Eagle bay, p.1
Eagle Bay, page 1
Prologue
Chapter: 1
Chapter: 2
Chapter: 3
Chapter: 4
Chapter: 5
Chapter: 6
Chapter: 7
Chapter: 8
Chapter: 9
Chapter: 10
Chapter: 11
Chapter: 12
Chapter: 13
Chapter: 14
Chapter: 15
Chapter: 16
Chapter: 17
Chapter: 18
Chapter: 19
Chapter: 20
Chapter: 21
Chapter: 22
Chapter: 23
Chapter: 24
Chapter: 25
Chapter: 26
Chapter: 27
Chapter: 28
Chapter: 29
Chapter: 30
Chapter: 31
Chapter: 32
Chapter: 33
Chapter: 34
Chapter: 35
Chapter: 36
Chapter: 37
Chapter: 38
Chapter: 39
Chapter: 40
Chapter: 41
Chapter: 42
Chapter: 43
Chapter: 44
Chapter: 45
Chapter: 46
Chapter: 47
Chapter: 48
Chapter: 49
Chapter: 50
Chapter: 51
Chapter: 52
Chapter: 53
Chapter: 54
Chapter: 55
Chapter: 56
Chapter: 57
Chapter: 58
Chapter: 59
Chapter: 60
Acknowledgments
Author Bio
Other Titles by
KEN CRUICKSHANK
The Emerald Cross
Stand Up: a memoir of disease, family, faith & hope
Copyright © 2023 Ken Cruickshank | kencruickshank.com
All rights reserved. No part or any portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, mechanical, digital, or transmitted without the author’s prior written permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and do not depict real persons or events. Any resemblance to actual people or incidents is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST EDITION
To my loving wife, Karen, who believes in me.
You deserve more praise than an entire
library of dedication could express.
Prologue
1534
The skies filled with masses of birds as Capitán Juan Francisco Montoya, his mapmaker, and two conquistadors descended a coastal mountain on horseback. Violent tremors shook the earth, causing their horses to snort and shuffle wildly.
Struggling to calm their mounts, the horsemen watched in horror as a great wave stretched across the entire seaboard, approaching the bay at speeds unimagined. The wall of destruction charged into the anchored Santa Sofia and her three hundred Spaniards on board. A raging sea engulfed the galleon and swept it into a forest of towering pines.
“¡Mi barco! ¡Mis hombres!” cried the capitán. My ship. My men.
Weeks later, gazing north from a ridge overlooking his marooned galleon, a somber Montoya reflected on the carnage and death. He regretted not sailing back to Seville with his bounty of incredible treasures. His decision to chart New Spain’s northwestern shores delayed their homecoming, dooming the expedition and his conquistadors.
Capitán Montoya studied the natural wonder of the mysterious place that fate delivered him. Stunning shores and rock formations. Rivers and valleys like none other. A land filled with abundance.
A land that would one day be called Oregon.
Chapter:
1
1986
Eagle Bay, Oregon
Thomas Westbrooke considered it strange that a tired relic of a bygone era was the busiest lunch spot in his thriving hometown. The Lighthouse Inn was a nondescript rectangle with shingle siding painted an unsightly pale blue, but what it lacked in curb appeal was countered by sweeping vistas of Eagle Bay and Cape Nahteenwa. The place was an institution serving a devoted clientele of dealmakers, fishermen, and seafood lovers.
Glancing over his shoulder from the host station, Thomas watched John McCloud saunter through a sun-drenched parking lot with a pleasant expression that mirrored his personality. As he entered, their mutual smiles reflected bonds formed in grade school and maintained into their mid-twenties.
They clasped hands in their familiar grip and embraced. “You’re still all muscle, buddy,” Thomas said as he thrust his palm into John’s rigid shoulder.
Amused and voicing agreement, John patted his sleeved bicep, and they followed a server to the right. Ambling through a maze of patrons to an open table, they seated themselves in sturdy wooden chairs crafted from local Douglas firs. Black and white photos of anglers in their dories at sea covered three walls. An antique ship wheel highlighted the room, and nautical artifacts lay displayed in dark wood cases.
John removed his Vuarnets with calloused hands and exposed inquisitive brown eyes. Thomas looked and acted like the busy executive he was. The handsome duo sat and conversed, oblivious to onlookers’ eyes.
A ponytailed young woman arrived with a pen and pad of paper, and they ordered their usual plus two half-pints of house porters. Mid-day light poured through twenty oak-framed windows, illuminating their faces.
Upon laying a cotton napkin in his lap, John said, “It seems like you or someone from your company is in the news every week. Whenever your ugly mug shows up on TV, the kids point and scream, ‘There’s Uncle Thomas!’ I’m guessing your business is booming?”
“Things are going well,” Thomas said after silencing his vibrating pager. “We just broke ground on a new building.” He spent five minutes updating John on the happenings within his family’s eponymous firm, Westbrooke Coastal Industries.
“Impressive,” John said with a nod and smile. “We’d be just another dreary beach town if it weren’t for you Westbrookes.” He took a sip of water. “How are your mom and dad?”
“Robert’s fine. After the board elected me CEO two months ago, he moved to chairman,” Thomas said. “We’re meeting with Goldman Sachs next week—they want to take us public.” He paused. “Regarding Emma . . . well, her condition never changes. But you know that.”
“Yeah, of course. It just feels right to ask,” John said, reminding himself of Thomas’s burden, having a mentally diminished mother who was once vibrant and capable. “Hey, I saw that Forbes ranked you as one of the top hundred execs under thirty. Quite the achievement, you mover and shaker. Congrats.”
“Thanks, but it’s really not a big deal. And it was due to Robert’s reputation more than anything I’ve accomplished.”
“I seriously doubt that,” John said. “I’m always impressed by your modesty. If I had your skills, I might not be schlepping drywall and boxes of nails across dirt.” Thomas appeared unmoved. “Come on, smile. You know I’m right.” He clutched Thomas’s wrist. “You’re an extraordinary man. Princeton grad. Westbrooke business maverick. The vaunted ‘Pillar of Eagle Bay.’”
“You done?” Thomas said before beaming. Because Robert raised his son never to challenge his supremacy within the family dynasty, Thomas appreciated John’s acknowledgment of his contributions to Westbrooke Coastal Industries. He couldn’t recall a single instance when his father expressed anything similar.
They centered their woven placemats just as their server lowered two piping hot bowls to the table. The salty aroma of fresh clam chowder drifted upward, teasing their senses. Nothing felt more Oregon Coast than feasting on fresh chowder.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Thomas said, creasing his forehead as if it were an absurd question. “Nothing gets in the way of a day of fishing, mon frère. Wasn’t that the pledge we made in high school? ‘Not girls nor homework shall stand in the way of fishing in the delta or the waters of Eagle Bay.’” After reciting the words, he lifted his spoon with its pudding-thick soup.
“Unbelievable.” John shook his head. “I’d pay a thousand bucks for your memory, maybe more.”
“Be thankful you don’t have it. Contrary to the adage, time doesn’t heal all wounds. Not for me, anyway; I can’t forget anything. It’s a curse.”
“Then be happy you haven’t done anything truly batshit crazy. Recurring memories of blowing up mailboxes with M-80s in high school shouldn’t weigh on your conscience too much.” John simulated an explosion with his hands. “Besides, that was my idea, not yours.”
They reminisced ab
“She’s doing great, thanks. But get real—you’ve dated more accomplished and beautiful women than I can keep track of.” John leaned closer. “Of course, none of them were Skye McCloud material. You just keep looking.” Thomas grinned and nodded.
A more animated John teasingly redirected the conversation after swallowing sourdough bread dipped into abundant clams and potatoes. “So, my friend, I’ve got some wild news.” He stared with his brows arched but didn’t elucidate.
“I figured something was up. You looked a little too eager when stepping inside. So what’s the mind-blowing announcement?”
“This will come way out of left field. I drove up to Depot Bay yesterday searching for building sites. You know that dinky old museum, the Pioneer?” John received an affirming nod. “I noticed they’d strung a banner over the entrance reading Oregon Coast History Day.” He shuffled his chair forward. “I stopped in and spent thirty minutes rifling through piles of old magazine and newspaper clippings.”
“Sounds unbearably tedious,” Thomas said.
“You’d think so but get this: I found a newsclip photo of our grandfathers standing together in 1928.”
Time froze as they locked gazes. Thomas’s blue eyes studied John, but he said nothing, sitting numbed and introspective: He didn’t just say that. No one blindly stumbles onto the truth. Impossible.
John noted a twitch above Thomas’s left eye. He measured how his friend’s face instantly expressed confusion or doubt, and he understood: It was a stunning piece of information given their years-long friendship.
“Our grandfathers, standing on the beach in front of Cape Nahteenwa.” John shook his head and wiped the froth of hops and barley from his mouth. “Pretty amazing, right? The Westbrookes and McClouds—connected—decades ago? How could we not know this?”
Twisting his neck, Thomas gazed out to Eagle Bay, transfixed. The drone of an airplane taking off nearby came and went. He inhaled slowly, deeply, his thoughts contradicting his composure. No, John. Please, buddy, reverse course. I swore to Robert you’d never be a threat.
John waited for a reaction, but Thomas remained silent. “Anyway, I asked for a copy, but the granny working there said to take the original. The museum’s closing down—no funds or visitors—so I slipped it into my pocket.” Thomas didn’t respond. “You late for a meeting? Preoccupied? I thought this was pretty damn remarkable.”
Thomas stretched a smile. “Sorry, you caught me off guard. Can I see the newsclip?” He took a swallow of beer, trying hard to convey calm.
“When it reappears. I could’ve sworn it was in the glove box of my Bronco, but I checked when I parked—nothing. I left for work in a rush, so it’s likely sitting in my desk drawer at home.” John chuckled. “With all this buildup, I need to find it before we meet up tonight.”
“You do indeed, Mr. McCloud,” Thomas said with a half-smile and no hint of trepidation. “But I’m curious; why are you convinced it’s our grandfathers?”
“It spells it out in the caption! Who, where, and when. Our two grandfathers and some dark-skinned stranger.”
Thomas pressed back in his seat and wiped the lenses of his sunglasses with the clean edge of his napkin. “Hmm . . . 1928? What was Skye’s reaction?”
“Haven’t told her. I thought we could dig into this further before surprising our families. There’s obviously more evidence somewhere.” John’s face expressed amazement. “Our fathers will be shocked.”
“Indeed they will,” Thomas said as unwelcome thoughts of interrogation dominated his psyche. Evidence? Just what “evidence” are you looking for, John? Was Robert right about the dangers of our friendship? Have you been playing me all along? That harsh thought disgusted him, and he sought consolation by chastising Robert for raising him to be relentlessly paranoid of people, even his closest friend. Feigning excitement, he said, “It’s quite the discovery. Good work, Sherlock.”
“That’s what I was waiting for,” John said, slapping the table. It took a while, but he was pleased to have Thomas on board finally. “Wild, right? I couldn’t believe what I was staring at after I picked it up. I’m returning to the museum next week to tear through their archives. Come with me.”
“I think I will. Did you find anything else? Articles? Records? Other photos?”
“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t,” John said as he pushed his empty mug away. He flashed a mischievous grin. “I enjoy frustrating you with snippets until what I call ‘the full reveal.’”
“Yes, you always have.” Thomas stroked his chin. “So find the photo and caption. I’m intrigued. And I agree—keeping this from our families gives us time to coordinate the surprise. Still have the code to our gate?”
“Sure do. You’ll see me driving up your ridiculously long driveway in six hours.” He beamed. “Make sure my bed has extra pillows; your guest mattress was hard as a rock last time I slept there.”
“Duly noted,” Thomas said, projecting benign disapproval. He stood and extended his arm for their departure. Thomas gently tapped John’s chest with a closed fist in the parking lot, and each man peered into kind eyes. John jumped into his Bronco and saluted, then roared up Highway 101 toward his worksite.
Thomas slumped back in his Jag and stared out to Eagle Bay, struggling with dire thoughts and conflicted emotions. Ten minutes later, he rubbed his temples, started the car, and took a slow route back to the Westbrooke Coastal Industries campus, fixated on a single thought.
What have you done, John?
Chapter:
2
Punishing gusts roared up the hillside and whistled past Ford pickups and a construction crew throughout the afternoon.
John double-checked the framers’ work using the tape measure clipped to his belt, ensuring the dimensions met his exacting standards. It grew clear that more two-by-sixes were needed to complete the upstairs framing, so he told the men to continue while he ran into town to pick up supplies. Time and productivity were money.
John fired up his Bronco, popped in a well-worn Aerosmith Rocks eight-track tape, lowered his window the old-fashioned way, and drove past project debris, hoping to avoid errant nails often drawn like magnets to his tires. His front windshield framed white-capped breakers pounding coastline rocks and tidal pools as he drove south toward Eagle Bay.
Upon graduating from the University of Oregon, John pursued a career he’d always relished: custom home building. Entering Benson Lumber & Hardware, a symphony of Hello and Hey Johnny drifted from aisles, check stands, and loading docks. He appreciated the town’s friendly manner and shared a particular camaraderie with people in the building trade.
With curls of red hair flowing down her back, Suzy Kildare smiled as she rang up John’s order of thirty pieces of lumber, two bags of nails, and three saw blades. “It’s good to see you, John,” Suzy said, her fingers tapping register buttons faster than he thought humanly possible. She charged his account and presented a receipt. “I saw that big house you’re building on Northshore Drive. It looks mighty fine,” she said with a wink. “Why don’t you build me a place like that?” The other cashiers and a manager chuckled; it was the sort of banter Suzy had carried on for years. “I won’t tell Skye,” she said, a comment prompting hearty laughter from several locals.
“Let me chew on it, Suzy. And I’ll run it by Skye tonight,” he said with a nod. Hopping back onto the highway, John anticipated his daily homecoming with Skye and their children, Johnny and Dakota. He lived in a great town, worked the only job he wanted, and his wife and kids brought him more happiness than he probably deserved. Oh well, someone had to draw the winning ticket.
An elk suddenly sprang into his path from behind roadside blackberry bushes, forcing him to slam on his brakes and skid off the side of the asphalt. The massive instigator moseyed along as if nothing had happened. He appreciated its obliviousness.
Everything inside the car had smashed forward into the dashboard and seatbacks. As he picked up items from the floor in front of the passenger seat, he found the missing newsprint with the photo of his and Thomas’s grandfather. “Yes!”
