39
The governor’s security detail and Boyd Harrow, his chief of staff, were first off the helicopter. Boyd shook Bailey’s hand, then made some comment that had the mayor pointing in Olivia’s direction.
Boyd signaled to the security, who took up station by the chopper’s stairs as the governor appeared. Victor Lowell was a politician on the rise, young for such a position, and every inch the statesman. His speech at the previous national convention had many talking about him as a future president.
Following the governor was what to Olivia looked like a circus clown act, only better dressed. An unlikely number of people piled out, many carrying sound and video equipment.
“Olivia Greer? Hi. Boyd Harrow. Mayor Long says you’re the lady to advise on our photo op.” He surveyed the setting with a doubtful frown. “She also said that was why you suggested we land here.”
Their vehicles all had headlights pointed at the fractured parking area. The lot and the partly destroyed walkway stood about forty feet above the beach. The rocky promontory had been chewed away, so that in the afternoon’s gathering shadows, the drop looked precipitous.
Olivia pointed down the shore. “The ocean walk is at the heart of our community. See those four bridges?”
“What’s left of them.”
Shadows from the westering sun cast the damage in skeletal definition. “You could have the mayor and the governor walk past one.”
“The road would be a safer bet. If the governor falls on the descent, that’s the photo you’ll see on every Christmas front page.”
“There are steps back where the lot meets the road,” Bailey replied. “And if he walks the road, the pictures will show him viewing the damage from a safe height.”
“Good point.” Boyd wheeled about. “Let’s get this show on the beach.”
Olivia stayed well back as the crowd descended. Porter and his officers illuminated their way with portable spots. Counting Bailey and Elena and the governor’s security, they numbered seventeen—far too many for Olivia to frame in any kind of meaningful shot. Olivia followed about fifty paces behind, half hoping for the photo she thought just might happen.
So many grand things were at work in this small moment. She had been welcomed home with such unexpected warmth. Her reentry had been made almost complete by these professional opportunities. Some of which had resulted in the best work she had ever done. And tomorrow, Christmas Day, she would move into her temporary new home, shared with the man who had once broken her heart. And who now was her dearest friend.
A pair of winged gulls wrote their feathered script into the blue-gold sky overhead. The tangy scent of ocean and salt and seaweed filled her being. Time slowed as she found an ideal spot and knelt where the shadows concealed her presence. Olivia felt so weightless she could almost join the seabirds in their soaring dance.
She had returned to Miramar a different person. There was no other explanation for how this moment, in this place, left her feeling so, well . . .
Complete.
And at that precise moment, the shot Olivia had been hoping for came together.
Governor Lowell was known as both personable and courteous, even by his opponents. His security knew their man and their job. Soon as the requisite photo op was completed, they shepherded the group back toward the waiting vehicles. Leaving the governor temporarily on his own, except for the one local photographer, shadowed by the westering sun, who knelt motionless.
Olivia waited and watched as . . .
Governor Lowell walked toward two couples who had not joined the town’s festivities. They dragged wood salvaged from the sea and stacked it against the stone-lined elevation. He shook hands and listened as they explained how salt-treated timber, once fully dried out, became hard as iron. How these locals loved their fairylike boardwalk and wanted to be part of its reconstruction. Olivia knew all this because she had stood where the governor was now.
She waited.
The governor listened intently as the townspeople shared their determination to help renovate their beloved Miramar.
The town had known massive back-to-back fire seasons. This had been followed by floods and mudslides and weeks of hurricane-force winds. All of which had been preceded by a viral plague.
If ever a California settlement held the ability to play the phoenix, and rise from the central coast’s version of the apocalypse, it was Miramar.
Behind her, the governor’s entourage complained loudly as they scrambled up the rubble-strewn ledge, equipment in hand. The in-front-of-the-camera types moaned over the damage to their shoes, pants, nails, whatever. She remained intent, waiting, focused, until it happened.
The descending sun touched the western hills’ leading rim. A veil of golden fire spread overhead, a brilliant display of California dusk. The governor chose that moment to shake another hand and say something that brought smiles to all the weary faces.
The soon-to-be-rebuilt walkway formed a softly glowing backdrop. Olivia felt the wet chill soak her legs from the knees down and did not care. She breathed the iodine-spiced air. Her heart sang with the gulls. As she shot her photographs, Olivia softly chanted one word. Over and over.
Perfect.
