CHAPTER1
Around four that morning, Noah Hearst decided he’d tossed and turned long enough. He ate a final breakfast at the rental apartment’s kitchen sink, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. Took his last bag down to the Ford double cab. Stood there in the quiet and the dark for a long moment. Wondering if he would ever make it back to Los Angeles. And if so, why.
Then he headed north.
Clearing out his former office had gone more smoothly than he’d expected. Eight and a half years of sweat and tears and very hard days had been reduced to one truckload of boxes and records and plans and models. He should probably have thrown it all away, but just then found it hard enough to watch the movers shift his life into two self-storage units and then lock the metal doors.
Clearing out what was now his ex-wife’s home had been far easier. Three and a half years of temporary separations and endless counseling sessions meant he had already shifted most things into a series of rentals. That final day, his wife safely removed from the scene, Noah had only half-a-pickup’s worth of items still to pack. When he was done, Noah gave his former home the sort of look that could only come from an emotional distance. The pale marble floors, the carefully chosen furniture, the drapes over the rear windows that had cost him almost twenty thousand dollars. It had always been Elaine’s place, somewhere Noah visited between gigs.
That previous afternoon, Noah had found himself taking a slow tour of the artwork, pausing long enough to recall the nasty arguments they’d had over some of the items. The prices, sure, they had been good for some yells. But really it had mostly come down to the art itself. Noah had thought them aimless and angry. Now, he suspected Elaine’s intention was to cover their walls with colorful indictments that he would never give her what she needed from their relationship.
Nine years in Los Angeles and Noah had never been farther north than Santa Barbara. When he needed a break and had the time, he had done what Elaine wanted. The islands were top of her wish list, Kauai in particular. Noah had disliked feeling so cut off from his work and all the problems he worried over leaving behind. Elaine, in turn, had despised how he couldn’t just release and let go. Such arguments always came down to him reminding his wife that these worries were how he paid for the five-star hotel, and her response had been to . . .
With a start, Noah realized he had driven all the way to Long Beach, accompanied by the circular tirade that had dominated his homelife for far too long. Which was good for a bitter smile. Driving north, the remnants of his previous existence packed in boxes that filled his pickup. Arguing with a woman who was doing her best to put him firmly in the past. Which was what he should be doing as well.
The sun rose as he passed Santa Barbara’s northernmost exit and entered new terrain. Amos, his sort-of half brother, had been pressing him to make this trip for six years. Ever since they had finally broken the commands of two sets of parents and connected. But by the time they were communicating, Noah’s world did not permit such excursions. Thankfully, Amos liked coming down to Los Angeles, despite the fact that he and Noah’s ex were definitely oil and water. Amos was the sheriff whose territory contained the farmlands and small communities between Miramar and San Luis Obispo. He was tall, rangy, soft-spoken, and half Black.
When Noah was two, his mother had fallen in love with an African American dentist and left her former life behind. A fact Noah’s father did not divulge until his only son was in his teens. And even then, his father failed to mention the reason for the swift departure was that she was already pregnant with Amos.
Noah had been raised in Phoenix by a good dad and a great mom. He never revealed to them that he and Amos had met and discovered that despite the fact they had virtually nothing in common, they had bonded. From that very first moment.
After the two failed attempts to make peace between Elaine and Amos, the brothers started meeting in Santa Barbara, where Amos had friends with a boat. A number of the boats moored in Santa Barbara’s harbor were owned by collectives. One of these groups had members who owed Amos for situations he refused to divulge. Amos never discussed his work. He loved hearing Noah talk about Hollywood and the stress of meeting one deadline after another. The stars who scarcely knew Noah existed. The tyrants called directors. Penny-pinching producers. Network chiefs. All the people Noah was now leaving behind. Amos relished the hours spent listening to Noah. He said it was like being introduced to a tribe of Martians. But in their six years of meeting up, Amos had never once spoken about his own work.
The boat was no great shakes, a thirty-six-foot Hatteras that had seen better days. It was poorly maintained by owners who preferred to leave a good cleaning to the next person. Amos had found it mildly hilarious how Noah had to be ordered not to clean up after men he had never met.
What neither man had expected, certainly not Noah, was how much he loved being on the sea.
He had never owned a boat. Never been on a cruise. The brothers went out only when the sea was utterly flat. The roll of even medium-size swells had Amos leaning over the side. Noah was bitterly disappointed when weather or waves kept them in port. He loved the open vista. For weeks after each outing, he dreamed of sparkling waters, of dolphins who accompanied them out into the endless blue.
On the nearly perfect days, they cruised the Channel Islands, choosing a lonely cove, anchoring for a meal, swimming in the frigid waters, motoring home sunburnt and salty.
Just loving it.
In the hard, lonely months, Noah found great solace in recalling those moments. Sitting in court, dealing with lawyers, watching his corporate dreams turn to dust as well, his only real comfort came from knowing another boat ride was beckoning.
The dream of having his own boat, going wherever he wished, often seemed more real than the disaster his life had become. Such yearnings became a healing balm, a silent plea for better days once the nightmares were over and done.
As he passed the Santa Barbara exits, Noah resisted the urge to drive down to the harbor and have a second breakfast at his favorite diner, watching the boats sparkle and beckon in the sunrise. But Amos was waiting for him, so he followed his almost-brother’s directions north, past Lompoc and San Luis Obispo, taking the smaller state road through the farmlands and the valleys, into the gathering light of a brand-new day.
Amos and his wife lived in a country-style collective of homes eleven miles south of the Miramar town limits. The development had been started by the children of a rancher. Together with a local contractor, they built homes for people like themselves. Families who loved the country but had no interest in working the land. The lots were generous, the homes low-slung, the owners mostly blue collar and quietly proud of their way of life.
Amos greeted Noah as he always did, solemnly shaking hands, asking about his trip. The house was empty, his two daughters in school, his wife at work. Amos wore his sheriff’s uniform, minus the hat and heavy belt and gear. On his feet were scruffy house slippers. “Frittatas and biscuits work for you?”
“Sounds great.” Two places were set at the battered kitchen table. “Sorry I haven’t made it up here until now.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Those were the last words spoken until both finished eating. That was another thing Noah shared with the man. How Amos clearly disliked casual chatter. If they had something important to say, well, out with it. Otherwise the quiet worked just fine.
Amos set their empty plates in the sink, recharged their mugs, and led Noah to the backyard. When they had settled into a pair of rickety lawn chairs, and Noah had given a few grateful moments to the rising wind off the unseen Pacific and the birdsong, Noah said, “You saw this coming.”
“I was afraid it might, sure enough.”
“You never cared for Elaine.”
“I didn’t need to. She wasn’t my wife.” Amos sipped from his mug, set it on the grass. “In my job, you see a few people at their best, and a lot more at their very worst. You learn to read a situation fast, especially if there’s danger involved. Watching for the unseen blade, the gun hiding behind the smile.”
Noah stared at the angular gentleman seated next to him. All the time they had spent together, these were the first words Amos had ever spoken about his life on the road.
