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  He started to let himself into his room, but instead he unlocked the door and set down his shopping bags and turned back. The LA habits were part of what had to go. They didn’t fit this new role. Connor walked back over and asked, “Excuse me, ma’am. Is everything okay?”

  Large sunglasses covered a considerable portion of her face, but Connor had the impression that she came slowly back to reality. She said weakly, “I saw you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “On the street. You walked into that restaurant.”

  “Castaways. Right.” He pointed back to his open door. “I’m due to start work there in about twenty minutes.”

  The news twisted up her face momentarily. All she said, though, was “That’s nice.”

  “Ma’am, can I get you anything?”

  “I’m . . .” She flicked the fingers of one hand, shooing him away. “I’m right where I deserve to be.”

  Connor had the distinct impression she had dismissed him. “Well, I’m over there if you need anything.”

  He crossed the lot, picked up his bags, and entered his room. He showered and shaved, then dressed carefully and returned to the bathroom’s full-length mirror. He held himself there, practicing the same technique that had taken him through so many other roles. Clamping down on all the regrets and all thoughts of who he was and who he was not. There was no tomorrow, not for Connor Larkin. Right now there was only this new role. It grew from the tight clump of pain and tension and everything else he would not let himself feel, because just then it belonged to another person. He grew the role from within, by reshaping these emotions and the life energy they represented.

  When he was ready, Connor said to his reflection, “This is important. Make it count.”

  Then he turned to the door, like he had a thousand times before. On set after set, an usher hovered just outside his dressing room door, the director waited with the final words of guidance, then he stepped to where the lights gleamed and the cameras aimed and the people watched.

  The big difference this time was that Connor only had one take to get it right.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sylvie continued with her preparations for what needed to appear as just another ordinary day. Being here in her restaurant, among the people she cared for most in the world, certainly helped. She patrolled all twenty-three tables, adjusting a fork here and a goblet there. She spoke with Gustavo, the new busboy. She phoned Porter Wright, whom Connor had said might be willing to vouch for him. She entered the kitchen and checked the vegetables. She even managed a joke over how the fish did not need any further scrutiny. She discussed the night’s specials with Carl, her chef.

  The kitchen staff loved these moments, for Carl was the most taciturn man she had ever met. He could go through the most frantic nights, when everyone else was shouting and rushing about, and not speak anything other than “pickup.” Plus he would only say that if the ringing of his bell did not bring the waiter running. The kitchen crew loved speaking for Carl, making suggestions about possible concoctions, trying to come up with something outrageous enough to make him object. Her worries diminished in volume. Sylvie was ready to do what she was best at: giving her friends and patrons a memorable evening out.

  When she returned to the dining room, Rick was stationed behind the bar, serving their first three customers. Sylvie waited down by the waiters’ station. When he joined her, she asked, “Where’s Aubrey?”

  “On her way. Her mother’s had a bad day.”

  Aubrey was the best bartender Sylvie had ever employed. Her mother, however, was quietly slipping into a fog denser than anything that had come rolling off the Pacific. Aubrey refused to even discuss putting her mother into a home. She had arranged for neighbors to serve as caregivers. Aubrey’s system worked fairly well, unless there was a bad day. Such bad days happened with increasing frequency. Sylvie said, “Join us in the kitchen for a second.”

  When they were all together, she announced a new waiter was starting that night. His name was Connor Smith, and he had come recommended by Porter Wright.

  Rick was the one to ask the inevitable. “Is he a con?”

  “Porter did not think so.”

  “He doesn’t think?”

  “That’s what he said.” Sylvie pointed to where Carl was filling bowls with his all-day stew. “Go have your dinners. I’ll handle the bar. When you’re done, somebody bring me a sandwich.”

  The bar was one of the aspects she most loved about her place. Castaways had originally been built as a saloon and rooming house. The owner had been a retired ship’s captain, and had positioned the establishment so he could have an uninterrupted view of the sea. Now, even with so many irregular rooftops segmenting the horizon, it was still a lovely place from which to watch the sunset. The captain had ordered a set of great bay windows to be built facing west, like a landlocked version of the stern windows that would have adorned his private cabin. About half of the original panes were intact. The handblown glass threw wavy patterns of light over the varnished floor and the walnut wainscoting.

  The bar ran down the front half of the north wall, curving out slightly like a ship’s bow. The waiters’ station was a broad space by the eastern corner, separated from the rest of the bar by brass rails. Two paces farther east opened the double doors leading to and from the kitchen. The bar was original, as was the brass footrail. Sylvie had found the four spittoons in a local garage sale.

  Half an hour later, Marcela returned and brought Rick with her. The restaurant’s headwaiter was tall, lean, and carried himself with a deceptive calm. Sylvie was one of the few people on earth who knew of Rick’s carefully hidden past. Most people saw what Rick wanted them to see, a man who walked through life with bulletproof ease, utterly content to be both alone and untouched by the trauma of close relationships.

  Marcela set the plate with Sylvie’s sandwich on the counter and asked, “This is really all you want?”

  On days when he came in early, Carl put a beef-bone stew on low heat and let it simmer for hours. The result was a concoction that had carried Sylvie through many a long night. “Have him put a bowl to one side. Right now, this is fine.” She could feel the headache building, still far enough away that there was no actual pain, but her stomach rebelled against the very thought of food. Sylvie ran through what she knew about their new waiter, which was almost nothing.

  Rick and Marcela gathered by the bar’s serving station, leaning in close enough for their conversation not to be overheard by the growing number of early customers. Marcela said, “That’s not much to go on.”

  “I know. But there was something about him. . . .” Sylvie tried to stow away a sudden smile, and failed. “He likes Sinatra.”

  “And you like him,” Rick said.

  “I did. Yes. Why exactly, I can’t say.”

  Rick asked, “He said he was raised in a restaurant?”

  “His earliest memories are of his family’s place,” Sylvie confirmed.

  Marcela asked, “And Porter vouched for him?”

  “Sort of.” Sylvie related her rather curious conversation with the police chief. “He hesitated at first. Then he said that he thought it would make for a good fit. At least for a while.”

  “Meaning the guy isn’t a keeper,” Marcela said.

  “To tell the truth, I have no idea what Porter meant.”

  Rick said, “We need another set of hands. Desperately.”

  “He can’t be much worse than Carlos,” Marcela said.

  “Carlos was hidden away in the kitchen,” Rick pointed out. “We’re talking about putting Connor Smith on public display.”

  Sylvie was about to respond when she spotted a sharp-looking guy heading down the opposite sidewalk. The change from the man she had met earlier was so drastic that for an instant she thought she might have it wrong. Connor now wore a proper waiter’s white-on-black outfit, except that his shirt had an extra button undone, something she would never have permitted on anyone else. On him, the
opening formed a V that accented the triangular shape of his upper body. “Wait. Here he comes now.”

  Marcela watched him cross the street. “That’s him?”

  “Yes. Connor Smith.”

  “You didn’t say nothing about him being so hot.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Then you are one sick lady,” Marcela declared.

  Sylvie noticed Rick’s studied frown, but there wasn’t time to ask what troubled him, because two customers were trying to get her attention from farther down the bar. “In that case, you can show him the ropes. Rick, you’ll need to seat any early diners. Call Aubrey and tell her we need her on deck pronto.”

  * * *

  Estelle walked along the headland that marked the southern boundary of Miramar Bay. The cliff was part of a seaside park and topped by a triangular meadow. A sunset breeze flattened the grass into a shimmering gold-green plate. The drop-off was marked by a rusting fence and danger signs that clattered in the wind. She walked slowly and wished she was capable of appreciating the beauty that surrounded her.

  It was only when she started back toward her car that she noticed the structure nestled within a cluster of stunted pines. The branches were fashioned into a fan-shaped windbreak, and within their shadows stood a weather-beaten shack. What appeared to be a grey stone sculpture stood between the hut and the sea. Then she realized the stone was a podium, and the shack was a chapel. A glass-fronted board was attached to the rear wall, detailing sunrise services twice each month. But this evening the place was hers alone.

  Estelle settled into a rear pew and bundled herself more deeply into her coat. The shack was open at the front, so that beyond the dais stretched a glorious view of the dusk-clad Pacific. The wind carried a searing bite. The trees sang a hushed melody to the end of day. For the first time since she had arrived in Miramar, Estelle felt a hint of rightness to her journey.

  Her Jack would have loved this chapel. Estelle had buried her husband nine months ago. Jack had been the one who urged her to make this trip. If she had known how difficult it would be, how she felt strangled by all the conflicting emotions, she would have refused his dying request. But here she was, and this lonely chapel at the edge of the world was as fine a place as any to remember why she had come.

  When the sun finally settled into the blue-gold waters, and the gulls cried a final farewell to the day’s end, Estelle spoke the words aloud. “I need help.”

  It was not much as prayers went. But it would have to do.

  CHAPTER 8

  Marcela was slender and energetic, with mocha-colored skin and an abundance of soft, dark curls. Her large eyes seemed to be perpetually seeking a reason to laugh. She had been born in Encinitas, but raised mostly in Sacramento. She was married to an electrician who worked for the local cable company. She loved Sylvie and enjoyed her work so much she and her husband were putting off having kids. All this emerged as she showed Connor his station—the restaurant’s worst six tables, lining the back wall, away from the windows. Then she led him through the kitchen doors, two of them, spaced well apart. One opened inward, the other out. Connor’s mother had always said this was the first mark of a good restaurant, for there would be times when frantic staff forgot to look before rushing through. None of the kitchen staff even glanced his way as Marcela made a loud introduction.

  Marcela led him back into the dining room and around the bar. She showed him the alcove holding the glasses and silverware and coffeemaker and spice bottles. Then an older man came over and Marcela introduced him as the headwaiter, Rick. Connor knew he needed to pay careful attention, that every word and every moment was intended as a test. But just then, his attention was captured by the stage.

  Big bay windows, taller than Connor, opened onto the fading sunset. The sea glistened between the rooftops. Gulls wheeled through the sky overhead. The space between the bar and the front windows held a long table with captain’s chairs, clearly intended to serve as either a spillover for the bar crowd or to host a single large party. Beyond that, fit snug in front of the bay windows, was a small stage. The left wall contained an alcove shaped like a giant abalone shell, beautifully restored. Tucked inside was a baby grand piano, a Steinway.

  Marcela asked, “Something wrong?”

  The piano’s varnish gleamed ruby-dark in the dusk. Connor said, “I used to play.”

  Marcela told him, “Back in the day, dance hall girls used to toss their skirts and do their high step up there.”

  When Connor did not respond, Rick asked, “That makes you sad, seeing the piano?”

  “A little.” He forced himself to turn away. They were both watching him. The headwaiter was an inch or so shorter than Connor and very narrow. Pronounced cheekbones framed eyes that pierced deep. Connor said, “Music was a dream I let go of.”

  Rick smiled tightly, as though he understood far more than Connor was saying. “When was that?”

  “I haven’t touched the keys in seven years.” He swallowed hard. “Long enough that I can almost forget the dream ever existed.”

  Rick and Marcela exchanged a look; then Rick said, “See if the kitchen can use his help.” As Marcela led him away, Rick patted his shoulder and said, “Welcome to Castaways.”

  There was no reason on earth such quietly spoken words would touch Connor’s heart. None at all.

  * * *

  No one spoke to Connor when Marcela left him in the kitchen. Connor knew his tables would be the last to receive customers. On a quiet evening in the middle of the week, he might as well spend it all right here. Being ignored.

  A burly red-haired man with a British accent pointed him to a steel bowl filled with fresh spring vegetables and told him to julienne the lot.

  Connor waited to see if any utensils would be offered, but no one even looked his way. He gave a mental shrug and asked, “Any chance of an apron?”

  The Brit had pecan pies in the ovens separating the pastry station from the main cooking area. The smell of bourbon vanilla was strong. He gestured with his spatula toward a hall at the kitchen’s other side. “Pantry.”

  Connor crossed the kitchen, followed by four sets of eyes. He had no problem with the silence. The stubby hall ended at a steel door, which was propped open, revealing an alley that Connor thought looked remarkably neat. The air coming in was pleasantly cool. A young man with dark hair and tats running down both arms was seated on a cane chair by the entrance, smoking and staring at the gathering dusk. Connor assumed it was the busboy waiting his call to duty.

  When Connor started to open the pantry door, he went still for the second time that evening. Directly above the doorway was a segment of varnished wood, on which was branded the message LAST CHANCE SALOON.

  Connor felt like he had just collided with a train.

  He had no idea how long he stood there. After a time, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Connor turned to find the red-haired man standing beside him, smiling gently. The Brit asked, “You done time, lad?”

  “That’s not . . . I haven’t. No.”

  “Ah, well, it’s not only inside the cage where the wee dark hours grab hold. You just come along with me.”

  Connor found himself being led back to the vegetable and garnish station, only this time everyone watched him openly. The Brit introduced himself as Sandy and brought over a paring knife, a sharpening stave, a peeler, and the apron Connor forgot to get for himself. Sandy said, “You know what these are for, lad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s a secret you can take to heart. Sylvie doesn’t like blood in her veggies. Doesn’t make the right impression. So you just wash this lot and hold off until you’re certain you won’t go peeling any fingers.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Sure, now, of course, you are.” Sandy walked back over to the oven and checked his pies. Bruno, a slender dark-haired young man, kept stirring his sauces and preparing plates for the evening rush. Carl, the chef, laid out an array of meats and fish. The computer monit
or above the main stove chimed and lit up with the night’s first order. Sandy pulled a tray of bread from the warming compartment and slipped it into the main oven. Everybody moved into the next forward gear. All except Connor. He was still getting used to the fact that being slammed at heart level by a simple wooden plaque had somehow earned him a place.

  * * *

  When his hands steadied, Connor started on the vegetables. No doubt the restaurant had a specialist machine hidden somewhere that normally did this job. However, the chore was a valid way of checking out Connor’s kitchen creds, for julienne vegetables were not something normally seen outside of high-end restaurants.

  Julienne actually referred to the knife he was using, as well as the vegetables themselves. “Julienne” meant to cut into identical straight segments, similar to large matchsticks. When fried, julienne potatoes were often referred to as shoestrings. The term had been in use for over three hundred years, and first referred to a soup composed of vegetables cut into uniform segments—carrots, beets, leeks, and celery. Added to this would be minced lettuce and sorrel, and onions cut into thin triangular slices. The vegetables were briefly sautéed, and then simmered in chicken stock. Connor could not actually remember learning these things. He had simply known them all his life. Then he had forgotten almost everything.

  It was far too simple to say an actor’s existence required his single-minded focus, although to a certain extent it was true. Connor maintained a very discerning palate, even when it came to ordering takeout. Los Angeles was a very eclectic city, and the possibilities for ordering in food, or for going out, were endless. Every section of the globe was represented in the restaurants and delis and mobile kitchens. None of this was why he almost never cooked, or spent more than the odd moment reflecting on his family’s heritage.