A Garrett McNamara from Nazaré.
A Kevin Naughton ridden in Ireland, prominently positioned because Kevin’s been a Laguna friend and mentor since Jen was a girl.
Jen has replaced the burnt-up tiki torches with black wrought-iron wall sconces that give the restaurant a candle-lit, slightly old-world touch.
The local news snippet that Laguna Beach detective Pittman tipped them about earlier today hits CNN first:
In which a reporter from the Orange County Superior Courthouse announces that “colorful” LA seafood distributor Jimmy “King” Wu has been sentenced to serve six years in prison and pay $2 million in restitution for last year’s arson fire that gutted the popular Barrel Restaurant in Laguna Beach. She says Wu had attempted to buy the restaurant but was rebuffed by its longtime owner. Wu then ordered the arson as retribution, attempting to blame business competitors for the blaze. The reporter then quotes the Barrel owner, Jen Stonebreaker, saying she’s satisfied with the sentence and will reopen her restaurant next week, on the Fourth of July.
“You look great on TV, Mom.”
I looked great a long time ago, she thinks, aware again, as always, of how strenuously she clings to her past, her gone best years, when John was alive and the world belonged to them.
“Thank you, Casey,” she says. “I’m feeling better now. After the Monsters. And the fear. And the confession I wrote.”
“It’s good to tell the truth and move on,” says Casey. “You’re only forty-seven.”
They watch similar clips on NBC and Fox, Casey turning often to the lobby windows through which he can see people drifting by, some stopping to press their hands and faces to the glass, checking out the restaurant about to rise from its ashes.
“How goes your movie?” Jen asks.
“They’re editing now. The winter footage was fantastic. Oh, man—Nazaré and Cortes Bank were supernatural. All the scientists are saying climate change is making bigger waves. Some of those things at Nazaré were scary.”
“HBO Max, right?”
“But we’re the producers and we’ve got creative control. Some. There’s going to be lots of you and Dad in it. They want to call it Desperation Reef.”
Jen nods and Casey waits. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla is still in the room whenever Casey’s various business ventures come up.
“Bette’s done good on your contracts and projects,” says Jen.
“Thanks, Mom. She works hard at it.”
“How about her towing skills?”
“She’s good. Not as good as you. We practice a lot.”
“But you haven’t tried her out in big waves yet.”
“It’s the usual slow summer for big waves. But there’s a nice south swell coming in tomorrow at the River Jetty. Five to seven feet, says Surfline.”
Another awkward beat. “I wish you liked her better, Mom.”
“I know you’re together a lot.”
“I want to invite her to something like this. You know, maybe next time.”
“I know. I also know that both of you better watch your butts when Jimmy gets out of prison. Hell, watch your butts now, for that matter.”
“His pirates pretty much jumped ship.”
“But it’s Bette who nailed him. Just saying.”
Through the front door glass Casey sees Grandpa Don and Grandma Eve coming up the steps to the entrance, first to arrive. They wear their summer clothes—shorts and sandals and bright Aloha shirts. Behind them are Mike and Marilyn Stonebreaker—Mike in his white preacher’s suit and Marilyn in a long, peach-colored dress, her hair up, wayfarers on.
A moment later, Brock and Mahina, and Juana and Dane from the Breath of Life Church.
Mae has moved to the lobby, where she stands wagging her tail, as if she’s wanting to seat them.
Casey hops off the barstool and heads for the door.
46
The Santa Ana River Jetty up in Newport is a glassy eight feet the next morning, an unseasonal south swell of warm water and beautifully shaped waves.
Casey watches the perfect A-frames marching in, growing to full height, their bodies windlessly smooth, the white spray of the peaks finally breaking, dividing the waves into left and right shoulders that rise invitingly.
It’s first light as Bette idles her jet ski—a three-hundred-horsepower Kawasaki two-stroke she’s named Wanda, after her sister in New York. The 850-pound beast was endorsed by Jen, who ordered her to service it and check every line, valve, and injector, and all connections, before towing her son into big surf.
Casey sits snugly behind her in his half-john wetsuit, arms around Bette’s middle, his surfboard and tow line behind them on the rescue sled.
“Set me up on that last left,” he says, over the idling gurgle of the jet ski. He smells her hair and feels her warm ear on his cold nose, hugs her big strong body.
“You got it,” she says, half turned so he can hear.
Bobbing a safe distance in front of, and away from, the incoming waves, Casey watches that third left taking shape outside. It’s the clean-up wave of the set, the last, and the biggest local wave he’s seen this spring or summer. He squeezes Bette’s middle again, pulling himself up against her, comforted and thrilled by the seaworthy strength and beauty that he can feel even through her wetsuit.
We’re like pirates in arms, he thinks, letting go of her and sliding into the ocean, stroking back to the rescue sled and his tow rope and board.
