Naked in the Wind

CHAPTER 1

1999 The Monterey Coast, California

Through the chill of an early morning mist a lone young woman trudged a narrow stretch of glaring white beach. She moved in a dirge-like pace. In truth it was a deathwatch. She was dressed in faded gray sweats and a man’s dark blue windbreaker, sizes much too large, her hands deep into the pockets for warmth. It was her dead brother Paul’s jacket. The faint scent of him was still there, compelling her to slip her hands out of the pockets and embrace herself as though it were he. Time and again she would pause to forlornly gaze out at the vast Pacific Ocean, then northward to the dark ragged cliffs that wound two miles to Point Lobos, close to where the accident occurred.

Though quite lovely, she appeared gaunt and frail. Tears and rage had left her debilitated. The constant exposure to the sea and lashing winds weakened her even more. Her long dark hair, which whipped about her head, had taken on a tinge of mahogany. Her amber eyes shone gold in the cold glare of the morning. They remained tranced by the ocean, by its boundlessness and unceasing surge upon the shore. She could feel the icy froth ebb and flow about her bare feet and ankles, soaking the hem of her pants. Occasionally a piece of reddish kelp would wash upon the black wet shoreline causing her to gasp, as it did now. She covered her face with the palms of her hands and cried.

Her sobs became strangled words as she raised her head to curse out at the sea.

What have you done with my family? How can they be dead when there are no bodies? How can Paul’s scent still be here, when he is not?

It was a question she asked again and again until her voice became as raspy as the seagull’s screech. Each day for weeks she had obsessively searched and waited and pleaded for that immense Pacific to release some fragment of what was once her family. Three months had passed before several corroded pieces of Paul’s red Porsche were found on Gibson Beach, one of the few large beaches on Point Lobos. Though several miles away it was a site closest to home. She might well have searched there but Park Rangers were consistently covering the area. Nowhere along that treacherous rocky shoreline, with its windswept gnarled tress, that rimmed 1300 acres of deep canyons, caves, meadows, paths and Cypress groves that made up Point Lobos Reserve, was there a shred of what purported to be their bodies. Jenny was convinced that what remained of her family would eventually wash ashore here on this private beach, close to home. Her parents Elizabeth and Philip Boucher as well as her brother Paul were devoured by an unfathomable sea that refused to relinquish them to a proper grave. That fierce, beautiful, unrelenting ocean had forever claimed them.

Spent of all strength, she would close herself in her room. Even there the expansiveness of the ocean would pull upon her through the windows. Red suns had slipped into the sea. Opaque mists and turbulent tides and the haunting cry of the gulls passed before her. She had always known this view, had joyfully awakened to it, to the sights and sounds. Now it seized her with the pain of emptiness. Even her room was a nostalgic reminder of her mother. Together they had decorated it in soft blue and white, a subtle balance against the pervading sand and sea. The canopied bed with its sheer white hangings now tended to take on spectral images in the black of night. Always her family was there, hovering over her, a tangle of arms sadly reaching out, taunting her with their wailing, calling her name again and again, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny—

Weary from weeping she would at last slip into tortured dreams. They were there waiting for her, more alive then ever, the three of them holding her, comforting her, at times even making her smile. The awakening was far more frightening, because then they were truly gone. Often she chose to sleep on the white wicker chaise covered by a light blanket. Along with two matching chairs and a small oval table it was arranged to face the huge picture window, which afforded her a resplendent view of the ocean. A view that would ultimately hold her heart, for it was their grave. Here is where she hid the most and cried the most. At twenty-two, Jenny Boucher was both a woman and a little girl lost.

Before that fatal accident her days were filled with a succession of joys, friendships and family. Growing up on the Monterey Peninsula, she had been one with nature. There was the sea and the valley and the forested Santa Lucia Mountains that fringed an undulating California coastline, one hundred and thirty miles between Carmel and San Luis Obispo. For Jenny, the beauty she had always known, was now a blur.

Only she and her grandfather, Ralph Shannon, remained. That proud patriarch of a man, she called Gramps, had suddenly become so incredibly old and defeated. The gregarious storyteller that he once was had grown frightfully quiet, his movements and gaze trance like.

There was Michael. He was Paul’s best friend and hers. They were children right here adjacent to the ocean, close to all its fury and calm. It was once their special world. My God! What had happened to those children, to their dreams, to her unconditional love for Michael, who was there offering her love and solace throughout the tragedy? Paul was gone from him also. Instead of clinging to the comfort of Michael’s arms, she coldly withdrew. Her actions devastated him. Gramps needed her more. At least that is what she convinced herself into believing. In losing Jenny’s mother Ralph had lost his only child whom he adored. He also lost his grandson whose music he proudly supported.

With Paul’s death, the exquisite sound of music forever filtering through the house had also died. Those beautiful haunting compositions strangely now emanated from the roaring of the waves and the winds, pervading her dreams. The heavy beige drapes in his studio had been drawn, blocking out the view. The grand piano was closed and his precious cassettes locked away. What remained was an eerie silence. The home they had cherished had become an empty soundless house.

Aside from Ralph Shannon and Jenny, there was Nora and her husband Gabe, who had been there even before she and Paul were born. Her mother Elizabeth had been a girl when the couple became a part of the household and ultimately an important part of their lives. They watched Elizabeth grow up and marry Philip. They were there to cradle both Paul and Jenny, to watch them become toddlers, then adolescents and finally young adults. Nora and Gabe, who were regarded as family, were equally devastated by the accident. Still their love and support persevered. They continued to take care of Jenny, her grandfather and the huge house that sadly harbored their reclusive lives.

The house was a sprawling two-story structure set high on a bluff in the Carmel Highlands, the endless crack of waves against the rocks below. The sound of the sea was both lulling and turbulent. To the south following the narrow careening coast highway were the primeval wilds of Big Sur. Sur was the Spanish word for south. Two steep twisting miles north from The Highlands was the Point Lobos Reserve, adjacent to where the accident happened. Approximately four miles north from Lobos was the seaside village of Carmel.

`Ralph Shannon had always lived on the Monterey coast. It was where he was born and raised. It was where he brought his wife Nina after they married. Following the small candle lit wedding at the Mission of San Carlos de Borromea, and a reception at the house, they spent several days and nights at the Highlands Inn, a place close to home yet secluded and romantic enough to be frequented by newly weds. It was the beginning of the Second World War. There was no time for a honeymoon. Ralph was deployed to Hawaii before being shipped to the action in the Pacific. He returned home safe and whole. It was a joyous and passionate reunion. After an initial tragedy the Shannons almost gave up on ever conceiving a child, when Elizabeth miraculously came into their lives, a delicately beautiful baby. Their precious little girl grew up too soon. Here in the family home is where she and her attractive husband Philip Boucher came to live following their marriage. It ultimate became their permanent home. Paul was the first to be born. Jenny arrived four years later.

For a short while there was a sweet grandmother whom they all adored, but whom Jenny could barely recall. One day, grandma Nina was gone, her ashes thrown into the sea at sunset, just as she requested. Ralph Shannon’s grief over the loss of his wife never abated. It merely took on a different guise. He saw her time and again in his dreams. She appeared younger and even more beautiful than the day she died. He too was ageless in his dreams. Together they would sojourn through happier times. He would awaken to the feel of her still in his arms. Often as he sat alone in the rose garden or by the pond, he could be heard half singing an old song, the same two lines over and over.

I’ll see you in my dreams—hold you in my dreams.

That is the only part of the lyrics he could recall. Jenny vaguely remembered hearing that far away off key tune as a small child and now again after the accident. As her mother before her she had asked her grandfather about the song. He gave her a bittersweet explanation.

It was always the last song of the night. The lights would dim and couples would cozy up to one another on the dance floor and tenderly kiss. It was our song. It still is.

Only now, after having known the trauma of sudden death and mourning, was Jenny able to understand her grandfather’s initial loss. He had continued to fondly refer to his dead wife as ‘my girl’. A part of her remained, subliminally affecting all their lives, in certain furnishings and paintings, in her eclectic selection of books, in fragments of that haunting song, but mostly in the rose garden. The roses were grandma Nina’s joy; a tradition carried on by Jenny’s mother. The garden continued to flourish, seeming to blossom more bountifully with each new season. There was always a mixed bouquet somewhere in the house and invariably a single bud on the breakfast tray.

Often of late, after dragging herself up from the beach Jenny would catch a glimpse of Gramps forlornly sitting in the garden, slouched in his wheelchair. She had fleeting memories of herself as a tiny girl being carried high upon his shoulders as they romped through this place, the two of them laughing. The recollection was brief. There had been an automobile accident that paralyzed his legs leaving him an invalid. Invalid was a word he refused to accept. Through it all he managed to retain a certain aura, a power that commanded respect. Now at seventy-nine, he had withered into a feeble old man, not from age but from adversity. The garden remained his refuge. Here is where he came to read or to just sit in silence, his lips at times moving in remembrance of those long ago lyrics, ‘I’ll see you in my dreams—hold you in my dreams.’ Jenny dared not disturb him for he seemed caught up in his own quiet communion tenderly touching upon those he had dearly loved and lost. He too seemed to be fading from her life, his once brilliant mind bordering on dementia.

Nina appeared to him more frequently. She was both pestering and consoling, insisting that he be strong for Jenny. When she first passed on, she was always in his dreams, each time a bit younger. One night she stood at the foot of his bed with two tiny babies, one in each arm, gurgling and kicking. They were their stillborn twin boys, sadly buried in one small white coffin, covered with tea roses and tiny blue forget-me-nots from the garden. Before their entombment they were christened Todd and Anthony, after Ralph and Nina’s fathers. They kissed their tiny babies goodbye, those sweet little boys who were the last of the Shannon line. It was the saddest thing in the world to see a dead baby, but two? Nina had called them ‘our little angels’. They were buried in El Carmelo Cemetery, fondly called Little Chapel By The Sea. It was fronted by the magnitude of the Pacific Ocean with tall heaven reaching Cypress. Two beautiful marble cherubs looked down upon the tiny grave. Once Nina was gone Ralph could not bear to go alone and bring the bouquet of roses that was her weekly ritual. Instead she came to him in his dreams, always with their twin sons.

The boys are with me, Ralph. They were waiting on the other side, just as I am waiting for you. They are your guardian angels. They will help you get through it all, be there in your deepest need. It is not your time to go, my love—not yet.

She faded away leaving him to a traumatically tearful awakening. Each time he saw her, the babies were a bit older, quickly becoming toddlers, then boys, then incredibly handsome young men, standing tall on each side of her. Nina and the boys were there in his dreams immediately after the accident that claimed their daughter and grandson. They stood over him in the hospital as he lay in a semiconscious state following the stroke that hit him shortly after the memorial for his daughter and grandson. Philip was eulogized, but Ralph did not want to hear a word of it. He had fainted in his wheelchair as they left the chapel. An ambulance was summoned, its siren shattering in his ears. Still he could not stir. He heard voices around him, mainly Jenny’s sobs and then Nina.

Don’t you dare die, old man, Nina admonished. You have to be strong for Jenny. It is also Elizabeth’s wish. She too is here.

Hours after being placed in a hospital bed Ralph Shannon’s eyes fluttered open to find Jenny’s face. She had been by his side begging him to live. Somehow her words got through to his subconscious, yet her voice sounded like her grandmother’s. From that moment on they clung to each other more desperately then ever.

So it was, through countless days and weeks. The oldest and the youngest family members were left to mourn, alone or in each other’s arms. Was it possible that the pain would ever subside? If so, how and when?

CHAPTER 2

Jenny awakened to thoughts of Michael. He phoned her again last night just as she was struggling to sleep. As usual their conversation left her confused and exhausted and filled with guilt. That all-familiar voice that she had heard change from that of a boy to the deep resonance of a man sounded so incredibly sad.

I love you, Jenny. It is the one thing in your life that has not died. For God’s sake, let me help you. Paul and your parents would have wanted me here for you now more than ever.

Gramps doesn’t want to see you, Michael, she snapped. And he hasn’t died yet.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that he’s old and confused. I’d be there for him also, if he let me. My God! We’re family. Don’t cut me out of your life.

All his pleading, all his tender loving words were wasted. This he realized. They might well have been married by now, back from a European honeymoon and comfortably settled in their own home and professions. That is what they had always wanted, to be together, and to eventually have the most beautiful babies in the world.

That summer when she turned seventeen, unable to hold back a moment longer, they made love for the first time. Their feelings had progressively grown through the years until that tiny pest became his passion. Untold times he had turned back while racing Paul over the sand dunes, to help her climb a crest, or patiently untangle a scrap of kelp from her ankle as she tumbled into the surf giggling

Michael, who was three years older, had always been protective of Paul’s little sister. One day that seventeenth summer, her sexuality caught up with his and they wildly and tenderly surrendered to their passions at dusk on the dunes.

Michael would have married her that moment if possible. They were both too young and bent on going to college. For Michael, there was law school. This he had promised his widowed mother and himself. Once Jenny and he became lovers the agony of waiting seemed less interminable. Through dense fog and pelting rains they would brave that twisting road to Big Sur to a small, secluded Inn where they could be alone to make love freely and without inhibition.

Michael was everything, her lover and most intimate friend. Yet it was the sexuality of their relationship that now taunted her the most, because it was still so ripe in his mind. Last night on the phone he had reminded her of every sweet sensual detail. Desperately he had again made love to her with his tender words and sighs.

She lay awake hours after his soft I love you Jen. She felt guilt stricken for being unable to reciprocate. She had truly loved him, had desired him beyond belief and anxiously anticipated the day they would marry. Suddenly she could not bear to have him touch her, or even talk to him. She became irritated by his persistent calls. Knowing that she was hurting him made her withdraw all the more.

Jenny restlessly tossed her head on the pillow and wondered what day it was. Did it matter? It seemed ages since she had been to the village. There were too many reminders, too many familiar faces. Besides, Carmel was packed with tourists this time of the year.

She was angry with herself for not being constructive and following through with her ambitions. She had completed the forty-hour training program to be a Guardian ad Litum, or Child Advocate. It was a surprisingly short amount of time considering the responsibility involved, but she had been assigned a mentor to guide her through the first six months. Although a law degree was not required, she would be appointed by a judge to represent an abused or homeless child. It would entail researching every aspect of the child’s living conditions and ultimately see that the youngster was placed in a loving and stable home, one that promised to be permanent. Aside from an occasionally family rift, Jenny was loved and indulged by every member of the household. It was a TV documentary that captured her heart and convinced her what she wanted to do with her life. Besides, it was an ideal situation that coincided with Michael’s ambitions as a lawyer.

Prior to becoming a Guardian she had volunteered as a Big Sister. She was immediately matched with Megan, a beautiful sad eyed girl of eight, who came alive in Jenny’s care. It was a perfect match. That sweet compassionate child now wanted to help her. Megan had reached out to Jenny at her darkest moment, but to no avail. How could she possibly be of help to Megan or any other child when she could not begin to help herself? Perhaps sometime in the future, when her emotions were less prone to pain.

Right now the faces of those she mourned were still living images in her mind. She missed the sound of her mother’s laughter, her beautiful mother who seemed so much younger than her years, at times a girl herself. How was it possible for someone so alive to be dead? Her charming handsome father had brimmed with ambition and dreams. How could he be gone, when his laughter still echoed in her dreams? Paul, her beautiful sensitive Paul, had so much music left to be played, all those lost chords. He was too young, too talented to die. It was not fair that all three of them were taken from her in one fatal sweep. All except her grandfather. He had thought himself the next in line to die. But that is not the way it works. Now, it was just the two of them.

Suddenly she remembered. Today the artist, Gilbert Engress was arriving, bag and baggage. They could have just send him a photograph and let it suffice. It angered her to think of having some stranger living in their house, sitting at their table, his very presence forcing them to be congenial. She detested the idea of having him stare at her hours on end as she posed. No matter how much she protested she would pose for the portrait because that is what Gramps wanted, and above all she wanted to make him happy.

A light rap at the door disrupted the fever of her thoughts. It was Nora with a tray.

Jenny used to enjoy a nourishing breakfast in the kitchen after a brisk early morning jog with Michael. Always they commenced the day together before going to their prospective jobs. Paul did not join them. He was a night person, usually the last to leave a local jazz club or working until dawn in his studio. Of late most of his absences were spent with Summer, his special lady. Now Nora would bring a tray to Jenny’s room with merely coffee, for that is all she wanted. Anything more was left uneaten. Jenny would sit up in bed like an old woman, a cup teetering in her hands, taking prolonged sips. She was idling the time until she had to have lunch or dinner with Gramps. The two of them would barely touch their food, unable to speak, but they were there for one another. Often time they would reach across the table and touch hands, a silent comforting gesture that needed no words.

Today would be different. Today that damned artist was coming. She was not about to get all dressed up for his arrival. Denims and a tee shirt would be fine. Maybe something a bit nicer for dinner, out of respect for Gramps. She was not up to facing this Gilbert Engress, or anyone else for that matter.

CHAPTER 3

Jenny leaned against the stone wall that flanked the back of the garden and afforded an infinite view of the ocean. The green blue water appeared shades darker than the pale cloudless sky. To the far