Tides of the Heart (Crestwood Chronicles #1)

Chapter 1

Author's Note: Crestwood is a fictional town, but is based on Capitola and Santa Cruz, California. Special thanks to Fossil Invertebrates and Geology of the Marine Cliffs at Capitola, California, by Frank A. Perry, published by the Santa Cruz Museum Association, which informs the geological aspects mentioned in this chapter.

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~ Charlie ~

Things live, and things die.

Then, if they're lucky, some things get fossilized.

As a geology major with paleontological aspirations, that's my take on it, anyway. Not that I want to get fossilized, or anything. Fossils fascinate me, though, with their secrets of the deep past locked in stone, which is why I'm on a crowded bus on a Saturday morning, on my way to the cliffs above New Dover Beach, instead of off to enjoy myself like the rest of the undergrads packed around me like sardines in a can.

With a hiss of pneumatic brakes, the bus rolls to a stop and the doors slide open. Releasing my grip on the stanchion, I push my way through the press of bodies and step into the bright light and fresh air of another beautiful day in Crestwood, California.

The small coastal town is adjacent to a larger metropolitan area, which houses the university. Like a younger sibling competing for attention with an older, more privileged one, Crestwood has an outsized personality and an attitude to match. Comprising only a few streets and the surrounding neighborhoods, it's like a microcosm of life on permanent vacation.

Pinwheels, windsocks, colorful banners, and flags decorate the front of most shops, while strings of lights illuminate the streets at night. Home to the area's more whimsical and artsy population, most of the stores are small, specialized, and designed to attract tourists with deep pockets. If you're looking for handmade organic cotton clothing, handmade jewelry, ceramics, art, incense, crystals, yoga accessories, and vegan fusion bowls, Crestwood is the place to be.

It has beaches, too, which is why I'm here.

Crestwood Beach is a long, gentle crescent of yellow sand, with rolling waves perfect for playing in and easy access from the street. New Dover Beach is a mile south of it. Narrow and rocky, and requiring a steep hike to reach, it's by far the less popular destination, which suits me perfectly. I don't go there for the sun and sand, anyway; I go for the cliffs.

All along the beach's upper side, high cliffs of black stone loom above the broken rocks below. In the faces of the cliffs, horizontal bands of white represent exposed beds of fossil invertebrates, left behind from a time when the sea level was much higher, during the Pliocene Epoch, 3 to 5 million years ago. I'm writing my thesis on the various mollusks and crustaceans, including mussels, snails, shrimps, and crabs, whose remains have been trapped in time, and which erosion now slowly reveals.

That probably sounds boring as taxes to most people, but there's nothing I'd rather do.

Unfortunately, this stop is the nearest the bus routes get to New Dover, leaving me with two miles to cover on foot, plus the hike down to shore, and—like your stereotypical science nerd should—I have asthma and don't like to push myself too hard. Backpack slung over my shoulder, I set off along the sidewalk at a moderate pace, catching sight of myself in the shop windows as I pass.

Other than the asthma, you wouldn't know I'm a nerd. I look as much at home here as the rest of the beach bum crowd, with sandy blond curls, freckles, and a trim, if unimpressive, five-foot-nine frame. I've been called handsome, even, with dark brown eyes that contrast with my light skin and hair, and 'good cheekbones,' whatever that means. It's not unusual for girls to come onto me, but sadly I've no interest in girls.