One was my lucky number. Until I became a widow.
It had been six months. Six months and three days of living alone without my husband. We were supposed to spend our whole lives together, but I had lost him like a pebble to a wave. The slow trickle of singlehood seeped inside my bones, soaking into my skin, bleeding into my organs, making my heart thud heavy and low. Pounding out the words:
Widow.
Widow.
Widow.
Standing on the sweeping bay below my house, I lifted my eyes to the horizon. Another smashing breaker brought the tide in closer. I tasted the ocean spray on my lips, and the mist fizzled with tiny diamonds as it spooled off the rolling surf. A pod of pelicans flew in neat couples and torpedoed into the water, their sword-like beaks vertical as they fished their prey. I envied them. Even they had mates.
With cold sand oozing between my toes, I turned my head and gazed up at my house upon the cliff, cleverly camouflaged and nearly a mile away.
My house. It sat majestic, yet low and discreet, melding organically into the rocky cliffside, its great glass walls reflecting the mother-of-pearl sky. Modern, and sleek, and almost invisible. The first time my husband showed me Cliffside, I was standing in this exact spot.
“You like it?” Juan had asked, pointing up at the cliffs.
“The view is stunning.”
“I’m talking about the house up there,” Juan said, laughing in a way that made you believe you were the only person he cared to be with, the only one. “That’s why I love that house so much, because nobody even knows it’s there till they know. You can’t get houses like that around here anymore. They won’t give planning permission; you can’t even buy the land, however much money you have. It’s in the middle of a national park. A one-off. Unique. It comes with four acres of private woods. See it?”
At first I thought he was pulling my leg. “I see those tall trees but not the house. Am I blind?”
“The roof’s covered in lawn and it’s hidden by cedars and redwoods. See?” He pointed, his slim finger an arrow to the spot. “You can catch a glimpse of the big stone pillar to the left. It’s a once in a lifetime house; there are none like it in the world. Its name is Cliffside.” He sighed and then looked at me, his eyes flickering with steely intent. Or perhaps it was amusement. “I’m going to get you that house, sweetheart,” he said. “I promise.”
As if by magic, the sun emerged from behind a wisp of a cloud, and the house’s great glass walls shone brilliant in its wake. Golden streams of light glazed its honey-colored stone pillars, and a hawk flew overhead and then swooped down onto its grass roof, as if to train my eyes, to make me focus exactly where it desired me to look.
“Is it even for sale?” I asked.
“No, but watch me make an offer they can’t refuse. I’ll get you that house.”
I smiled. “How do you know?”
“Because I do.”
I didn’t pry any further, having learned through enough stony silences that Juan liked to keep little secrets concerning business deals. Perhaps a client of his was selling and he’d get a great bargain. Juan was a master at negotiating.
In that moment I imagined myself at Cliffside’s crown, sitting on one of its decks or patios, my shoulders proud, scanning the coastline, where waves are beaten every day to foamy froth on ragged rocks. Above the house, great oaks and redwoods reared up, standing tall between the Santa Lucia mountain range and the ocean, as if Cliffside were some splendid jewel glinting in the sun, held fast between these two great feats of nature.
“I’d do anything to live there,” I said, giddy at the thought of owning such a place.
Juan looked at me hard for a second but then broke into a smile. “Anything?”
I didn’t respond. But he was right to ask.
As I was about to set off back home, I heard that familiar hornet’s nest hum, high in the sky, hovering maybe a hundred feet above me. There it was again. A drone. This coastline was famous; Big Sur was a magnet for travel bloggers, YouTubers, and Instagrammers, but this was the third time in the same week. The beach was empty, there were no hikers in the woods, at least none that I could see. So who was operating it? And from where? As I craned my neck and followed the drone with my eyes, it disappeared behind the trees, towards Highway One.
The sudden buzz of my cell phone made me jump. I whipped it out from my jacket pocket, and the rush of adrenaline, when I read the anonymous text, jolted me further out of my skin.
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU.
My pulse picked up. A coincidence that this text came seconds after I’d spotted the drone? No, that drone was spying on me. Spying on my house, my garden.
My woods.
I’d call the police. Could they trace an anonymous text? No, I’d get a pistol and shoot the drone down. Drive into Monterey, to the gun store. Buy something small and discreet. And yet I had no idea how to use a firearm. Where I came from, no law-abiding citizens had guns, unless they hunted pheasant or were members of a shooting club. And I needed to be careful. Since my husband’s death, I’d been making foolish decisions. Buying stuff I didn’t need, not being able to follow my instincts, losing and misplacing things, my brain scatty and unfocused. I couldn’t rely on myself to do the right thing. It’s a strange feeling when you can’t trust your intuition anymore. I was a cat without whiskers, a black sky without stars.
I wanted to call Juan and ask his advice. That had happened a lot lately. I couldn’t accept he was dead. Kept thinking he’d stride through the front door any moment. The man who had an answer to everything.
I stuck the phone back in my jacket pocket and tightened my pink silk scarf around my neck. I had read somewhere that pink makes people like you more, so I had taken to wearing a lot of pink since I’d been grieving. Every smile counted, every kind human connection, even from strangers.
As I began my hike back home, determination fueling my resolve to buy a gun and shoot that drone down, I spotted a lovely family with their baby on the beach—the baby in one of those carriers on her dad’s back, giggling with joy. They would have hiked to get down here, as there was no access by car. Busy with their baby, they were definitely not the drone operators. My heart ached to see such happiness.
I could have had a family like that if it had all worked out.
I had considered going to visit my parents and friends back home in England, but I couldn’t face them all feeling sorry for me. That soulful, big-eyed, “Are you all right” look. The look that isn’t even accompanied by words but just says it all. Besides, Big Sur was my home; I found it hard to imagine life back in Britain, even for just a visit. Who wouldn’t want to live here, so at one with nature? It just might be the most stunning, unspoiled coastline in the world. California was home. I may not have lost my accent, but I was integrated here.
And Cliffside was my last link to Juan. I would never leave.
I would never leave my house.
I raced back, peeled off my hiking clothes, took a quick shower and changed into a pink cashmere sweater and some jeans and loafers. Got in my Land Rover and set off to Carmel-by-the-Sea, my local town, a good forty-five-minute drive along the winding Pacific Coast Highway.
People didn’t live along this coast for convenience, that’s for sure. Whole Foods was over an hour away. We residents learned to stock up our freezers and we all had generators, just in case. Living here wasn’t for sissies, however much money you had. And now with my husband gone, I craved company. Neighbors were dotted here and there, but even along this fifty-mile stretch of coast, there weren’t more than five hundred residents in all. Carmel was the nearest hub of activity—great for people-watching. Family-watching. Something I knew would calm my nerves before I braved it into the gun store in Monterey. Yet the idea of owning a weapon terrified me. Shouldn’t I learn to shoot first? Under supervision? Or just get the damn thing? What if having a gun was more dangerous than not having one? If I didn’t know what I was doing, someone could snatch it clean from my hands and use it against me. The drone operator, for instance. The thought of having a loaded weapon in my home made my stomach fold over. But if not loaded at all times, at all hours, what was the point of having one at all?
I never tired of this iconic coastal drive. On some days, if you stopped the car on one of the little layovers, you could spot so many sea lions or harbor seals on the beach below that you might mistake them for rocks. There were sea otters, sometimes, too, now a protected species, floating on their backs among dense beds of kelp.
The highway was still slick from yesterday’s rain, with deep red earth squelching down the banks that flanked the road.
It had rained cats and dogs this autumn. It wasn’t normal.
The canyons rose above me on my right, and to the left, the raw coastal wilderness of pines and redwoods, with the ocean beyond. Buzzing open the window, I let in the aroma of wild sage and tangy salt.
As I approached Carmel, my appreciation swelled. What a perfect American town. Clint Eastwood came to mind. Doris Day. Quaint boutiques tailored from pretty pastel Hansel and Gretel cottages. A picture postcard, this town seemed to me, with its endless art galleries set amongst perfect little streets fringed by wispy cypress trees. A veritable movie set.
Once I found parking, I installed myself in a discreet spot on the outside terrace of a corner café, ordered a club sandwich and Perrier, but then changed my mind and asked for a white wine. I checked the messages on my phone, hoping that somehow it was all in my head, that the next time I looked I’d realize it was my imagination, a trick of the eye. But no, it was still there, looming at me:
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU.
My stomach dipped.
The waiter reappeared. “Ma’am, would you like another wine? Your club sandwich will be right with you.”
“Yes, please,” I replied distractedly.
The waiter went away, and my attention was now caught by a couple in their late twenties. “Why didn’t you pick up, then?” the man was asking, fire in his eyes. The woman shrugged. I knew they’d be having sex later. A jealous man is a good thing. Not too jealous, though, but a touch possessive. It keeps the flame alight. My heart skittered with vicarious longing, wondering why I hadn’t just stayed home with my melancholy view, wondering why I was punishing myself by watching other people’s happy moments. Family moments.
Six months and three days without Juan.
The sun glided out from behind a cloud, and I was lit up out of the shadows, more so than I wished.
“Guess who?” a breathy voice said as a pair of sticky hot hands blindfolded my eyes, jolting me from my reverie. They smelled of stale cigarettes smoked on the sly.
Pippa. The last person I wanted to see.
“Hi, Pippa,” I said, without even turning around.
She sat down opposite me, plunking her Prada handbag on the empty chair beside her. “Finally found a parking space,” she said huskily. “Not easy with my bloody big new car, I can tell you.”
I had to give it to her—despite a long-jawed face, Pippa was not unattractive. Glossy, almost black, shoulder-length hair, and chompy white teeth that always showed when she smiled. She smiled a lot. There was something homey about her. People tended to divulge their secrets to Pippa, without her even asking. She was Juan’s best friend, from way back. I’d forgotten how they’d met.
“What a coincidence,” I said, “to see you here.”
“You’ve finally come out of your gilded cage.” A wide grin crept across Pippa’s face. “The bird hasn’t got clipped wings after all. So now you’re out and about, darling, why don’t we have dinner sometime? Catch up.”
“Maybe.” I smiled at her, but my mind was still with the drone. I said, to make conversation, “So you bought a new car?”
“Yes, but I still keep the old Toyota in case of emergencies. You were rash, darling, to let go of Juan’s lovely white Range Rover after he died. One needs a second car round here. And going around in that cranky old Land Rover of yours on these treacherous wet roads is a tad risqué, don’t you think?”
“It’s very reliable, actually. And I feel safer with gears than with an automatic on those hairpin bends.”
Pippa’s eyes glazed over for a moment, and before I could read into her odd expression (was she still in love with him?), she looked down and put her hand on mine and squeezed it.
“You’re right,” I said. “I should get a second car.”
Being British like me, Pippa thought we were in some sort of cozy club. Just because she was Juan’s friend didn’t make her mine, but since his death she had made a huge effort to “look after” me. The fact I didn’t reciprocate hadn’t dampened her ardor. “We understand each other,” she’d say, “we’re from the same world.” And I’d think, No, Pippa, we are not from the same world. You have no idea who I am. No idea at all.
Pippa worked as a freelance journalist—hard to keep at bay and dangerous to know. The last thing I needed was Pippa squeezing information out of me. She was clever; asked too many questions. I hadn’t bargained on bumping into her today.
Rifling through her Prada bag and taking out some ChapStick, which she applied to her generous lips, she said, “How are you, darling?” Her eyes raked down my body with scrutiny. Pippa was always comparing other women’s bodies to her own. She was probably envious that I’d lost a few pounds, or thought I was too scrawny and needed fattening up.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “Doing great.”
She gave me the “Poor you” look.
“Honestly, I’m doing really well,” I said. “Can’t mope around, got to get on with life, you know.”
“It’s been tough, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It has.”
“You must be so lonely up there in that massive see-through house. Especially at night. Have you thought of selling?”
“No,” I said flatly.
“What about getting a dog?”
I was almost tempted to tell Pippa about the drone and the text, but I laid my tongue gently between my front teeth and squeezed till it hurt, to stop myself blabbing information I’d regret later. “I can’t, Pippa. I’ve told you before. Allergies, remember? I can’t do dogs or cats, as much as I’d love to.”
“What about a poodle, darling, or a Labradoodle or whatever they’re called?”
“It’s not about the fur type, it’s the dander,” I explained, my voice stonier than I wished.
“Don’t you get scared living up on that cliff, all alone?”
“That’s what my mother always asks me. But no, not really, although lately…” I halted the rest of my sentence.
“What? What were you going to say?”
“Just—well, I actually had in mind to buy a handgun today but then thought better of it. I’d need to learn how to shoot first, and the whole idea scares the crap out of me.”
She laughed. “I know what you mean, darling. I did a couple of classes once, years ago. Thought it was fun, you know, the thrill of having the ‘right to bear arms’ and stuff. Even bought myself a little pocket Smith & Wesson. Then I regretted it. Kept meaning to take the gun back to the shop and get my money back, but I lost the receipt. So it just drives around with me in the car, sitting in the glove compartment. Actually, it’s still in the old Toyota—I’m too scared to even touch it. English girls and guns don’t really mix, do they, darling?”
“Not so much.”
“Never did bring that pistol into the house, felt it might jinx things, you know, attract a burglar or something.” Pippa made a pyramid with the tips of her fingers. Then she fastened her eyes on mine, her smile replaced all of a sudden by the sad, “Poor you” look again. “You can’t get him off your mind, can you?”
My cheeks flushed, and I heard my own breathing, hot in my ears. “I’d rather not talk about Juan, if you don’t mind.”
“Course. Sorry.”
It always annoyed me that Pippa felt she had carte blanche when it came to discussing Juan, simply because they had been old friends. Somewhere between the lines I read a different message: had they dated? He always denied it, but even if they were romantically involved, it didn’t matter. Pippa thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread and never held back letting me know her feelings. I bet she wondered what gorgeous Juan ever saw in plain little me.
We sat in silence. Just the bustle of people walking by, the clicking of expensive heels, the bark of a happy dog with its owners, another couple sickeningly in love. The woman had a newborn in her arms. The baby was wearing pink, the same blush-pink as my sweater. I followed them wistfully with my gaze and pushed back the lump in my throat.
“I bet you really pine for him,” Pippa went on.
I stared at her. Why was she tormenting me? Why was she so fixated on the husband I’d lost?
I observed her with her long slim face. Smiling away. She was one of those people who always seemed jolly, although with her recent divorce I couldn’t imagine she felt a hundred percent. The truth was, I knew very little about her. She lived in Carmel Highlands in a rather fancy house, which, she told me, would have to be sold and the money split two ways. Like me she was childless, but I had always got the impression that in her case, it was by choice. Her husband was in real estate, so must have made a lot, and I wondered why she wasn’t getting the house as part of her alimony. But she had hinted at moving abroad and starting again. I hadn’t pried, because I didn’t want to get too close. Just because we were from the same country shouldn’t be a prerequisite for being friends, so I always kept her at a distance. Strangely, as buddy-buddy as she and Juan had been in their twenties, she didn’t seem to miss him much now.
“So you’ve been busy with plans for your hotel idea, have you?” she said, after I’d pointedly ignored her comment. “How’s it all coming along?”
It wasn’t a hotel, but a retreat. After Juan died, I came up with the idea. Something to stave off the loneliness. To keep me occupied. Even though he had traveled a lot, negotiating mergers and big real estate deals all over the world—his work as one of the country’s top attorneys had been all-consuming—I didn’t experience a feeling of solitude when he was away. We’d do video calls and he was just a text or email from my fingertips. After I lost him, I thought by hosting a retreat at Cliffside it would busy me, since I’d given up my job at Juan’s firm when we’d moved here to California from New York. Perhaps it would make me feel better about not having children, too—the company, that feeling of human connection.
Cliffside wouldn’t host just any old retreat. I’d invite interesting people to study yoga, eat healthy food, and take painting or poetry classes, all under one roof, with the backdrop of the ocean serving as inspiration. I had thought of adding an extension to the house in the same style. All the rooms would stay unique. None of that generic stuff you find in faceless, expensive hotels. Mine would be all bespoke furniture and sumptuous bed linen from France. Most of the stuff already in the house had been included in the sale, but I wanted to put my stamp on the place. I’d buy some of those double-thick bath towels that cost an arm and a leg.
I thought of that expression often, “Costs an arm and a leg.” Juan had told me that in Spanish they say, “Costs a kidney,” not an arm and a leg. Nice expression, either way, for describing something expensive.
If only he’d known.
“It’s not going to be a hotel, exactly,” I explained to Pippa. “More like a retreat. I’ve applied for the permits—there’s all the renovation work to think about, adding bathrooms and stuff. But I’m, you know, reluctant to change things. A part of me wants to keep everything exactly as it is.”
I didn’t want to go into detail. Especially as I now questioned the whole thing anyway. Even if the guests were scintillating and I could cherry-pick the clients, I was wary of sharing my house with people who might not appreciate its uniqueness. Cliffside was too close to my heart.
“You should sell, darling,” Pippa said. “I mean, that house must be worth a fortune. You’d never have to do a day’s work in your life again. You could retire young. Not to mention that massive life insurance payout you got and the inheritance from Juan.”
I flinched at the mention of the life insurance money. “I’m only thirty-seven! I like working, I like being busy. I’ve got a part-time job, actually, just three days a week, helping an elderly gentleman called Mr. Donner sort out his estate. He told me he doesn’t want his assets gobbled up by Uncle Sam so needs a lawyer to put everything in order, in case he ‘gets run over by a bus,’ he says.”
Pippa cocked her head. “Good for you getting a new job. Lucky that Juan had sorted his will out before he died, don’t you think?”
Silence. I regretted bringing the subject of wills up.
But Pippa steered the conversation back to Juan again. “It’s just that you could start afresh, darling, and do something completely new. Not have him haunting you.”
Him? How dare she! I didn’t even know why I was letting her sit at my table. “What are you saying, Pippa?”
“You could start dating again, darling. Start anew. Sam the contractor, for instance. He’s very cute, don’t you think?”
Her words were so shocking I was left speechless. I blinked away an unbidden tear then wiped the wet from my cheek with the mound of my hand. It was Pippa who had introduced me to this contractor. He had come to Cliffside on several occasions to discuss the extension. On too many occasions, for my liking. He had flirted and made me extremely uncomfortable. And then he wouldn’t stop calling. Pushing me for an answer, to sign his contract, to “get to know each other over a good Bordeaux.” I hated being a widow and living alone. Nobody had dared behave that way with me when Juan was around.
“Darling, you need to move on,” Pippa whispered, her hand slipping over mine again as I clutched my empty wine glass.
The young waiter arrived with my food, smiled and said something about enjoying my meal. Probably an out-of-work actor who had strayed north from Los Angeles during the summer and somehow got stuck here, disillusion snapping at his young heels.
Pippa picked at one of my French fries, so I pushed the whole plate over in her direction. I felt nauseous at the thought of getting into a heavy conversation with her. She would press my buttons. I didn’t trust her.
“You eat this, Pippa. I’m not hungry anymore.” I pulled out a crisp one hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and stuck it under my wine glass. “I’m going home. Sorry, I just don’t feel like baring my soul right now. Please give the waiter all the change for his tip.” I got up, and before Pippa had a chance to protest, I had walked away.
It was that little baby all in baby-pink—in Carmel—that perfect couple’s baby, with its big, watery blue eyes—that really got me falling into a spiral of despair over the next couple of weeks that followed. I’d agonized about that a lot lately. What color eyes our baby would have had. I pictured Juan’s cerulean eyes edged with thick black lashes, which would sometimes make actual shadows on his cheeks. The sort of lashes only children have, although Juan’s face was decidedly masculine, with his strong jawline and straight, almost aquiline nose. But then again, perhaps our baby might have had nondescript eyes like mine.
With one more year of trying we could have done it, surely? That was all I had asked. But, no, that chance was snatched away from me. It wasn’t that I begrudged them—these lovely, perfect young couples with perfect babies dressed in blue or pink—but it was like having all your failures blown up on a giant neon billboard, lit up, on the corner of a building in Times Square, or Piccadilly Circus. In the olden days, I would have been labeled infertile or even “barren.” Nobody said those words anymore, but I bet they felt them. Thought them secretly. Even if it was, in fact, Juan’s fault we didn’t have children.
I needed to wipe all these what ifs out of my head. The baby that never happened. Juan. My secret. The sadness. The shell of what I’d become.
Most of all, my secret.
I kicked off my shoes and padded upstairs to the bedroom: my sanctuary, where the beautiful ocean view could distract my thoughts. Set back only twelve or so feet from the bluff, the house’s position made me feel like I was suspended in mid-air.
I sat cross-legged on my fluffy white rug—a gift Juan had brought me back from Mexico one time—and flipped open my laptop, bringing back to life old pages I’d bookmarked before his accident. Adoption agencies.
I stared at a little boy with melty blue eyes and dark hair—a dead ringer for a mini Juan, and I sighed in defeat. There was no way I’d ever go through with this,. . .
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