Breaking Josephine (2 page)

After
climbing over the rocks to reach the open beach, I all-out ran the two miles to
my place, a tiny terrace level apartment in the back of a modest, inland house.
I unlocked the door, slipped
inside, and leaned back on the worn yellow paint and faded cafe curtain
covering the door’s small window. My breathing was hard and fast, in part from
my near-sprint for the last fifteen minutes, but more from the stranger and his
lasting effect on me. I closed my eyes and saw his bright blue eyes,
flickering like a gas flame behind his thick, black lashes. Just the thought of
him made my stomach contract, my heart race, and my head spin.

“Jo, get a hold of
yourself, this is ridiculous,” I thought to myself. “You burglarized his house
for god sakes and he’s probably already called the police and is going to have
you arrested. He’s not exactly going to be interested in ravishing the cat
burglar.” But that’s exactly what I wanted him to do—I wanted nothing more
than for him to grab me with his commanding hands right there in his study,
push me onto his desk and do whatever he pleased.

I set the bag down
on the table and caught my breath. I rubbed my neck where the strap to my bag
had chafed my skin on the run home and I slipped off my shoes. I rolled up my
pant leg, assessing the purpling bruise on my knee and the nasty gash on my
shin. After cleaning the wound, I poured myself a glass of cheap wine and sat
down at the kitchen table. I looked up at the ceiling, thankful my landlady
Eileen, who lived in the main house above, was hard of hearing and didn’t know
I’d come racing home in the middle of the night. An elderly woman, Eileen had
called Cannon Beach, Oregon her home for all her life, and rented out her basement
apartment to help pay her bills. Although basic, my apartment had everything I
needed—a small range, refrigerator, and two windows that let in plenty of
morning sun. Two miles to the West, through this quaint tourist town, stretched
the Pacific coast, the beautiful craggy beaches that drew me to this part of
the country, and the mansion I just escaped from.

I took a long
drink of wine and pulled out the contents of my bag to assess my night’s
collection: three lovely and impersonal luxury pens, an antique silver letter opener,
and a small, silver box—one of those ridiculously expensive trinkets for
people who have everything. “Why do rich people need to spend hundreds of
dollars to hide their paper clips?” I thought to myself. I opened the box, but was
disappointed to find it empty.

All in all, I
probably had $500 worth of items if I pawned them in Portland. Not nearly as
well as I used to do when I still lived in Overton, but not bad for a night
when I got caught and almost didn’t escape. I cursed myself under my breath for
falling back into an old obsession. I’d starting stealing just after my
thirteenth birthday, my first birthday celebrated at Overton. Not that I wasn’t
appreciative of having a place to live, a warm bed, and roof over my head back
then, but it wasn’t exactly a life of luxury. I snuck out from Overton whenever
I could, to get out from under the rigid confines of the rules, regulations,
and cruelty of the place. I only stole small things, always from the wealthy,
and never enough to cause a disturbance or get me noticed. I rationalized it by
thinking that the rich wouldn’t miss these trinkets, and I could feel a spark
of excitement, of adrenaline, and of feeling alive. And I could, in that
moment, feel in control—with no one making my decisions, no one
controlling my actions but me. I thought if I could pawn the small things I
stole, and save up enough money, I could escape the confines of the orphanage
and make it on my own.

When I left
Overton, the cash I saved from my petty theft got me a roof over my head in
Portland, and I worked a few waitress jobs, earning enough to pay rent, have
food to eat, and save a little bit besides. I didn’t need to steal to buy food
or pay rent at that point, and being in control of my life for the first time,
I didn’t feel the need. I slowly saved my money, and when I had enough saved, I
took a local bus out to Cannon Beach and never looked back. I’d spent a week there
just before my mom died, and associated it with some of my happiest memories. I
remembered being awestruck by the raw power of the ocean crashing and cresting
with its might, and the extreme beauty of the cold, rocky beachfront. That
image stayed with me, even through all the hard years after my mom died. When I
left Portland, Overton, and my childhood behind, I needed a fresh start, and I
wanted to make that start in Cannon Beach.

I got a job at The
Red Barn, a small breakfast place in, unsurprisingly, a big red barn. The
owner, Sam, told me about Eileen and her vacant basement apartment, and that’s
how I ended up there. I had vowed to never steal from anyone in town, that I’d
left that part of my life behind me years before at Overton, but I had no idea
how hard letting go of that obsession would be.

I tucked the
handful of stolen goods into my bedside table, changed into my staple worn
t-shirt and frayed flannel pants, crawled into bed and passed out, physically
and emotionally exhausted from the night’s adventure.

His
lips crashed into mine with such a ferocious intensity that I gasped, my
fingers lacing into his hair and holding him there—his lips crushing mine
and bruising the tender flesh. I ran my hands down his hair, his neck, his
shoulders as our lips stayed locked together. As I felt every inch of his body
with my fingers, he pulled back, looking earnestly in my face. “Jo, I’m never
going to give you up,” he said, “so don’t you think of leaving…” As I eagerly
listened to the words pouring out of his mouth, his voice changed, becoming all
at once soulful and melancholy. As I came to, the Black Keys’ Never Gonna Give
You Up was blaring from my second-hand radio alarm clock, my arms were wrapped
around my pillow, and the blue-eyed stranger was only in my dreams.

I tossed my pillow
behind me and hit the alarm off while I swung my legs out of bed, wincing as I
remembered too late about my seriously bruised knee and scraped leg. I quickly
showered and dressed, stuffed my apron in my bag, and ran out the door to walk
the half-mile to work just in time to make my 6:00 am Saturday morning start
time. Although I’d been able to meagerly furnish my apartment over the past
year with a combination of thrift store, pawn shop, and garage sale finds, I
hadn’t yet come close to saving enough money for a cell phone or a car. Thankfully,
Eileen paid for my apartment phone and the bus system covered pretty much
everywhere I wanted to go. And, on occasion, my boss let me borrow his Subaru as
long as I filled it with gas and brought it back clean and on time.

“Hi Sam,” I yelled
as I unlocked the front door and swung the closed sign to open in the window.

“Hi to you too,
Jo,” Sam called from the kitchen where he was busy getting the griddle going
for the morning.

I smiled, thinking
how lucky I was to have found Sam and the Red Barn. A native of Seattle, Sam
had left the hustle and bustle of the big city after training as a chef in some
of the best restaurants of the Pacific Northwest and settled in little Cannon
Beach twenty years ago. He’d scouted locations all along the coast, looking for
the right town to open a diner and happened upon Cannon Beach. According to
Sam’s account, the town “screamed Diner!” since the only comparable restaurant
had closed a few years before. Every time Sam explained the Barn’s history to
an interested tourist, I laughed, thinking of Sam standing in front of what was
at the time just a vacant barn, holding his arms out and yelling “Diner!” at
the top of his lungs.

He’d managed to
convert the barn into a restaurant himself, buying used equipment and leaning
on friends from Seattle for help. The Red Barn had just celebrated its 20-year
anniversary a few weeks ago, and I had helped Sam order commemorative t-shirts
and signs for the Restaurant. I was one of the few regular waitresses younger
than Sam who worked at the Red Barn, most being long-time residents and over
twice my age. Although Sam was old enough to be my father, if he wasn’t working
12-15 hours days, he was rock climbing, or hiking, or mountain biking and
didn’t look his age. And his staple uniform of flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a
Red Barn t-shirt didn’t exactly give him an air of authority. Often times, I
had to explain to tourists that he was almost fifty, and yes, he did in fact
own the place. But despite his casual demeanor and friendly nature, he was a
successful business owner, and from what I’d seen of Sam over the previous year
working for him, he demanded excellence, not just from himself, but from his
employees as well. He could be understanding, but he had his limits. I’d seen
quite a few college kids fired during the summer for not taking their jobs
seriously. Since I actually needed the job, and wasn’t just killing time
between semesters, I always made a point of showing up on time and going out of
my way to do a good job, making sure Sam knew how much I valued my continued
employment.

Sam walked out
from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. He ran a hand through his
just-starting-to-grey blonde hair and smiled. “Ready for the start of tourist
season?” he asked.

“Ugh, already? I
thought summer hadn’t even started yet,” I answered, pulling my apron out of my
bag and tying it on.

“It seems like it
starts earlier every year,” said Sam, just as the bell tied to the front door
jingled and Macy Daugherty, my only real friend in Cannon Beach, stumbled through
the door. Sam smiled at Macy and waived hello as he retreated to the kitchen to
finish prepping for the morning. I closed my bag and put it away as Macy joined
me behind the counter.

“Why does this
place have to open so early?” she complained. Macy, the daughter of a wealthy
socialite mother and real estate entrepreneur father, didn’t exactly enjoy
mornings. Despite her privileged upbringings, her father insisted she start at
the bottom, working as a waitress during her summers off from college before he
would allow her to share in the family fortune. This was Macy’s last summer at
the Red Barn since she had just turned 21 and would be a senior at the University
of Oregon this fall. Although over a year younger than me, and with about as
different an upbringing as possible, I enjoyed Macy’s company and valued her as
a friendly constant in an otherwise turbulent and tumultuous tourist season.

Pushing her
oversized sunglasses onto her head, Macy looked down at the giant bruise
swelling on my knee and six-inch-long scrape and exclaimed, “Wow, what happened
to you last night? Please tell me you met someone and got a little too frisky
down at the beach.”

Feeling my cheeks
turning red, I quickly turned and busied myself with the menus, answering, “Nothing
that exciting. I wasn’t looking where I was running last night and a slipped
and fell, that’s all.” Although I trusted Macy, I wasn’t about to tell her I
was caught breaking and entering a beachfront mansion by a breathtaking vision
of a man and bruised my knee scaling his three-story back wall.

“Well, you better
have some good looking pants then, since you’re coming out with me tonight.”

I sighed. Macy was
always trying to get me to come to her society parties, but events like that
usually just made me feel uncomfortable and out of place. “If it’s one of your
mom’s cocktail parties, I’m not interested, Macy. I’d rather just go home and
catch up on my sleep.”

“No, silly, some
of my friends are back from college and we’re throwing a last minute party on
the beach tonight,” Macy answered. “Come on, Jo. It’s Saturday and the party’s
casual, just a few friends and a local band, that’s all.”

My first instinct
was to say no, but a beach party might not be that bad, and it would get me out
of the house, and my mind off of the man taking up residence in my dreams and
thoughts of the past twelve hours. “Sounds great. When do we go?” I said.

Macy smiled and
gave me a quick hug, replying, “Party’s at 8:00—I’ll pick you up.” Then
she bounded off into the kitchen to greet Sam and prepare for her shift.

The
rest of my day at the Red Barn was busy, but uneventful. I made good money in
tips that morning with the increase in tourists for the start of the season and
I enjoyed helping the first timers to the area figure out where to go and what
sights to see. I’d tell them which beaches were good for people watching and
which were good for watching the waves breaking on the sand and rocks. I’d tell
them which hotels and bed and breakfasts were overrated and where to get a good
fish dinner that wasn’t too pretentious or overpriced. I felt like I was doing
my part to bring some normalcy and reality to what could at times be an
over-the-top tourist town.

When my shift
ended at 2:00, I grabbed my things and headed home. I walked the short way
home, waved at Eileen sitting on the front porch sipping a glass of iced tea,
and went around back to my apartment. Dumping my bag into the nearest kitchen
chair, I went straight to my bedroom to figure out what on earth I was going to
wear to this “casual beach party” that I knew was going to be anything but
casual if Macy was involved.

Assessing
my closet, I concluded everything I wanted to wear was lying in a heap at the
bottom of my hamper. After dragging myself to the laundromat to wash my meager
wardrobe that afternoon, I pulled on a pair of jeans to cover up the bruise and
cut, a white linen button-up shirt, and a navy open-front sweater. Although the
days were warm for the Oregon coast already this May, the nights cooled off
quickly, and I had no desire to be freezing out on the beach. I flipped my long
chestnut hair over and brushed it out, put on some eyeliner and mascara, and
called myself ready.