Emerald Bay

By Peter Hansen

Sara has been grieving for over seven years, after her husband mysteriously disappeared in Emerald Bay.
Jason has embarked on a journey to find his best friend, missing in the mountains above Lake Tahoe.
Their worlds supernaturally come together, along the magical shores of the Ocean in the Sky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796089547

Peter Hansen

Peter Hansen is a writer and photographer living in Washington State.

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Peter Hansen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/12/2020

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

806085

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

Dedicated to my family and friends

GettyImages-526175301.jpg

1

41064.png

The date, as she had expected, had not gone well. Of course, that was her view. Jerry, the other party in this, her first date in eighteen months, might disagree. As Sara fumbled for her keys, digging deep inside her purse, she allowed that he might have even enjoyed himself. Well, why not? He was still sitting in his car, patiently waiting for her to be safely inside, cranking up something awful on the radio. If he was as weirded out as she was wouldn’t he have pulled away by now? Or was he just being polite?

She felt stupidly self-conscious, and turned around with a little still-looking-for-my-keys grin. He waved from inside the car. Did he just turn the volume up again? She mercifully found the keys, gave him one final turn-around and wave, and unlocked the door, which creaked open like at a haunted house.

Finally, Jerry did screech away. A real screech too. Like a teenager in a souped-up car.

Which it was, an old Camaro. A ’67 he’d proudly announced earlier, the moment she was inside the car, her dress stuck to a piece of adhesive.

Oh, sorry, he said. Forgot to retape that. Looking for some seats, hard to find the originals, been on the internet.

It’s okay, she mumbled, yanking the tape off. Before she could say Let me out! he screeched away for the first time that evening, headed for their dinner at TGIF’s, a chain restaurant she thought had closed years ago.

Where are we headed? she asked.

A surprise, he answered. She was surprised all right. Doing almost seventy on surface streets, it was only minutes before they pulled into the parking lot. The drive had been spent listening to Jerry talk about his Camaro, with a heavy metal chaser. As she climbed out of the car, pulling another rogue piece of tape off her skirt, Sara debated on who to contact first: her friend JoAnn, who had set this up ("he’s a really fun guy, not stuffy…") or Uber.

Sara didn’t consider herself a pretentious person, perhaps that’s why she was there with fun Jerry. But wasn’t this particular TGIF’s a singles place?

What about that call? She’d make it in the bathroom.

They stepped in. Oh yeah, she’d forgotten about the classic rock. Though it hadn’t been classic the last time she was there.

I’ll be right back, Sara said, as they went into the bar to wait for their table.

Where ya’ going?

Just to powder my nose. Which sounded so ludicrous she laughed. She couldn’t remember ever having said that in her life.

And then he said What’s so funny, Sugar?

For a moment she thought she’d misheard him. The music was loud. She looked hard at him for the first time then. Balding with a kind of comb over, blossoming pot belly in a too-tight Gap T-shirt, and sandals with white socks. She decided then he had called her Sugar and laughed again, then caught herself. She wasn’t really laughing at him, wasn’t a person who ever did that, and didn’t want to appear so even to this guy. The whole thing was just absurd that’s all. She didn’t think he’d get it though. So, she said Oh…nothing, just overheard something. That satisfied him and he glanced towards the bar.

Let me get you a beer? he asked.

Would she be here long enough for a beer?

Sure, she said. Then some big lug bumped her from behind and sloshed his beer on her open-toed shoes. Now she was wet and sticky. She’d clean up in the bathroom. How long had she been on this adventure? Twenty minutes?

Uh…sorry, the lug said. He guzzled half the pint he was holding, then turned back to his friends. They were hitting on some girls wearing white lipstick.

Sara went into the bathroom. Two women in very tight skirts were at the mirror comparing intimate details about their dates. Sara shrugged, skipped the wash-up and trudged back out; her feet still sticky. Jerry was holding two beers. She hesitated before approaching him, and watched as he topped off both beers. Though she knew he was only being nice, had she looked close enough at his face, did he have any cold sores? She made her way to him, squeezing between the packed patrons. Reaching him she realized she’d forgotten to make the call.

Here Babe, he said, brazenly topping off another swallow. Everything come out all right? She had to stifle a scream.

Dinner then went only slightly better. Jerry ordered a burger and fries and Sara risked the fisherman’s platter, which turned out to be mostly deep-fried breading with some mystery something inside. But they found a few things to chat about so she decided to make the best of it, and skipped the call. How long could this go on after all, an hour? Two tops? She’d call JoAnn tomorrow, chew her out. But really was it anybody’s fault but her own? She’d long ago learned her lesson on blind dates, she wasn’t naive. Did you reach a certain age where you forgot things and had to learn them all over again?

Anyway, there was only one more revolting episode during the evening. That involved Jerry’s eating manners and the way goop (hamburger goop…a mixture of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup, and onions and pickles and the bleepin’ kitchen sink) ran down his chin and plopped onto his lap. There were a few plops before Sara said anything.

Uh…you’re spilling, she said, pointing to his lap, making sure she didn’t look. Jerry looked down.

Oops, he said. Then he smiled, like a naughty boy. His mouth was full of the same goop, bits of the burger clung to his front teeth. Sara couldn’t eat another bite.

After dinner, she indulged him by joining him in one more beer; she wasn’t sure if she was being charitable or self-serving. He wanted one (his third) and the alcohol did seem to be mellowing her. In any case, the date was almost over and he’d invested this night in her too. And had she been all that great? Aloof, judgmental? She wasn’t sure how she’d come across. Did she sabotage dates on purpose? She’d probe that another time, this one didn’t count because he wouldn’t have worked out even if she was the most desperate husband-hunting widow in Missouri.

Now, back home, she shut the door behind her and heaved a sigh of relief. It was over.

Sara prepared herself for bed and the dream. She wanted to be under the sheets by eleven. She had to give herself at least an extra hour in bed these days. That was time spent lying awake after the dream. She always woke after, to try to interpret its meaning. Which she never did. She’d recently concluded the only thing she’d ever figure out about the dream was that it was frequent and vivid enough for her to accept its importance. And she wasn’t going to run off to therapy for answers. Thousands of dollars and many dozens of hours later she was sure the diagnosis would be: deal with David’s death and deal with your father.

The dream wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t even particularly alarming. But it had too much texture, if that was the right word. There was a whole other life going on right beneath her.

In these dreams David would take her hand—she often saw herself outside her body—and lead her down an eerie rutted lane. This was very clear to her (she’d recognize the lane if she ever saw it) though it was always foggy or misty. Very cliché back-from-the-dead stuff. But she was never frightened. Really, she was almost comforted.

The phone rang as her head hit the pillow. She reached for it hesitantly, how could she have forgotten to turn the ringer off? She knew it was her sister. Tomorrow evening she was flying out to Sacramento. This was to be the great dealing with it trip the dreams had instigated. But she was all talked out about it with Janie. Yes, she was coming back to her hometown to see her family in the spirit of long-overdue contrition. Yes, she would go to nearby Lake Tahoe, where David had drowned, and throw a flower on it or whatever one did about that. But she was becoming fearful of too much dissecting of the matter.

Yes, she answered.

Hi Sara, said Janie. Is it too late? John and Dad just went to bed and I had a minute.

I’ll be there in less than twenty-four hours Janie…sorry, guess I’m tired.

No worries, Janie said. Janie was perpetually perky. I am so excited. You don’t know.

Sara knew. She should be happy her sister cared so much. Wasn’t this what it was all about?

Hard to believe. Seven years. Hey, maybe I got a seven-year itch, Sara said. She arranged a pillow behind her, and sat up.

Have you told Dad I’m coming? she continued.

Yes, we all went over everything a couple nights ago. Actually, we detailed the whole thing like for a child. That’s practically what he is now anyway.

Their father had some sort of dementia but months of tests had proved inconclusive.

What do you mean? Sara asked.

Well, you lay down rules like with a four-year-old, Janie said. For instance, I tell him to mind his manners and not be mean. No yelling. That kind of stuff.

Sara pictured her father as a child. But with the same face she last remembered. He was about seventy then, so the image she had now, of a little boy, legs dangling off a chair, sipping a box of juice through a straw, with her dad’s seventy-year-old craggy face, made her smile.

It’s hard to picture Dad as a kid, Sara said.

Well, you’ll see him soon enough.

Oh God, he’s not wearing a diaper or anything like that is he?

Not yet, but I’m sure that’s coming.

Was the time also coming when she would have to do her proper share? How long could she leave it all up to Janie? But Janie did have John, and she was a stay-at-home wife, and they had enough money. And Janie had the personality for it too, she was patient and kind. So really, what was the problem? Guilt? Or maybe just missing out?

Now, their father was seventy-seven. Five years earlier his second wife, a woman who never cared for either daughter, who was actually rude to them (and, Sara suspected, a gold digger) had died. Sara didn’t return for the funeral. That, coupled with the way Sara had moved quickly out of town after her own tragedy, disappointed and angered her father. So much so that he cut her out of his will and refused to speak to her.

She didn’t care about the will. It was more the way things went down, the way she handled things, and the way her father married. Everybody was to blame, though she was more at fault. She pictured one of those pie graphs. Medium piece for her father, about the same for the second wife, Janie’s piece was a sliver, hers was a huge slice.

Are you sure this is the right time? For me to be doing my catharsis thing?

What other time is there ever going to be, Sara? What? Dad’s gonna get better? When families get this far behind usually the next time they hook up is at a funeral.

Janie was right, Sara had thought about that often. Time. And distance. Here was one graph where she had the whole pie. She’d chosen Kansas City after David died, to be somewhere far away. Her plan had first worked, but of course she discovered you take your troubles with you, you can’t run away from…etc. etc. All that textbook Psych 101 stuff had come pounding on her door.

But Sara sometimes asked herself if she might cause more harm by going. Maybe it was even selfish. In the years away, she’d grown to believe that sometimes it wasn’t always the right thing to try to heal old wounds. Sometimes things backfired, the scars were meant to be there, and one was supposed to live with them. She felt some