Mariner's Compass Read Online Free PDF Page A

by a bubbly, enthusiastic woman named Tina Davis who loved quilts, kids, quilters, Morro Bay, and her husband Tom, not necessarily in that order. Since San Celina didn’t have a quilt store, during the last two years as curator of the folk art museum, I’d called upon her regularly for quilting information and supplies. She was one of the few people I knew in Morro Bay, so I’d definitely have to talk to her about Mr. Chandler.
    I glanced back down at the map. Pelican paralleled Morro Bay Boulevard, so I turned right on Maddox Street until I came to Pelican Street. I turned south, cruising slowly, looking for 993. The houses in this part of Morro Bay seemed like dollhouses. Though most were of a similar, California bungalow design, each uniquely reflected the owner’s personality. The houses were painted in myriad blues, grays, whites, pinks, and faded yellows. The yards were embellished with salmon-shaped wind socks, elaborate rock gardens filled with ceramic ducks and gnomes, hanging baskets filled with lush asparagus ferns, and sprinkled everywhere the wild yellow monkey flowers that sprouted out of every nook and cranny each spring.
    Pelican Street ended at an ice-plant-covered bluff overlooking the Embarcadero. I parked in front of 993 Pelican Street and studied the house from the safety of the truck’s cab.
    The house, my house , sat on the corner of Pelican and Grove streets. The front of the house faced Pelican, and the detached garage faced Grove, a street-alley consisting only of garages. It was a one-story house painted pale yellow with white trim. A fence of neatly trimmed thick green bushes surrounded the yard. At the entrance to the front sidewalk someone had patiently trained the bushes into a seven-foot arch and attached a white picket gate to two wooden posts. Red and pink impatiens surrounded a tugboat-shaped mailbox. I climbed out of the truck and opened the mailbox. Inside there was an electric bill and a bunch of advertisement papers.
    Still not ready to go inside, I looked out at the Embarcadero and Morro Rock, which would be the view from the house’s back deck. Hidden in the ice plant was a small staircase leading to the parking lot of a surf shop named Pinkie’s Boards and Bikinis. In the distance, the sailboat masts rocked in the brisk May winds. Catty-corner from the house was a small motel decorated with blue and gray gingerbread edging and balconies off each room. The sign in front—in shiny black calligraphy—stated, “The Pelican Inn—Your Second Home by the Sea.”
    I took a deep breath and walked up to the gate feeling apprehensive, intrigued, and, I’ll admit, a little excited.
    That’s when I found out what else I’d inherited besides the house.

3
    THE DOG AND I studied each other for a long thirty seconds. He was a handsome Lab mix, the color of creamy milk chocolate. I guessed by the shape of his head and long snout, not to mention one upright, tent-shaped ear, that some German shepherd flowed through his blood. His eyes, the color of dark sage honey, made me wonder if there wasn’t also a sly old coyote grandparent. He broke the face-off and walked slowly toward me. The muscles in my arms and legs tensed. Growing up around animals, I knew how unpredictable they could be, but before I could hold out my hand for him to sniff, he sat down next to me and with great familiarity leaned his seventy some-odd pounds against my left leg, heaving a deep sigh as if to say, “What took you so long?”
    I scratched behind his floppy Labrador ear and said, “So, did you come with the house or are you just visiting?”
    His tail thumped against the concrete walkway. I stooped down and felt along his collar. A large wet tongue kissed my cheek. “Well, you certainly have a friendly streak,” I said, finding his ID tag. “Scout,” I read out loud. His thick tail whump, whumped again.
    “Good solid name,” I said, stroking his velvet head, reveling in the touch and smell of canine.