Chapter 2: Wishing and Hoping


Frank’s study
1530 (local)

Mac’s at the keyboard since she’s better at internet searches than me. Wait, hey, I’ve come a long way from just being able to e-mail. But when she hits a wall she always thinks of at least three ways to work around it. And one of them always does.

“We need to set up some parameters for our search,” she says, clicking away.

“Such as?”

“Well, do we want to live in a big city or a smaller one? In the hills or near the shore? Rural? There’s a lot of farming towns in the Central Valley area but I thought we ruled that out when we talked about your Gran’s place. Then there’s cultural amenities to consider. Average age of the population. Whether the area is increasing in size or decreasing. Tax base. Cost of living. Major employers/industry. Is it a tourist trap or mainly locals? Those kind of things.”

Wow. I’d been living where the Navy told me to for 28 years. And before that, where my Mom told me to. Choice. It’s kinda overwhelming.

We look at each other. “It’s kinda overwhelming, isn’t it?” she says.

We both take in deep breaths. At least we’re in this together.

“Let’s just break it down like we would any investigation, what’d’ya say?” I suggest.

So we begin.

Two hours later we have a list of “must haves” and one of “would likes”.

Must haves: affordable, on the coast, small to medium size but within reasonable proximity to a larger city, slow growth OK but not rapid expansion, active cultural life (community theater, concerts, dance), golf courses (for me), museums, an airstrip for ‘Sarah’, hometown atmosphere rather than tourist trap.

Would like: proximity to hiking and other outdoor pursuits, strong local government with history of environmental protectionism, low crime, good schools (not that we have children, but schools are a good indication of a town’s stability).

With our list in hand, we start pouring over a map of California.

“You know, Harm, this is a really big state. But you grew up here. How much do you know about it?”

“Oh, Mac. I was a kid, then I was a teenager. I knew where my school was and who were the cool kids in it.”

“Well rounded life, eh?”

I shrug. I’m not getting into a discussion of the relative merits of dating the cutest girl in school versus knowing how to hot-wire a car.

We start moving up the coast from La Jolla, Mac pulling up city statistics from Chamber of Council web sites as we go. It’s amazing; even the smallest little towns have a presence on the Internet. Bud was so right all those years ago; if you’re not on the net you don’t really exist.

We jump over LA like the plague-infested city we both think it is and recommence our search at Santa Barbara.

Three hours later we’re both exhausted. “Mac, my head is swimming. Let’s call it a day.”

“I’m with you. I never realized having choices is so tough.”

“Think that’s why last time we flipped a coin?”

She laughs as she shuts down the computer. “Well, you’ve gotta admit that worked out just fine. But we’d need a fifty-sided coin to flip on this. Got one?”

“Nope, used my last one just the other day. But we’ll get there, babe. There’s no big rush. And this is an important decision. Let’s not pressure ourselves too much.”

“Harm, it’s 2008, shouldn’t your Mom and Frank be home by now?”

“Mom said something about a reception at one of the galleries and Frank’s getting in 9 holes. We’re on our own tonight. Want to go out or stay in?”

“I wanna watch the last of the sunset from the deck, have a quiet dinner that you make for me, then I want to go upstairs and ravage your body.”

That’s a plan I can live with.


Monday, July 13, 2009
Burnett home
1130 (local)

After coffee and a walk on the beach we’re back at it. We agreed we’d only do two hour stretches with beach walks as breaks.

We’ve done our morning stint (no joy so far), had another walk on the beach (Mac says she may never need another pedicure if she keeps up barefoot walks on the beach) and are lunching on the deck.

“Harm, if we sold everything we owned, how long do you think we could last just being bums?”

I mentally calculate our combined pension, potential liquidation income and the cost of building a cardboard shack on the beach. “Maybe three or four years, just about when I turn 50 we’d be totally destitute. Probably not the best timing.”

“Oh, OK. I just wondered.” She returns to her sandwich as if she’d never posed the question.

“You liking this ‘I don’t have anything I have to do today’ life?” I must admit, I’m surprised. Mac has always seemed so driven, focused, methodically going down a ‘to do’ list.

“Yeah. But maybe just ‘cause it’s something I’ve never experienced. Once the novelty wears off I bet I’ll be bored.”

It’s another gorgeous day. I don’t want to go back into Frank’s study and stare at a computer screen. “Say my little sweet bum, how ‘bout we take some of that freedom out for a test drive? We can cab it over to pick up the ‘vette, then take a drive. Maybe go over to Miramar and....”

“watch some planes,” she finishes for me with a laugh.

“Maac, we can talk to people there about places to live, too.”

“Pilot people. While we watch some planes.”

“Well, yeah.”

“OK, let’s go get some outside input. And let you watch planes.”

I love this woman.


Midway Chrysler Dealership
San Diego
1400 (local)

As they pull her into the parking lot, it’s like seeing a long-lost lover again. I can’t help myself. I run to her and stroke her hood like I was petting a beloved dog. Or making love to Mac.

I look over at her sheepishly. She’s doing a great job of smiling without smirking.
The driver gets out and extends his hand to me. “Hi, I’m Tony and I worked on your ‘vette. Had to meet her owner. Boy are you a lucky son of a gun to have something this sweet.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty special, but she’s not the sweetest ‘her’ in my life,” as I eyebrow over to Mac.

“Nope, I guess that means you’re doubly blessed! Ma’am,” he nods to Mac. “I checked her over stem to stern, everything’s 5 by 5.”

“Any chance you were a plane captain, Tony? Or some other kinda Navy mechanic?”

“Plane captain on the Patrick Henry for five years.”

I don’t care that Mac’s rolling her eyes. “I flew ‘cats off the Henry. Captain Harmon Rabb, retired.”

The Navy bond is complete. “Should’ve guessed a jet jockey’d be this one’s pilot. Well, you need anything, anytime, just call us here,” he hands me a card. “She’ll always get nothing but the best from us.”

“Thanks, Tony. Where do I go to settle up the bill?”

“Oh, Mr. Burnett already took care of that. All you need are these,” he hands me the keys. We shake hands again and I climb in.

“Ready, Mac?”

“As I ever will be. Just try to not get a speeding ticket the first day you have her back, and I’ll try to not be jealous that you nearly jumped her bones in the parking lot.”

Picking up State Highway 163, I head toward Miramar. She’s purring so nice. Her steering is trigger tight. I’m in heaven.

Mac takes hold of my hand as it rests on the gear shift and I know life couldn’t be better. Well, maybe knowing where we’re gonna live, what we’re gonna do for jobs and getting our stuff back from its far-flung storage spaces might improve things a tad. But for right now, I’m as happy as anybody deserves to be.


Marine Corps Air Station Miramar
Main Gate
1500 (local)

Our IDs are still good to get us on base and I head to the flight center. Looks like they’re doing Hornet drills today. I lean against the ‘vette and watch the sky, breathing deeply the aviation fuel-scented air.

Mac wraps her arm around my waist. “Happy, flyboy?”

I simply lean down and kiss her.

“Tell me you’re not re-treading again!” Comes the laughing voice that can only belong to one woman.

“SKATES! What are you doing here?”

She looks down at her flight suit and gestures with her helmet. “I heard there was a beach around here, so I thought I’d check it out. What’d’ya think I’m doing here, Hammer? Running the ladies’ sewing circle? It’s called flying, remember?” She playfully punches me on the arm.

“Just got done with my last run of the day. Wanna get a beer? And by the way, what are you doing here?”

“Yes to the drink. We’ll tell you then.”

We head to the O Club as Skates goes to change.

“If she’s been stationed here long, we just hit the mother lode of intel, Mac. She’ll know everything about everything. At least, she always has.”

“She knew how to get you to stay alive after your swim in the Atlantic. That’s all she ever needs to know as far as I’m concerned.”

I don’t think Mac is ever gonna completely get over that crash. I think it was harder on her than it was on me. I squeeze her hand and Skates walks in.

“Jeez, I catch you kissing, now you’re holding hands. Haven’t you guys been married like four years?”

”Yeah, but we had nine years to make up for. The way I figure it, our honeymoon should last at least five more.”

I see her consider that. “Maybe there is something to that abstinence thing. I never bought into it but.... Anyway, what are you doing here? Last I heard you were FJA Europe in London and Mac was with the American Embassy over there.”

We fill her in then ask the big question, “what can you tell us about places to live around here. Well, not around here but further north, northern California, on the coast.” We brief her on our “wants and wishes”.

“Wait, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re in line to get your Admiral’s star and become the next JAG and you chuck it without even knowing where you’re gonna live and what you’re gonna do?”

Well, when you put it like that it does sound a little impetuous.

“I couldn’t stand living in London anymore. I was starting to call umbrellas bumbershoots. That’s when I knew I had to get out, whatever the cost. I had four years in that billet, Mac had her 20 in, it seemed like the time to go.”

The look on her face says she’s not sure we’re firing on all cylinders.

“Do you have any idea what kinda job you want?”

“We figured we’d find were we want to live first, then look into the job thing,” Mac explains.

“OK. Didn’t realize you two were independently wealthy,” Skates’ sarcasm cuts pretty deep. “Northern California, on the shore no less, is not exactly the low-rent district.”

“We’re not. And we know. But we’re lawyers, we figure we can eke out a living somehow,” I rebut.

She turns to Mac. “Don’t I recall that you speak some languages that are very popular in military circles these days? Like Arabic and Farsi.”

“Yeah. I’ve also got fluent Russian and can get by in Hebrew.”

“Ever heard of the Defense Language Institute? Or the Naval Postgraduate School?”

“Vaguely.”

Skates turns to me. “You grew up in California, right? Ever get up to Monterey? Carmel? Clint Eastwood and golf country on some of the most beautiful land in the world.”

Holy shit! I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this! I grab Skates and plant a big kiss on her, right on her mouth. “I knew it. I knew you’d have the answer. It’s perfect!”

I turn to Mac, who’s still blinking at the big kiss. “It’s perfect, Mac. Perfect. You won’t believe how perfect it is!”

Back to Skates, “thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re stationed here, so we know how to find you. I’ll let you know when we get settled. But right now we gotta run. Computer work to do!”

I throw money on the table and practically drag Mac out of the O Club, leaving a smiling Skates in our wake.

Burnett home
1630 (local)

I nearly set land speed records getting back here. Mac was not pleased. Neither was the cop who gave me that speeding ticket.

To her credit, Mac did not say “I told you so.” But I know she thought it.

Now Mac’s on the computer and I’ve pulled out a paper map of the area my Mom has (lots of art galleries in Carmel-by-the-sea and she keeps a close eye on her competition).

The DLI (as it is known) would be nuts to not want Mac. They train all four branches of the military plus DEA, FBI, CIA and INS personnel. Granted, most of its nearly 750 faculty are native speakers, but Mac’s almost a native Farsi speaker. Her extensive military background’s gotta count heavily in her favor. And it’s right there on the Presidio, overlooking Monterey Bay.

But if by some strange chance they don’t have a place for her (hard to imagine since it is the largest language training institution in the world and Arabic and Farsi are the hot languages right now), there’s always the Naval Postgraduate School. She could teach any number of courses there. For that matter, so could I.

Or I could join a law firm. There certainly are a lot of them.

And culture! More than one person could ever take in. World famous Bach Festival, Monterey Jazz Festival, live theater companies too numerous to count, an art gallery on just about every block, history that goes back to the 1700’s when the Spanish first established a mission and claimed the land for Spain.

Outdoor activities? Well, when you get tired of skin diving, kayaking or sailing in the Bay, there’s always the dozens of State and National parks close by. Wanna take a long weekend? Ever heard of Yosemite?

Then there’s that golf thing. Man, you can’t swing a club without hitting a course on the Peninsula. Hell, even the Navy has a golf course in Monterey!

This is it. I can feel it in my bones.

“Harm, do you know that Clint Eastwood was actually Mayor of Carmel?” Mac says incredulously. “And when he was, he outlawed ice cream cones.”

“He made eating ice cream illegal?”

“No, he just made eating ice cream cones while walking down the sidewalk illegal. They were too messy.”
Now that’s what I call aggressive local governmental ecological activism.

“Mac, this is it. This is where we’re supposed to be. This is back where we belong.” I’m just barely suppressing the urge to jump up and down.

“Look at the climate chart.” It’s like someone put in “70’s and sunny”, hit the ‘copy’ key and just kept going.

“Looks like they have a foggy season,” Mac notes.

Yeah, well even paradise has a few minor flaws. “But I remember what their coastal fog is like. It’s nothing like London fog. It’s actually pretty, the way it hangs in the trees. Romantic, even.” I rub her shoulders; she’s been clicking away for a few hours and has to be getting tired.

“OK, Harm. I’ve bookmarked most of these sites. Let’s call it a day, what’d’ya say?”

“Just one more place, please?” I do my best puppy dog. “Pebble Beach, The Lodge at Pebble Beach.” She obliges and my heart does flip flops as I see pictures of the famous Links course. I don’t let her go to the greens fee page.

“Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

She shuts down the computer. “So you keep telling me.”


Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Burnett home
0900 (local)

We’re having our coffee on the deck and telling Mom and Frank about yesterday’s discoveries.

“You want to make it perfect?” Frank asks. “Live in Pacific Grove. It’s between Monterey and Pebble Beach. Real hometown but minutes from everything. Lots of old Victorian houses and little cottages. Feels like the ‘50’s in some ways. Even have these great little concerts in a gazebo in a park. And a lovely community festival about star-crossed lovers that they act out on Lover’s Point. It’s a way-station for the monarch butterfly migration. They have a butterfly festival, too.”

Pleasantville. In the core of my being I know it.

“OK,” Mac stands up. “I’m gonna do some more serious research on the DLI, make some calls to some folks I know who might be able to give me the inside scoop.” She holds her hand up in a halt gesture to me. “Harm, let me do this on my own.”

“You got it. I’ll be out here if you need me, or want to show me something.”
Frank and Mom go off to their respective duties and I pull a page out of my pocket I printed out when Mac took a bathroom break yesterday.

Picking up the phone I call the Green Gables bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove. “Yes, when is your next opening for a two-night stay?”

Then it’s back to Skates. “Hey, what are the chances Mac and I can hitch a ride from Miramar to Monterey?”

I knew it. We can fly up the coast in a Blackhawk going to the Monterey Coast Guard station in two days. Guess what, the Green Gables has a room available for two nights starting in, ta da, two days.

Yes, I think fate is back on the job.



Chapter 3: Do You Know The Way To Monterey?


Later that day
Burnett home

“Harm?”

I can hear Mac’s trepidation. Has she learned something about the DLI that is making her uneasy? Is the whole idea of moving to California beginning to freak her out? Is there a lizard in the kitchen (this is their territory and we’re just lucky that they let us share it with them)?

“Yeah?” Boy, if there was a better way to express concern, I’m sure I’d come up with it. In the meantime....

“I’ve been doing that research I said I would. I’ve even talked to five old colleagues who gave me the ‘inside poop’ on the DLI.”

I look at her closely. I can’t tell. She looks happy and sad at the same time.

“All five are gonna call folks they know at DLI and recommend me for a post. Every one of them said Monterey was one of the best places in the to world to live. They all recommended Pacific Grove.” She shakes herself a bit. “It’s like it’s all being laid out for us.” She gives me a look. “It’s kinda scary.”

“No more than when we flipped the coin in McMurphy’s. Fate has always had a big hand in our lives, Mac. Let’s let it have another go-round.”

“But what about you? What if I get a job at DLI and then where will you be?”
“I’ll be a lawyer with an established firm in Monterey. Or I’ll hang out a shingle. Or I’ll spend the next year rehabbing the Victorian we’re gonna buy in Pacific Grove, then figure out what I’m gonna do. We can do this, Mac, if it’s what you want to do.”

She gives me the Mac/marine scrutiny that only someone who’s been through Parris Island can do.

“You clear on this? You totally buy into this with no reservations? (I know she is consciously echoing the oath we take at induction: “with no mental reservations”).

“Clear, and have a battle plan to present.”


Burnett home
1500 (local)

“That’s all mighty cocky of you, isn’t it? I mean, Rabb (shit, she hasn’t called me ‘Rabb’ in years, this must be serious) you expect me to take this job at the DLI, which I haven’t been offered, we move to Pacific Grove -- which I’m not sure we can afford -- and you are unemployed! Just stop me when I get something wrong here.....”

“Mac, you have everything right here. Everything that matters. Us, first and foremost. Where we’re gonna live somewhere that’s gonna make us happy.

“So we’re flying out of Miramar.”

“Cheap seats, Mac. And with a Blackhawk we’ll be closer to the ground, better to see the coastline.”

“And once we ge there?”

“Blackhawk lands at US Coast Guard Station, Monterey. I’ve taken the liberty to reserve a car for you.” Her eyebrows go up. “Hey, you’re the one getting wooed, not me.”

“Has anyone told you lately how good you are?”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve just been trying to stay in the game. The one that fate seems to have taken over for us.”


Two days later
In a Blackhawk
Somewhere over Big Sur
0900 (local)
“My god, Harm. Nothing can be this beautiful. It can’t be real. Did Disney buy up all this land?”

Mac’s gawking out of the helo at Highway 1 as it winds up the very edge of the continental United States. We’ve already done a somewhat unauthorized flyby of Hearst’s Castle San Simeon. “Boy, that’d make the Addams envious,” was her droll comment.

Now we’re closing in on the Peninsula.

“Honey, we’re home,” I say to her. “From now on, this is our new stomping grounds.”

We pass the Point Sur Lighthouse. “There used to be a garrison stationed there. Can you believe it, they got ‘hardship’ pay because the winds are so consistently strong. Never mind the beauty of the place. It’s been in operation since 1889, ‘though now it’s automated. It’s also where the last of the US Navy dirigibles crashed.”

That got her attention.

“Yeah, in 1935 two of the lighthouse keepers -- they used to have four families living up there -- saw the USS Macon crash offshore. All but two of her crew survived, but what a sight she must have been. She was three times longer than a 747, had a top speed of 80 mph and could carry and retrieve four Sparrowhawk F-9C-2 airplanes. They didn’t recover her wreckage, including the scout planes, ‘til 1990. But we can see them now. In fact we can visit the whole Lighthouse, it’s a State Historic Park.”

“You been doing some Googling behind my back, Harm?”

Busted. “Just a little. Most of it I already knew. Especially all about the Macon.”

I know she still thinks I’m a total computer idiot, but really, I’m not. Not totally. I can Google a bit, not with the best of them, but a bit.

“This whole stretch of seashore, I’m not sure how far out it extends, from south of Big Sur all the way up to Monterey is a State Game Refuge. Mac, you won’t believe the sea lions and seals and best of all the otters. They’re the cutest little guys. And smart, too. One of the few animals that uses a tool. They find themselves a favorite shell and keep it. Even have a kind of pocket under their arm to store it. Then they use it to crack open their dinner.”

“Which would be?”

“Mussels, abalone, sea stars, things like that.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Hey, it is to them. Wait ‘til you see one, it’ll be love at first sight, I guarantee you. It was for me and I was like a fourteen year old guy. Not exactly prone to falling for little furry water critters.”

Her look says it all.

“It’s an otter, not a beaver.”

We wisely decide to change the subject.

The Blackhawk starts to swing further out to sea.

“What are we doing?” Mac asks.

“Getting close to Point Lobos, ma’am. Gotta stay well out of its airspace. In fact, gotta try to get far enough away they can’t hear us, but that depends on the wind direction,” the pilot answers.

“In all of California’s magnificent State and National Parks and Forests, Point Lobos is considered by many to be the jewel in the crown. It’s a State Reserve and it’ll knock your socks off every time you turn your head. It’s been called ‘the greatest meeting of water and land on earth’.”

“Harm, have you ever heard the caution about overselling?”

“Yeah, Mac, I have. And I’m not. Honestly. You are not gonna believe how incredible, astounding, awe inspiring the land is around here. And how strongly most people work to preserve it.”

We head back in closer to land as we approach Carmel. Then, there it is.

“There it is! There it is!” I’m bouncing up and down in my seat pointing out the window.

“What, Harm? All I see is more beautiful shoreline.”

“Pebble Beach. The Links. The course. The Pebble Beach Links. That’s the eighteenth hole, right there!”

“Looks nice,” she says dryly.

“Mac, let me put this in terms you can understand. Beltway Burgers are nice; this is filet mignon at Le Cirque.”

We’re heading north along Seventeen Mile Drive and I’ve noticed that Mac’s mouth hasn’t really closed since Big Sur. Gotcha.

“Harm, how many holes does Pebble Beach have? I keep seeing more.”
“Enough to fill the Albert Hall.” Her look says she missed the reference. Oh well. “There are like nine world class golf courses in Pebble Beach alone. There are at least that many in the surrounding towns. Like I said, even the Navy has a golf course out here.”

“Oh I get it now. I’m gonna work and you’re gonna fly ‘Sarah’ on the days you’re not golfing.”

“Or skin diving. And I’d like to learn to kayak. But there’s a lot of agriculture just inland. I might do a little crop dusting just to help out here and there.”

I give her my best smile and follow it with a kiss (not an altogether graceful move in helmets and headsets).

We’ve passed Spanish Bay and it’s like every molecule in my body is smiling. “This is it, Mac, this is Pacific Grove. This is home.” We round the Pacific Grove Lighthouse and head further away from land.

“Pacific Grove Marine Gardens Park,” the pilot explains. “Don’t want to disturb the sea lions, seals and otters.”

“You wanted local government involved in ecology? Think they got that here.” I’m smiling so big my face is starting to hurt.

“Lover’s Point,” the pilot nods to the land extension. “Then there’s the Hopkins Marine Research Station, it’s affiliated with Stanford. Right next door is the world famous Monterey Aquarium, oh by the way that’s where Monterey starts. One side of the street is Pacific Grove, the other Monterey. Now I’ve gotta limit my talk to the tower, so I’m taking you two off my frequency.”

We land at the Coast Guard Station and climb out of the Blackhawk.

A man I’d judge to be in his mid-twenties approaches us.

“Mrs. MacKenzie-Rabb, Mr. Rabb?”

Wow, we’re not the Colonel and the Captain anymore, are we? ‘Mr. Rabb’ sounds real strange to me. ‘Mrs. MacKenzie-Rabb’ sounds even stranger. Can’t we keep Colonel and Captain? I know Admirals are still called ‘Admiral’ after they retire. I think I’m gonna check the regs on that.

Clearly Mac is having the same reaction. “What? Oh, yeah, I guess we are.”

If this is someone the DLI sent to chauffeur us around, I’m thinking his first impression might be something along the lines of “these guys aren’t even sure who they are? What the hell does the DLI want with them?”

“Tom Peters, from the DLI,” he shakes Mac’s hand, then mine. “I’m here to help you in any way you need. I believe your first appointment is at 1100, ma’am, so we should head on over to the Presidio. They’ve got you booked solid through 1600, so I’ll be happy to be your tour guide for the afternoon, sir, if you’d like.”

They had e-mailed Mac her schedule yesterday, so none of this was a surprise. Well, except the helpful tour guide who is even now loading our bags in the trunk.

We head upland to the Presidio. Even Mac can’t keep herself from saying “wow” at the view. The campus sits atop a hillock that gives a strategic, and gorgeous, panoramic view of Monterey Bay. The weather is perfect, a gentle breeze ruffles Mac’s hair and I can see by the look on her face she’s at least halfway sold.

Now, if the job offer is anything other than dog meat, and I can manage to find a place we can afford, this might work. (Oh please, oh please, whatever powers are out there, please make this work.)

Tom takes Mac inside to hand her off to her first interviewer while I choose to stay outside and drink in the view, the air, the moment.

Shortly he returns. “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

“We’re staying at the Green Gables.....”

“Excellent choice.”

“So why don’t we swing by there, I’ll get us registered and drop off our luggage. Then let’s do a slow, methodical reconnoiter of Pacific Grove real estate.”


The Presidio
1600 (local)

We’re back to pick up Mac after an exhaustive search of local housing. Well, we won’t be living on Ocean View Blvd., but the area bounded by Lighthouse, Forest, Seventeen Mile Drive and Sinex looks promising. And affordable; barely.

But my dreams of being a golf bum dissolved after looking at the prices. Oh well, there’s always the weekends, and nine holes after work. I’ll bet a lot of business meetings are held on the greens, too. Hell, they’d have to be to keep this many courses in business.

Mac’s coming out and she’s got her game face on. I don’t have a clue how she feels about the DLI and won’t ‘til she decides to tell.

That’s OK. I know how this works.

“If you don’t need me anymore today, I’ll just give you the keys,” Tom says to me.
“No, yeah, fine, great, thanks.” Damn, I can be so eloquent at times.

“Mrs. MacKenzie-Rabb’s first appointment tomorrow isn’t until 1200, but if you’d like me to assist you after that, sir, I’m available.”

“No, as great a help as you’ve been today, I think I’ll manage on my own tomorrow. If I change my mind, can I call you in the morning?”

He hands me a card, “sure thing.”

Mac and I get in the car. “Ready to see a little slice of heaven?” I grin at her.

“You’re the pilot,” she grins back.

I take her on a meandering tour through the residential area, wander down Lighthouse, which is the town’s Main Street, pass the museum and library with its gazebo-adorned park, and end up on Ocean View Blvd. at Lover’s Point.

“Our B&B is that one, over there.” I point to a huge Victorian with more gables than a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel. “Wanna change and take a walk along the shore. There’s this great path.”

The grin on her face is my answer.

We walk along the path all the way to the PG Lighthouse, then turn around to head back.

“This path goes all the way to Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey.” We’re sitting on a bench, watching the seals and sea lions sunning themselves on a rock, enjoying the last of the afternoon.

Finally, I spot one. “Mac, look out there. See that floating log, about two and a half feet long.”

She nods.

“Watch it.”

Suddenly it flips over, dives, reappears with some small clam-like thing in its paws. Holding its supper in one paw, it reaches under his arm and pulls out his tool with his other. In a flash he’s cracked open the hapless dinner and slurped it down. Stashing his tool back under his arm he resumes floating on his back, with his little paws folded over his now-full tummy.

Mac is hooting, clapping, stomping her feet. “Ohmygod, that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” Gotcha.

“I wish we had time to visit the Aquarium, they’ve got a whole pod and watching them play together is a gas. Next time we’re here, maybe,” I know it’s a bit of a fishing expedition, but how long is she gonna make me wait?
“Harm, have you noticed there’s no graffiti around here? Not really any litter either, and look how many people are using this path. And driving around the neighborhoods, sure there were some fixer-uppers, but mainly this seems like a solid, safe place.”

I had deliberately driven by the high school (Tom told me football practice had started) so she could get a sense of the kids around here.

“Mac, please, tell me how your day went at the DLI,” not quite a whine but bordering close to one.

“Harm, in a word, perfect. It’s perfect for me. I’m perfect for them. It’s a match made in heaven. I’d still be serving my country, still be surrounded by military, still be called ‘Colonel’ -- hey, don’t take this wrong but Mrs. MacKenzie-Rabb just sounds weird to me -- get to keep fighting terrorism. In a drop-dead gorgeous place.”

I jump up screaming “YES!!!!” at the top of my lungs. I grab her and swing her around. “I knew it, I knew it. This is it, this is back where we belong.”

“Only one thing, Harm.” She’s taken a very serious turn here. One I’m not sure I like. “The earth moves out here.”

I lean into her ear. “I thought you liked it when the earth moves for you.”

“I like it when you make the earth move for me, Harm. I don’t think I’m wild about having the whole town move at once.”

“Maaac, everyplace has some drawbacks. Blizzards, hurricanes, tornadoes, volcanos. Hell, there’s a fault line that runs through Missouri; they’ve had earthquakes in St. Louis.”

Her look tells me she’s anything but swayed by my argument. How did I beat her in court so often?

I take her by the hand. “OK, let’s get some intel on this. We can swing by the library on the way back to our B&B.”

At the reference desk of the surprisingly well-equipped local library, the librarian is more than happy to help us. “You’re not the first ones to ask that question,” she chuckles as she hands us a folder. “This is the most current, comprehensive and scientifically accepted data on the subject. I think it will put your minds at rest.”

I wiggle my eyebrows at Mac as we sit down at a table, file open between us. The US Geological Survey Earthquake Hazards Program--Northern California. Jeez, the reference citations take up over a page.

OK, they’ve got credibility alright.

“Harm, look at this map!” Mac is clearly alarmed. “Monterey sits between the San Andreas Fault and the San Gregorio-Hosgri Fault. It’s a squeeze play. One goes, triggers the other and we’re all visiting Davy Jones.”

”And look at this map, Mac. The one that predicts the likelihood of seismic activity. Notice how Monterey is in the 10% zone. And check this out, even if the San Gregorio does a major slip, this map indicates “light to very light” damage is predicted.”

The librarian comes over. Whoops, were we being too loud?

“You guys remember the World Series quake a number of years ago? Bad damage in San Fran, pancaked highways and all. We didn’t feel a thing. That fault out in the bay is like a release valve for the San Andreas around here. I’ve lived here all my life. Sure, I’ve felt tremblers, and they are unnerving, but really, seismically speaking, this is one of the safest places on the coast. But everywhere has something to worry about. Who would’ve thought New Orleans would be wiped out by a hurricane?” She sighs and shakes her head a little. “Anyway, we’re closing in 15 minutes, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow. I’ll be here.”

We thank her and hand her back the folder.

Quietly we leave the library and Mac lets me lead her into the gazebo in the adjacent park. We watch a couple kids playing on a giant whale that is in front of the museum across the street. Their moms are sitting on a bench, talking and watching them slide down the whale’s tail.

“Just one more question, Harm. Can we afford to live here?”

I fold my hands over Mac’s, nod and whisper “Welcome to Pleasantville, after they discovered color.”