Boardwalk Summer Read online

  Dedication

  For Hazel Luna, I love you to the moon.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 2: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 3: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 4: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 5: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 6: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 7: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 8: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 9: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 10: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 11: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 12: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 13: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 14: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 15: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 16: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 17: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 18: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 19: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 20: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 21: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 22: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 23: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 24: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 25: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 26: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 27: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 28: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 29: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 30: Violet Harcourt

  Chapter 31: Marisol Cruz

  Chapter 32: Marisol Cruz

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise

  Also by Meredith Jaeger

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Violet Harcourt

  Summer 1940

  My heart hammered as I stood on the bandstand, in front of the swelling crowd. Cripes. How many people had gathered on the beach today? Possibly thousands. The sun beat down on my tanned shoulders, warming them. Onions sizzled on the hot dog grill, mingling with the salty air, and a choir of seagulls cawed overhead.

  Evie stood to my right, her hand placed on a cocked hip to show off her fire-engine-red nails. She tilted her head, her shiny dark hair swept up in perfect rolls. Winking at the crowd, Evie dared to bare her midriff in a tight two-piece. Mother found the new swimsuit fashion scandalous, but I wished I had Evie’s confidence.

  Out of the fifteen women who’d entered the Miss California pageant, three of us stood at the forefront, vying for a shot at the crown. I took a deep breath. Getting a Hollywood screen test was a dream I’d held tightly, knowing it could slip away at any second. This was my opportunity to be discovered.

  “Ladies and gents,” the emcee spoke into the microphone, “this is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”

  I wasn’t going to win. With her luminous pale skin and amber eyes, Evie looked like Olivia de Havilland, and I looked like, well, me. Clearly, her beauty eclipsed mine. But the pin curls in my auburn hair stayed put, and my polka-dot swimsuit with its flared skirt complemented my slight curves. I’d lacquered my lips red as Evie’s nails. Perhaps today would be my turn to shine in the spotlight.

  When I’d sung Billie Holiday’s rendition of George Gershwin’s “Summertime” for the talent portion, my voice had come from deep within my soul. Mother thought my dreams of stardom were a childish phase, admonishing me every time she’d caught me using her hairbrush as a microphone. But my desire to perform had only grown stronger.

  If Charles saw me onstage right now, he’d . . .

  I pictured my husband’s handsome face contorted with rage, and my stomach squeezed sharply. I tamped down my fear, remembering the lie I’d told the pageant officials. Yet I hadn’t stopped myself from filling out the Miss California contest entry form, my hands shaking as I’d signed my name.

  One of the Atlantic City judges for the Miss America pageant was Artie Schmekel, the financial backer for all of Broadway’s biggest musicals. If he watched me sing, play piano or dance, perhaps I’d see my name in lights on a theater marquee—and then on the silver screen. Plenty of gals went to Hollywood after their pageant wins. Would a film director take a gamble on me?

  The announcer cleared his throat. “Three beautiful ladies stand before me. Let’s give them a round of applause.”

  My cheeks hurt from holding my smile, and I tried not to squint. Jiminy Cricket, could the sun be any brighter? A sea breeze ruffled the colorful beach umbrellas, cooling my sweaty skin. But it did little to ease my nerves.

  “And the runner-up for the Miss California bathing beauty contest is . . .” The emcee paused. It seemed to stretch for an eternity. “Miss Evelyn Hastings of San Francisco, California!”

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Evie’s dark brows knit together, but within seconds she’d put on a winning smile. She waved at the crowd, swishing her hips in her outrageously daring two-piece. Though her eyes held disappointment, she wouldn’t stay down for long. For Evie, life was always coming up roses. She smiled as if to say, This isn’t the last you’ll see of me.

  Evie had convinced me to enter the pageant. Two years ago, a new rule had been put into place: contestants had to be single women, never married, never divorced. But to that Evie had declared, “Hogwash! My Frank would be over the moon to see me with a crown on my head. Come on, Vi. What’s a little white lie?”

  A petite blonde stood to my right, a contestant from Orange County. I swallowed, pushing the lump of guilt down my throat. She had a wholesome, all-American look about her, and sweet dimples framed her smile. The gal had done a fantastic tap dancing routine, and I figured it was her turn today. I prepared myself to lose as gracefully as Evie had. Perhaps it was for the best. Then neither one of us would get into trouble.

  The emcee ran a hand through his oil-slick hair. “And the grand prize winner of the 1940 Miss California bathing beauty contest is our very own Miss Violet Sweeting of Santa Cruz, California!”

  Once the shock of hearing my maiden name wore off, happy tears sprang to my eyes. Were they playing some kind of gas on me? I stepped forward in my peep-toe heels, barely able to contain my surprise. The brass band played “In the Mood.”

  Swinging my hips in time to the music, I waved at the crowd. Fleetingly, my heart went out to the blonde, as the emcee congratulated her on her third-place win. But I was floating.

  The crowd roared. I didn’t need Mother, Father or Charles to make decisions for me. How could they possibly understand? Onstage I was electric, burning bright as the marquee lights. Jazz made me feel more alive than Mozart ever had. My music degree from Mills College had pleased Mother, but I was ready to do so much more than play piano in the parlor for houseguests. I belonged in the pictures.

  The emcee handed me a bouquet of fresh pink roses. “Congratulations, Violet. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Miss California, 1940.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  I straightened my sash, my ring finger bare where my Tiffany diamond solitaire and matching wedding band should have been.

  “Good luck, fellas,” the emcee said, winking. “This bathing beauty sure is a looker! She won’t be single for long.”

  The crowd laughed, and I forced a smile, but my stomach churned. I touched the strand of pearls around my neck, another lavish gift from my husband. The Cartier necklace caused Evie’s eyes to bulge with envy. I knew without asking it was worth a fortune. Charles came from old money, inheriting a trust fund from a successful shipping business, long sold, and also the Oceano Golf Club, the finest and most prestigious course west of the Mississippi. Like me, Charles had been born and raised in Santa Cruz, but he mingled solely with the area’s elite. Eve
n celebrities traveled here to Monterey Bay for the stunning views along the Oceano’s magnificent green.

  “Give us a big smile for the camera,” the emcee said.

  I nodded, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over me. I focused on the quaint shops dotting the boardwalk and the children holding sticks of cotton candy. Laughter carried on the breeze with the whoosh of the wooden roller coaster. Peaks and valleys; it was normal to have those in a marriage, wasn’t it?

  Men played with their tots in the sand, scooping handfuls of it into makeshift castles. Charles would make a good father. He had an easy way with children, delighting them with tricks, like producing a dime from thin air. I’d glowed on every date during our courtship, feeling positively smitten. With his dark hair, long-lashed eyes and dazzling smile, Charles had the charm of Clark Gable.

  On our early dates, we’d spent hours necking at the drive-in through double features. At night, I’d often slept in the cardigan I’d worn, to savor his cologne until it faded. We’d enjoyed our weekends at the boardwalk, and Charles had laughed as he’d rammed my bumper car at Auto Scooter, delighting in mischief like a young boy. But not long afterward, he began to question me constantly about my whereabouts. And I hadn’t told him I would be participating in the pageant today.

  The photographer crouched before me, his camera in my face. I looked down at his wingtips, overcome by a wave of dizziness.

  “Miss Sweeting,” he said. “Big smile. Eyes up here, please.”

  The shrill whistle of the Suntan Special blared. Passengers poured from the train coaches, men in fedoras and women in wide-brimmed sun hats. Children squealed, set free to release their energy on the beach. In spite of the summer heat, an icy chill ran through me. I saw him there in the crowd.

  The notes of “In the Mood” swelled from the beach band, welcoming the new arrivals. I watched my husband’s broad shoulders as he made his way past the beachgoers, holding his briefcase. His dark hair shone in the sunlight; he stood a head taller than most of those around him. Oh Jesus. Hadn’t he meant to arrive this evening?

  Cool fingers squeezed my hand. I whipped around.

  Evie smiled. “Why’d ya have to steal my chance? I heard the Miss America crown is made of real diamonds. It’s an ugly shame it won’t be on my head.”

  I tried to laugh.

  Evie’s doll-like eyes filled with concern. “Good grief, Vi. What’s the matter?”

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “Evie, I don’t think I should have—”

  “Excuse me, Evelyn?” The emcee stood between us. “Sorry, darling, but we need a picture of Miss Sweeting alone. Then we’ll photograph you gals together.”

  Evie dropped my hand as he shooed her away.

  “Okay,” he said. “On three. One, two . . .”

  Before the bulb flashed, my gaze settled on Charles. Those warm brown eyes of his had once crinkled at the corners with laughter, but now they were filled with a cruel look I knew all too well. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

  What a stupid, stupid thing you’ve done.

  This time, Charles’s voice would hold no annoyance. He would remain silent, and his silence frightened me more than anything. The look in my husband’s eyes was one of anger and betrayal. This was my fault. I never should have lied. Why did I crave the attention? I ought to have stayed home. Or clapped politely for the other girls while sitting underneath an umbrella, wearing something modest.

  As the crowd cheered for me, I shivered. I no longer looked forward to the floats, the parade, the celebratory dancing or tonight’s fireworks. Charles would feign pride in my pageant win, because what else could he do? We’d have chicken sandwiches for lunch with Evie and Frank, and then stroll together along the pier. But tonight, behind closed doors, I would pay dearly for my careless mistake.

  Chapter 2

  Marisol Cruz

  Summer 2007

  Lily, honey. Put on your other shoe. It’s time to go.”

  “I want my purple sneaker.”

  Mari looked down at her daughter’s feet, one bare, and one clad in a silver-glitter ballet flat. Then she glanced at her watch. Her shift at the Jupiter Café began in exactly fifteen minutes.

  “Okay, your purple sneakers? Let’s put them on.”

  “No. One sneaker.”

  “But then you won’t match.”

  Lily rolled her eyes and flopped on the bed; she was four going on fourteen.

  “I want to mismatch.”

  Too tired to argue, Mari slipped the purple sneaker on her daughter’s left foot and did up the Velcro straps. With her Belle T-shirt, plaid leggings and buns all over her head, Lily resembled a tiny Gwen Stefani, circa 1998.

  “Are you taking me today?” she asked, her green eyes wide.

  Mari’s stomach pinched with guilt. “Not today. Mommy has to work.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Lily heaved herself off the bed and slipped her Little Mermaid backpack over her shoulder. “You always have to work.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s my tiara?”

  Mari’s eyes scanned the bedroom in the quaint 1940s beach cottage that had belonged to her grandfather. When he had passed away, her parents had inherited it, and now Mari lived with them. Lily’s small bed with purple floral sheets, hidden beneath her stuffed animals, fit snugly in the corner, while Mari’s modest twin sat beneath the open window, the ocean breeze ruffling the gauzy, white curtains.

  Outside, the natural beauty of California’s coastline stretched for miles. The sun through the window warmed Mari’s face, and today would be another perfect seventy-eight degrees. Perched on the northern edge of Monterey Bay, Santa Cruz sat beneath the cool shade of the redwood trees, offering the most beautiful views in the world.

  Atop a shelf on Mari’s bookcase, Lily’s tiara sparkled in the sunlight.

  “Found it,” Mari said, walking over to reach for the plastic crown.

  Lily clapped her hands. “Hooray!”

  A hard lump rose in Mari’s throat as her gaze settled on her history textbooks, which she hadn’t opened in years. She longed to trail her finger down their worn spines, remembering the words of Howard Zinn and W.E.B. Du Bois.

  “Let’s go,” Mari said, placing the tiara atop Lily’s head. Lily beamed as she adjusted it, like the rightful winner of the Miss Universe pageant.

  Stepping into the tiled kitchen, Mari found her mother putting together Lily’s lunch box. “Oh Ma, I was going to do that.”

  Paulina shrugged, her thick chestnut hair reaching her shoulders. Even in her late forties, she still turned heads. “I wanted to help.” Looking down at her granddaughter, Paulina opened her arms. “Buenos dias, sweetie!”

  Lily ran to her abuela, tripping over her mismatched shoes.

  Raising an eyebrow, Paulina looked at Mari. “Mija, what is she wearing?”

  “She’s four,” Mari mumbled. “Look, it’s only shoes.”

  “Look at this stuff, isn’t it neat?” Lily belted out, freeing herself from Paulina and twirling around the kitchen. “Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete?”

  “Oh great.” Paulina shot Mari a look. “Is this going to last the whole car ride?”

  Mari smiled. “Sorry.”

  She snuck a quick glance in the hallway mirror, smoothing her waitress uniform—a short blue dress with square front pockets. The Jupiter Café encouraged its employees to look “funky,” but this morning Mari had put on tiny gold hoop earrings in defiance of the tacky plastic jewelry rule. Wearing no makeup, she could still pass for a college student—except she felt about a hundred years older.

  “Come here,” Mari said, scooping Lily into a hug and kissing her face until she erupted into giggles.

  Mari breathed in the scent of Lily’s apple shampoo, her heart aching when she thought of her little girl entering kindergarten in the fall. How was that possible? She liked having Lily at Green Frog Preschool, where Paulina worked as the director of the bilingual school. Santa Cruz housed a mix o
f open-minded, eco-friendly families, eager for their children to learn Spanish. Mari loved that about her community.

  “I love you, Mom,” Lily said, blowing a kiss.

  “Love you too,” Mari replied, watching her daughter scamper out the door.

  Grabbing her lukewarm, half-finished mug of coffee off the counter, Mari took a swig, wondering if she should reheat it in the microwave. Instead, she put Lily’s empty cereal bowl in the dishwasher, finished loading the machine, and turned it on. Her stomach growled, but she had no time for breakfast.

  In the hallway, Mari paused to look at a framed black-and-white photograph of her abuelo, the famed Ricardo Cruz. Her young grandfather plunged headfirst from a trapeze into the Pacific Ocean. He’d been a Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk performer in the 1940s, a stunt diver who delighted the crowds with his daring act.

  Mari swallowed, remembering all the times she’d strolled hand in hand with her abuelo along the wooden slats of the boardwalk. He’d bought her cotton candy and ice cream, taken her for endless rides on the carousel, and let her sit on his shoulders when she’d gotten tired of walking.

  He’d told her stories—so many stories—about his adventures as a young man, bringing the sights and sounds of the boardwalk to life. The bands that had played, the people he had known, they danced in Mari’s mind like images from a vintage movie reel.

  She blinked back tears and twisted the door handle.

  “Bye, Abuelo,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

  BY THE TIME she reached the Jupiter Café, Mari had broken a sweat, even though the scenic walk from Beach Hill, overlooking the sparkling blue ocean, took less than ten minutes. Tourists on beach cruisers zipped past, their tanned legs pushing bicycle pedals as they made their way toward Pacific Avenue’s shops and restaurants.

  Mari slipped in the back entrance of the café, donning her planet-covered apron with one hand and punching her time card with the other. She was already looking forward to picking Lily up from school, so they could collect seashells at Natural Bridges Beach, dip their toes in the water, and admire wildflowers along the footpath.

  “There you are.”