room in the budget for that.”

Regina and I said our goodbyes in the parking lot.

“It’s been real,” she said.

“Real what?”

“I’ll let you fill in the blank, Poirot.”

En route to San Leandro, I phoned Chris Villareal.

“Hey, Clay. Good to hear from you. How’s it going?”

“They won’t be cheating anyone again.”

The line went quiet.

He said, “Do I want to know?”

“Sorry,” I said. “You’re breaking up.”

He laughed. “Okay. Say I wanted to express my gratitude. What would you suggest?”

“Talk to my colleague. I’ll send you her info.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Referrals are always appreciated.”

That spring, I cleaned out my bogus social media accounts. I hadn’t logged into Clay Gardner’s Instagram in months, and I decided to look in on Shasta Swann.

She’d posted two weeks prior. Wearing a UC Santa Cruz sweatshirt; beaming and holding up a letter.

I got in! #GoBananaSlugs

I messaged her congratulations.

The next day she replied with her number and asked me to call her.

“Great news,” I said. “You must be so excited.”

“You have no idea.”

I smiled. “Are you going to race triathlon?”

“They don’t have a team, just a club. I have tryouts for cross-country and swim.”

“I know a couple of swimmers there. Happy to put you in touch.”

“I think I’d rather do it on my own.”

“Fair enough.”

“Listen, I wanted to thank you,” she said.

“What for?”

“Saying things I needed to hear.”

“I don’t think I did much.”

“You did. It cleared up a lot for me. So. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. How’s your family?”

“I mean. They’re fine.” She paused. “I asked my mom again. If he’s my father.”

“Prado.”

“She said no, he wasn’t. My dad was my dad and he loved me.”

“Okay. How do you feel about that?”

“I’m choosing to believe her. For now,” she said. “I might change my mind. If I do, maybe I’ll hire you.”

I laughed.

“I could do it, you know. I’m eighteen, I have money.”

“That’s right, happy birthday.”

“Thanks. It was pretty crazy. I had this big meeting with all these lawyers. They were acting all polite, bringing me water, like I’m a celebrity. Then they heard what I had to say and looked like they were going to shit themselves.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I’m getting rid of the land.”

“You’re selling it?”

“It’s going to be a nature preserve.”

“Wow. That’s a major decision, Shasta.”

“Yeah. But it’s what I want. And there’s still plenty of money for me. Bank accounts and stocks, that kind of thing. So it’s not like I’m Mother Teresa or anything.”

“Good for you, then. What happens to your parents?”

“They can stay for the time being. Maggie, too, and Jenelle. The whole thing’s super complicated. The lawyers said it’s going to take like twenty years.”

“The longer it takes, the more they make.”

“Right?”

“Welcome to adulthood.”

She laughed. “Anyway, I’m glad you got in touch.”

“So am I,” I said. “How’s DJ doing?”

“Okay, I think. He moved in with his mom. She seems happy to have him.”

“And Al?”

“Him?” she said. “Mad, as usual.”

I found a press release, issued by the John Muir Conservation Center, announcing a joint partnership with the County of Humboldt and the Swann’s Flat Board of Supervisors.

The transfer would take place in stages, over an unspecified period, with current owners compensated out of a privately established trust fund. Among the center’s ultimate goals was the reintroduction of native species, including the critically endangered Point Delgada limpet.

A local paper had rehashed the story under the headline Lost Coast Hamlet to Become Public Land. Most folks cited felt positively about the change.

Most.

Albert Bock, a Swann’s Flat resident of almost two decades, vowed to fight the initiative.

“They want my house, they can come and take it over my dead body,” he said.

Amy said, “I saw Regina today.”

I pressed Pause. On-screen, a cute couple held hands on a balcony overlooking turquoise water. A graphic displayed the price in euros. “Really? Where?”

“Mountain View. It’s halfway. We met for a ladies’ lunch.”

“I didn’t know you were in touch with her.”

She nodded, sipped her wine. “We text sometimes. Work. That kind of thing.”

“Right,” I said. “How is she?”

“Good. She asked me to give you a heads-up. She’s wiring you some money.”

“What money?”

“From your client. She’s sending your half.”

“How much is that?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Okay. It’ll be like Christmas come early.” I reached to unpause the TV. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Amy said, “She thinks I’m being selfish.”

“About what?”

“Your job. She thinks I need to let you do it.”

“Hang on.” I put down the remote. “Hang on. That’s absurd. You are the least selfish person I know.”

“She says you need to be free to operate without fear, and that walking around preoccupied about me actually makes you less safe.”

“Amy. Stop. She is way out of line, here. She has no business getting involved.”

“No, she doesn’t. But she did.”

“Okay, but—”

“Clay.” She put her hand on my wrist. “Please listen.”

I said, “I’m listening.”

Her hand moved to my cheek, stroked softly. “We’re so alike, you and me. Almost everything important, I know how you feel, because I feel it, too. I don’t even have to ask. We’re so lucky to have that.”

I nodded.

“But there’s this one part of you,” she said, “this core part, that drives you to run toward things I would run away from. I don’t understand it. I’ve tried, but I don’t think I ever will. It scares me, and makes me feel distant from you.”

“I know.”

“But I also admire it. And I’m grateful for it, because the world needs it, and it’s rare. I love it, because it’s you. I knew it was there when I married you.”

“That was before we had kids.”

“Yes. And I want them to know — when they’re ready — that their daddy is the best, bravest man in the world. They deserve to know that. It will help them. I’m not encouraging you to throw yourself in harm’s way. I know you never would. But I don’t want you to be someone you’re not, either. I love you, for you, even if that means feeling uncomfortable sometimes.”

“I love you, too,” I said. “And thank you for saying that. It means a lot. But—”

“No buts, okay? We’ll make this work.” She smiled. “Just. Don’t overdo it.”

“How do I gauge that?”

“I’ll inform you. Regularly.”

We both burst out laughing, shedding tension.

I pointed to her wineglass. “Refill?”

“Yes, please.”

When I returned from the kitchen, the TV was off.

“Don’t you want to find out what happens to our friends in Majorca?” I said.

“House number two, ‘The Villa in Need of Love.’ ”

“We haven’t seen the third option yet.”

“Trust me,” she said.

She took the glass from me, put it on the table.

“All the signs are there,” she said and kissed me.