Chapter Twelve
Beyond breakfast, Isobel had no idea where Lance planned to take her. She wanted to look effortlessly elegant so she decided to layer a cardigan over a light top and tucked a pashmina in her bag, although the forecast promised a sunny, cloudless day. The probability of a gallery visit or two led her to choose slacks and comfortable flat shoes.
Lance arrived at the appointed time in a classic two-seat sports car with a long hood and protruding frogeye headlamps.
“You’ve changed your car?” said Isobel.
“I thought I’d treat myself to an open-top for the weekend, just while the other one’s being serviced. Something I can afford to rent even if I can’t afford to buy. She’s a bit noisy and you couldn’t even fit a tennis racquet in the trunk, but she’s fun to drive, just as long as it doesn’t rain. But you might want to grab a scarf and a warm top, just in case.”
“I think I’m good. You’re sure I won’t need goggles and a leather hat?”
“Only if you don’t want to be recognised,” he replied, with a grin that belied a mischievous half-belief he was right.
“And are you going to tell me where we’re going?"
“It will be more fun if we just take the day as it comes. What do you think?”
“As long as you’re not trying to weasel your way out of buying me breakfast.”
“Breakfast is our first stop,” said Lance, opening the passenger door. “If you can just manage to slide those long legs of yours under the dash, then we’ll be on our way.”
The morning rush of commuters had passed, and Lance slowed the car to let her savour the breathtaking panorama from the top of the Coronado Bay Bridge. It ranked as the one spot from which the diverse components that defined San Diego could be enjoyed. To the left was the city skyline that faced off towards the naval air station across the sparkling blue waters of north bay, to the right the sprawling dockyards with their mighty warships, and the sliver of silver sand between the harbour and the Pacific Ocean that ran south of the island towards the hills of Mexico. For the first time Isobel could enjoy the sights at leisure from the comfort of the passenger seat.
“This is my favourite spot in all of San Diego,” he said, “just a pity they don’t let you stop.”
From above came the whirring of a formation of helicopters headed in the direction of the Miramar airbase to the north of the city. They were close enough for Isobel to make out their red and blue insignia as they flew low, a few hundred feet above the bridge. She gave a wave, like any proud American might. Lance too glanced skywards.
“Looks like we got lucky, since they don’t usually fly this low. Nighthawks, if I’m not mistaken.” An idea seemed to seize him. “If you’re interested,” he said casually, his eyes back on her, “I could maybe get you a pass around the base, see them close up, meet the pilots.”
One step at a time, thought Isobel, wondering what connections he had to have to get a British civilian into the sensitive naval facility. She let the offer pass. “They do make a wonderful sight, flying so close. I can see why everyone loves the troops around here.”
He laughed. “They sure do. But it’s not just the boys and the toys; pretty much every family around here depends one way or another on the money and the jobs the military brings.”
They raced northwards up Highway Five in silence, the feeling of speed exaggerated by the low-slung body, hard suspension, and the heady tug of the wind at their faces, its intensity whistling in their eardrums. After an exhilarating stretch of flat road, Lance swung off onto an exit and finally the car slowed enough to allow conversation.
“There’s a quaint place I know in Pacific Beach. It’s off the tourist trail but the locals swear by it for breakfast. No white tablecloths, but I think you’ll like it.”
Isobel had been to Pacific Beach to paint but had only eaten at the standard tourist venues that faced onto the ocean. She had been enjoying her independence in America, yet today she rather liked that Lance took responsibility for the decision-making.
They began to head into the bustling heart of Pacific Beach but Lance suddenly took a left turn several blocks before the coastline, pulling up in an uninspiring row of standard retail outlets. He led her into an eatery underneath a sign that read “Home of the Original American Breakfast,” an oversized indication of the tiny little café tucked away in the corner. Inside the walls were soft pastel colours and the tables, most of which were occupied, were simple pine. It could almost have been a traditional teashop in the English countryside and Isobel felt immediately at home.
“If you’re hungry, the six-egg omelette is something of a signature dish here. You can choose your own filling and it comes with hash browns and a bottomless cup of coffee.”
“I’m not sure I’m quite that hungry. I’m thinking maybe eggs over easy followed by waffles with maple syrup. And a bottomless cup of coffee.”
“Don’t forget the juice.”
“Or the toast; rye bread with cream cheese and honey jam on the side.”
“You want to just be done it with and order the set brunch?” They both laughed. “Well, I did say I’m a sucker for American breakfasts.”
“So, you mentioned you have an eleven-year-old daughter,” said Isobel, after they had exhausted discussion on what constituted an “original” American breakfast. “How often do you see her?”
“When I can. But she lives across the country with her mother, her stepfather and two half-sisters. It’s not always easy.”
“But you get on?” Isobel had been curious to know a little about his relationship with his daughter, but also conscious of the intrusion.
“Jessica sees the world through her mother’s filters.”
She sensed that he had said all he wanted to say, but Isobel pressed on. She adopted the words of the concerned counsellor. “That must sometimes be hard for you.”
“I’m one of millions of divorced men in the same position,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No need to apologise. It’s a natural question. But today let’s just enjoy ourselves, shall we?”
Despite Lance’s protests, Isobel insisted on settling the bill. “So, now that we’re fed and watered, do you mind sharing the plan for the rest of the day?"
“Well, I’m guessing you’ve been to California before, and even if you haven’t you can do all the typical tourist things anytime. So I thought we’d continue to stay off the beaten track, if you’re up for a bit of adventure.”
“I like the sound of the adventure bit, but maybe there’s a reason things are off the beaten track…”
“If you mean that they’re not worth seeing, I don’t think so. It’s more about accessibility. The thing is, almost everyone who visits southern California never ventures more than two miles from the ocean, even if they go to Mexico. So I thought we might go exploring.”
A full stomach further relaxed Isobel. Her earlier nervousness about getting involved with Lance had been washed away by his natural charm. The elegant façade she often hid behind with casual acquaintances seemed a pointless barrier when faced with a man who appeared entirely free of any sense of his own importance.
“Are we talkin’ Injun country, kemo sabe?”
He smiled at her humour and responded in kind. “We sure are, pardner.”
She took encouragement from his response, continuing in her best John Wayne accent. “Then I’ll have you know, cowboy, I takes to explorin’ an' tabacca chewin’ like a mule takes to oats.”
The smile had turned to a raucous laugh and he slapped his thigh. She smiled back, pleased that she had surprised him, thinking that he had not expected her to be capable of playing the clown.
“That’s settled, then. So long as you’re happy putting your life in my hands.”
“You mean ‘happy’ as in losing my scalp?”
He laughed again. “You’ll find the natives have given all that up— they’re too busy making millions running casinos.”
They travelled north again, running tight to the ocean before turning inland near La Jolla. The houses soon gave way to industrial buildings, and Isobel could see assorted planes in open hangars with one airborne white spectre coming in to land. “This is an airfield,” she said. “Are we flying into the wilderness?”
“We are, or at least over it. You did say you were happy to put your life in my hands, didn’t you?”
“If I did, I didn’t say at thirty thousand feet.”
“Relax, I don’t think we’ll be going that high.”
Lance pulled over to where a man in overalls stood waiting by a Cessna aircraft. “She’s ready to roll, Mr. Denning,” he shouted. “The flight plan’s filed and you’re scheduled to go in ten.”
Lance tossed the car keys to the technician. “Thanks, Bill. Send out a search party if we’re not back by six.”
“Another one?” said the man, grinning and looking at Isobel.
“Where’s the pilot?” she asked.
“You’re looking at him.”
Lance helped Isobel into the front passenger seat. “Have you ever been in the cockpit of anything like this before?” he asked as they strapped themselves in?
“Only with a professional at the controls.”
“This’ll be a first, then.” He passed her a blanket lined with sheepskin. “It’ll be a lot hotter where we’re going, but up in the skies you might need this.”
She grimaced in response. “I suppose I should assume that even if you’re happy to risk my life, you’re not ready to sacrifice your own.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s a perfect day for flying and this baby has flown less than a hundred hours, so you could say it’s practically new.”
“And is it your own baby?” she asked casually, wanting to show a healthy interest but trying to avoid it sounding like a probing first-date question.
“I wish. A flying club owns it. But it’s mine for today.”
“So after lowering my expectations in a back street café, you’re now out to impress me?”
“Only with my flying skills. Don’t be fooled by the private plane nonsense. Flying is popular around here and pretty much anyone who can afford a half decent car can do it. And if you really wanted to, you could pick one of these up for less than the price of that little Ford on your drive.”
Isobel had no interest in “picking up” a private plane, or anything else that could be rented for the day, least of all when she could fly in someone else’s. “You’ve been flying long?”
“A while. It’s just a hobby. But there are private airfields everywhere; so flying could be a practical way to get around, if time and flexibility is important.” He passed her a set of headphones. “You’d better put these on. It’ll save your eardrums and you’ll be able to hear the tower, which can be fun.”
“Do I need to put my phone in flight safe mode, captain?”
“The only rule in this plane is that you have to take the controls when I need a nap.” He leant across her, his arm against her breasts, and tugged on a yellow cord attached to the safety harness. “You’re all set.”
He pressed a button and the twin propellers of the Cessna kicked into life. As Lance taxied out to the takeoff strip unease gave way to excitement. His calm assurance proved infectious and, as the plane accelerated down the narrow strip of tarmac, the frame rattling against the headwind, their knees and shoulders bumped together in the cramped cockpit. The wheels left the ground as the warmth of his arm still tingled across her breasts.
As they climbed Lance banked and took the plane out over the ocean. Down below she could see the kayaks and surfers close to shore, colourful insects wrestling against the lace-edged surf, and he pointed to a pair of dolphins that were playing offshore. He levelled the small plane out, turned full circle back towards land, and headed eastward into the curtain of brilliant blue that draped itself across the scorched landscape. He talked about the basics of flying and the decisions he needed to make, and she asked about the various instruments and how the navigation system worked. “With modern GPS a monkey could get a plane to its destination, but you still need the instruments, just in case.”
“Just in case the monkey doesn’t understand GPS?” she said. They laughed at her joke, and he prodded her ribs with his finger, telling her not to call him a monkey.
The landscape quickly changed from the flat and built-up coastal belt to the wilderness before Cuyamaca Rancho State Park. In the distance Isobel could see snow-capped mountains. The terrain below had a raw beauty all its own, with rolling hills, majestic mountains, sparkling lakes, and deep canyons.
“The views are amazing,” said Isobel, captivated by the scenery below. “It’s much greener than I expected.”
“You want to go down there? We’re currently at twenty-five hundred feet, but on a day like today, no reason we can’t go lower.”
“That would be fun, but I’ll leave the operational decisions to you, if it’s all the same.”
“Okay, but hold on tight and keep your eyes peeled, since there’s no air traffic control where we’re going.”
The plane gyrated left and Lance took it into a steep downward curve. For the first time Isobel’s stomach protested. She supported herself with her arm against the cockpit glass as the plane became vertical. The next thing she knew she had been thrown upside down as Lance took the plane into an outside loop. The countryside hovered above her like a heavy, inverted sky as Isobel instinctively pressed her palms against the glass below her head.
“Can you let me know before you do that next time?” she chided, regaining her composure and rearranging her hair as the aircraft returned to level flight.
“Next time?” said Lance, grinning, “but it is so much more of a thrill when you’re not expecting it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind,” said Isobel. “For a second I thought I’d be making you a present of my poached eggs.”
“I guess it’s time to put her down, then.”
“Down where?” said Isobel, her eyes searching the ground for signs of an airfield.
“That’s the next bit of fun. There’s no airstrip close enough to where we want to be, so we’re going to land in a field, which can be bumpy.”
“And then what, assuming we survive the landing? Are we hiking into town?”
“We’re expected.” Lance pointed down to the left, where she could see a car parked in a patch of open ground surrounded by trees. “I wouldn’t risk it in a crosswind, but today we’ll be fine. It’s where the crop sprayers take off and land.”
“Seems like you’ve thought of everything,” said Isobel, intending no sarcasm but wondering how many other women Lance must have treated to this particular seduction routine.
He put the plane down with the same confidence that he had exhibited since they boarded and they stopped only for the briefest of moments to stretch their limbs and to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the taste of the air before transferring into the back of the waiting car.
“Jed got a day off?” asked Isobel, somehow expecting the burly driver—if that was what he was—to have been waiting.
“He’s busy on a Vegas run, at least that’s what he tells me. But maybe he didn’t fancy the idea of a day playing gooseberry.”
Isobel tensed at the Freudian slip, at the implication that Lance intended the trip to be more than the sightseeing adventure that he sold it as. He had been careful to leave a generous gap between their bodies, but at some point he would proposition her, that she knew. Whether he would make his move this day or not, she would soon find out. The driver offered water and they both took a bottle, and she relaxed again. Ten minutes later they were in the historic centre of the old gold mining town of Julian.
Isobel could see what made Julian a popular day-tripper destination. The streets were quiet but it hardly counted as the “off the beaten track” location Lance had promised. It radiated the aura of the Wild West, with a charming Victorian era main street, with shops and restaurants that harked back to the gold rush days of the 1870s. Tarmac had replaced the mud and dust where cowboys once faced each other in standoffs and ladies lifted their flowing dresses to keep them out of red- brown soil churned over by galloping hooves and the wooden wheels of creaking covered wagons. But the cracked clapperboard fronts and the raised wooden sidewalks on either side of the street had survived modernisation, or at least had been authentically recreated.
They walked through the town for more than two hours, taking a journey back in time. Lance acted as tour guide, leading Isobel in and out of antique shops, art galleries, quaint museums and assorted stores packed with memorabilia of the romantic days of the gold rush pioneers.
“They like their guns around here, don’t they?” said Isobel, as they left yet another shop that sold replica firearms and offered wall posters that trumpeted the inalienable right of every peace loving American to shoulder a rifle.
Lance shrugged. “It comes with the territory. And I guess you never know when a grizzly is a going to jump out from behind a lamp post.”
At the end of the main street, where wood and glass gave way to open country, they took a winding path up a steep hill that led to a cemetery. Cracked and broken flagstones had fallen away, and as they neared the summit they had to negotiate an even steeper incline. Lance sprang forward first and offered his hand like a lead mountaineer, pulling her up to more level ground. For a moment they stood awkwardly, inches apart, she steadying herself with her hands on his hips before she looked away. Lance edged backward before guiding her safely past him.
All around them grey and moss-covered headstones, weathered and worn, jutted forlornly from the uneven earth. The Schmidts and the Smiths bore testament to a bygone community with roots across Europe and an era where women died in labour and men with their boots on. “It’s quite moving, isn’t it,” said Isobel, bending to read a faded eulogy, “to think these people came across an ocean to die so young, and in a wilderness.”
“Sure is. But at least the pall bearers got a good view,” said Lance irreverently.
Curiosity and a fascination with the past had temporarily caused Isobel to forget that, in all probability, Lance had led other damsels up this hill. Were his ad-libbed one-liners well rehearsed, she briefly wondered.
The mercury had been rising since they arrived and the day now sweltered, a condition worsened by the climb. “Now all we need to do is make it back,” said Isobel, looking down the way they had come with foreboding.
“I’ll take you back the easy way,” said Lance, grinning. “Just didn’t seem right to come up on a tarmac road.”
Back on terra firma it fell to Isobel, a trickle of perspiration running down her back, to call a halt.
“I don’t know about you, cowboy, but this gal is ready for a sarsaparilla and homemade apple pie,” she said, mimicking an uncertain hillbilly accent.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said with a smile. “I’m about bushwhacked myself. And it looks like we’re spoilt for choice.”
As they paused, a bearded young man in a safari waistcoat stepped across them, raising a camera. “Photo souvenir with the lady, sir?” Isobel instinctively obliged and moved in toward Lance.
“No, thanks,” said Lance brusquely.
“I’ll only be a moment,” said the man, taking Isobel by the upper arm. “A little closer together, please.”
“I said no,” repeated Lance, but more forcibly, raising his palm toward the man’s chest.
“No obligation,” persisted the man disregarding the objection, with an attempt to swat away Lance’s objecting arm.
Before Isobel could take in how it happened, the photographer lay at their feet on his back, pinned down by Lance’s boot. Somewhere in the sweep of arms, as well as felling the man, Lance had relieved him of his camera. He flicked expertly back and forward through the digital images.
“You’re fucking crazy,” protested the prostrate photographer, but—despite perhaps fifteen years advantage over his adversary—his palms were upward to signal submission.
Isobel’s hand went to her throat, aghast at Lance’s extreme reaction. The man had been pushy and had raised an arm against Lance, but she had felt no threat.
Lance lifted his boot and dangled down the camera for the man to take it. “Next time, remember no means no.”
“There won’t be a next time, you son of a bitch,” muttered the man, looking every bit as shocked at Isobel.
Lance turned to her. “You still hungry?” he asked coolly, as if nothing of consequence had happened.
She nodded, not sure she still was.