as she glanced around.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Guess they’re just rolling up the streets for the night.”
“It’s only a little after nine!”
“We’re a few weeks ahead of the main tourist season. Avalon probably gets livelier then.”
“How strange,” she murmured. “And sad. Lights used to blaze here all night long.”
“Yeah, that’s what the tour guide said.”
According to the guide who’d escorted them through the casino this afternoon, Avalon had once rocked. When chewing gum magnate William Wrigley bought Catalina Island in 1919, he made it a training camp for his Chicago Cubs and built a field to match the dimensions of Wrigley Field in Chicago. The Cubs spring training attracted hosts of eager spectators and sportscasters. Among them was a young Ronald “Dutch” Reagan, who zipped back across the channel in 1931 to take the screen test that changed his profession and his life.
Zane Gray set one of his novels on the island and built a home high on one of the hills above Avalon. Sportsmen like Theodore Roosevelt used to troll the deep blue waters for marlin and sailfish. Betty Grable, Cary Grant, John Wayne and friends regularly yachted over from L.A. to frolic at the great hotels and bars.
Along with the rich and famous came thousands of ordinary folks. Always a shrewd businessman, William Wrigley built the Avalon Casino to lure movie buffs and hepcats. They ferried over by the boatload to view first-run films in the casino’s magnificent theater or dance until dawn in the upstairs ballroom.
All that activity came to a screeching halt two days after Pearl Harbor. Declaring the island a military zone, the government shut down all commercial boat traffic. For four years Catalina served as a training site for the merchant marines. The only civilians allowed on the island were the residents who provided essential services to the base.
After the war, Catalina and the city of Avalon never quite regained their glitter and glamour. The big band era was over. The Cubs moved their spring training to Florida. Vastly expanded air travel allowed Hollywood’s elite to jet down to Acapulco or over to Hawaii to play. A few stars still sailed across the channel to party on their sleek yachts, but Natalie Wood’s tragic drowning seemed to signal the end of that era, too.
Now the town catered primarily to families who used it for a weekend escape and the cruise ship passengers who thronged to the shops during the day and sailed away at dusk.
“It’s nice like this,” Drew commented. “No crowds, no hassle.”
It was also very convenient. He and Tracy were two strangers thrown together in relative isolation. Playing to that theme, he made a casual suggestion.
“Since it looks like our dirty miller is out…”
“Dusty miller,” she corrected glumly.
“Since our dusty miller is apparently out, how about a drink?”
That brightened her up. “A drink sounds good.”
“Shall we find a bar or go back to the inn and enjoy the view?”
“Let’s go back to the inn.” With a last look around the darkened streets, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “We’ll have a private party.”
Drew formulated his game plan on the walk back to the Bella Vista. First a drink. Then some idle conversation. Another drink. A casual mention of the ships that sailed from the busy ports across the channel. A not-so-casual reference to the USS Kallister.
At the reminder of his mission, his muscles tightened. The involuntary movement pressed Tracy’s arm into his side. She slanted him a quick glance, then snuggled closer. The feel of her high, firm breast against his arm did a serious number on his concentration. The scent that tickled his senses didn’t help, either.
Midnight gardenia. It fit her, he decided. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as the waxy petals. And like some exotic, night-blooming plant, she’d opened to reveal a showy flower.
So showy, she couldn’t wait to experiment with her purchases. Once back at her room, she waggled a hand toward the minibar.
“Do the honors, will you? I just want to powder my nose and put on some lipstick.”
“What’ll you have?” Drew asked as she sailed for the bathroom.
“Scotch.”
“On the rocks?”
“Why water down good hooch?”
While she wrestled with plastic packaging in the bathroom, Drew moved fast. His first objective was the purse she’d deposited on the bed. The wallet held her driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and less than ten dollars in cash. No scribbled phone numbers, no cryptic notes and only one picture of Tracy and an older man grinning at the camera. Her father? Grandfather?
Making a mental note to have Denise run her family history, Drew flipped open her cell phone. The call log showed no calls received or transmitted since she’d arrived on Catalina yesterday.
He had time to give the small suitcase sitting on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed only a quick look. She obviously wasn’t intending a long stay. The weekender contained a neatly folded sweater, a cotton blouse, tan twill slacks and several pairs of cotton panties.
The thump of plastic cartons hitting the bathroom wastebasket announced Tracy’s imminent return. Diverting to the minibar, he poured two miniatures of scotch into plastic cups and carried them to the French doors. He doubted she would want to go out onto the balcony after her dizzy spell this afternoon, but the view from inside the room served his purpose just as well.
He could see the faint glow of lights from a cargo ship steaming up the San Pedro Channel. His opening conversational gambit was right there in front of him. Planning his segue from the cargo ship to the Kallister, he was ready when Tracy emerged from the bathroom.
“Now I feel more like the real me.”
Drew just about dropped the plastic cups. If this was the real Tracy Brandt, all it had taken was a little color to bring her out. The bright red lipstick drew his gaze instantly to full, ripe lips. Subtle shading deepened her eyes to a mysterious jungle-green. Pancake makeup eradicated the dark circles under them. He had no idea what she’d done to her skin to make it look so luminescent, but he had to battle the urge to stroke a knuckle down the smooth curve of her cheek.
Her hair was different, too. She’d taken off her headscarf and released the thick, silky mass from its tight roll. Still damp, it now fell in unruly waves to her shoulders.
The change went more than skin-deep, though. Drew was still trying to figure it out when she raised her plastic cup.
“Here’s to you and here’s to me. May we never disagree. But if we do…”
Drew hooked an eyebrow and waited for the punch line. He’d heard variations of this toast that would make his old buddies in the navy blush. Tracy kept it clean, ending with a merry laugh.
“Here’s to me.”
She tossed back a healthy swallow, closed her eyes and let the scotch slide down her throat. When her lids fluttered up, she stared at the remaining liquid in near awe.
“That’s prime hooch.”
Was retro slang the new thing? Tracy certainly seemed to be into it.
“That’s the second time you used the term hooch,” Drew remarked. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”
Shrugging, she took another sip. “Hooch, booze, giggle water. Whatever name you pin on this stuff, it sure goes down smooth. This Juicy Jamaica Red gives it a different flavor, though. Sort of smoky and fruity at the same time.”
She ran her tongue over her upper lip, testing, tasting, then moved to the lower. Drew followed her progress with a sudden tightening in his chest.