El Dorado Bay

By Mary Schultz

David Olguin, a young U.S.-raised Mexico-born man, sees one chance to get life right. His first love has careened sideways. The baby shoes on his rear view mirror call the stakes. Having self-deported, he lands in an isolated Mexican coastal village armed only with his talent as a cook. Here, winter gringo squatters pit themselves against a struggling native co-op for rule over beachfront land, and a resplendent resort arises across the bay. It’s 1996, only months after communications deregulation. Cellular phone and Internet service verge on breaking free, complicating David’s chaos-strewn life. When the wreckage of his past confronts him, he risks all he has gained for the community he has grown to love, especially his new love with a past of her own. Honor and love square off, and the fireworks begin. From the author of Sea Cliff 104.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Schultz
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370501274

Mary Schultz

An incurable traveler, Mary Schultz has trekked Chile’s Atacama Desert and Easter Island to learn about the visual astronomy of ancient peoples. Together with her husband, she has explored the Mayan ruins of Mexico and Central America, lived and sailed aboard a 41 ft. ketch, and camped from Alaska to the Panama Canal. Mary Schultz’ personal essays have been anthologized: When A Life Mate Dies: Stories of Love, Loss and Healing (Healing with Words Series) by Susan Heinlein; her short fiction has appeared in Yokoi, the Bozeman, Montana occasional arts magazine, and the Mendocino Review to name a few. If you are familiar with Apple Computer, City of Hope, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, publications focused on software solutions for architecture, engineering and construction, and Total Gym, over decades you have likely read Mary’s award-winning advertising & marketing writing.

Book preview

El Dorado Bay

Mary A. Schultz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Mary A. Schultz

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 9781370501274

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Table of Contents

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

About the Author

Other Titles by Mary A. Schultz

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Under Construction.

David Olguin drove under the massive sign and onto the bridge that spanned El Dorado Bay to the island, a sandbar really, named Barra de Pascua. He passed the acres of ground where earth graders were shaping a golf course complete with ocean-view hillocks, cattail marshes, expansive ponds and soon-to-be paved golf cart paths.

He found an empty parking spot in one of the few spaces between piles of rubble and stacks of building materials. Above the door of the construction trailer, a banner ruffled in the tropical breeze and declared ‘El Dorado Bay Resort Opening Spring 1997.’

The sound of nail guns popping and saws whining competed with the reverberating bass of David’s car stereo sub-woofers.

Outside his paint-blistered Jeep Wagoneer, a palatial structure in its dried-in stage rose under a roof. A copper domed cupola gleamed high above. David muted the radio.

A man bounded past David and toward the trailer. He pulled off his hard hat to reveal dark hair specked with gray. Tall coconut palms nearby cast fluttering circles of shade.

David stepped out of his oxidized once-red SUV with his résumé in hand. He headed up the steps that led into the wood-sided construction trailer and opened the door. He asked the man who he had just seen enter, Are you Señor Rivera? David extended a hand.

Yes. No need for formality. Call me Andres. The man gave him a warm handshake.

Mucho gusto, David answered, And thank you for seeing me. The early phase of construction suggested that the prospects of landing an immediate job were slim, but David wanted to make a positive impression if not for now, for later. He looked at the large table in the office entryway and the three dimensional model of the resort and community, marina and grounds. I know you are busy, but I’m looking here at all that’s planned and it is beautiful.

Andres smiled and David recognized the man’s pride in the oceanfront project. Andres said, There will be around 200 guestrooms in the hotel, plus resort condos and individual homes. Over here is the marina and yacht club. The golf course you must have driven by. Come with me. You’ll want to see this.

He led David into an adjacent room. Panels of partitions taller than office cubicles stood linked to one another. Each panel displayed a computer-generated image of a phase of construction, from grading and concrete pour to gleaming commercial kitchens and furnished restaurants.

In between were the many stages of project development, the framing and roofing, elevators, utilities and plumbing, air conditioning, interior walls with paint and texture, flooring, even wayfinding and signage to direct guests as they navigated the grounds. David stood mesmerized.

We’re creating a white sand beach for guests and our own oyster beds in the inlet,´ Andres said. Three restaurant concepts, plus a take-out and a bar with poolside food service. Full service spa. A grocery store, beauty salon, medical clinic. Outdoor pools, separate ones for adults and children. Tennis, of course. And a kids’ camp to give parents a break. We intend for El Dorado Bay Resort to be unique in all of Mexico."

The restaurants were what I wanted to talk to you about, David said.

You’re fluent in English and Spanish, Andres said. How do you come by that?

I was born in a mountain town between here and Guadalajara, David said as he gestured toward the towering hills away from the coast. My folks went north to Wisconsin when I was seven. That was in 1982.

Ah, dairy farms and cheese, like here in Jalisco. They got amnesty, then, in ’86? Andres asked.

My mom did. My dad couldn’t because of a technicality. He’d gone back to Guatemala during the qualifying period.

Looks like you want to be here, Andres’ voice trailed thoughtfully as he looked down at the piece of paper David had given him. So you’re new in El Dorado Bay, sort of, and new to resort development, but you have resort restaurant experience. Let me help you out. I’m part of construction, brought in by the architects. What you want is to be in touch with staffing, and they’re under resort corporate. They won’t be staffing the restaurants until we have plumbing, and we’re a long way from plumbing.

Thank you for your time, David said. He hid his nearly overwhelming sense of defeat and smiled.

I’ll pass your résumé on to corporate, Andres said.

David nodded and inwardly abandoned hope for the immediate well-paying job part of his expanding life plan. Family, community, work, home, and love to last. As he approached his battered Jeep Wagoneer, he felt embarrassed for the washed out condition of its peeling paint. What was once 1979 firecracker red was now mottled dusty pink.

Andres appeared not to notice. He shook David’s hand and held on to David’s resume. As David pulled out of the gravel parking area, workers in coveralls, boots and hard hats joined Andres in the office.

* * *

David navigated the seven-mile crescent-shaped stretch of highway that curved around El Dorado Bay. Steep jungle hillsides rose on the inland side and the sapphire blue Pacific carved an arc on the other. Morning sunlight shimmered off an oxidized road sign that spelled in glittered lettering ‘Costallegre, The Lively Coast.’

On the narrow shoulder of the highway, a man, woman and child carried loads of wood slung on their backs. Further on, up the mountain side of the highway, a girl sat watching a herd of goats. She stood, and David noticed with a start that the herder was full-term pregnant. He reached up and touched the never-worn baby shoes that dangled from his rear view mirror.

A semi truck passed David’s car on the narrow highway. He decided not to push the power and instead allowed himself to be passed. Something in his transmission didn’t feel right. He let the truck lead. It turned toward the bay at a faded brown road sign marked Villa Mariposa. David glanced down the main drag of the low-lying swampy village. Glaring signs for cantinas--combination night clubs, bars and brothels--crowded the main street. Salvage lots of cars in various stages of repair and decay stood guarded by high, razor wire fences.

He followed the next curve along the highway where a less crumpled road marker read San Antonio de Padua. He maneuvered the rutted cobbled street of the small beach town on the northern end of the bay. He passed a two-towered church where a priest was selling a fierce-looking array of fireworks to townspeople. Across from the church lay the central town square--the zocalo--with a covered raised bandstand at its center. On the opposite side of the street were a long row of storefronts. Over one store, a sign hung above a narrow stairwell inviting passersby to Alcoholicos Anonymous Grupo Porvenir.

Porvenir, David mumbled to himself. The future. Things to come. Yeah, right.

On a cross-street a motorhome rumbled by. David slowed to a halt.

Two boys played stick ball on the corner. One of them called out to David, Cool car. Quadra-Trac? Four by four?

Yeah, David said.

Chuy could paint it, the boy added.

Good to know, David said. I don’t know Chuy, but maybe someday.

Are you a singer, or in movies?

No, not even close, David answered out the car window. Who are you?

Luis.

The other boy read the license plate and asked, Is Wisconsin far?

David pulled over, parked the Wagoneer and got out, saying, Not far enough.

He looked up to a balcony where a poster hung that announced Prime Rib al Gusto. On his way toward the upstairs restaurant, he stopped to check his shoe. He brushed off a pebble that had caught in the bare tread on his huarache sandals. He sprinted up the stairs and entered the café.

The owner shook his head when David asked about work. Cooking. Waiting tables. Busing tables. Anything. David thanked the man for his time and descended the stairs.

Moments later, he crossed the street to the bus terminal. He entered the small diner and after only a few minutes, he was on the sidewalk again.

Under a canopy, an old blind man barked out a sales pitch for peanuts, almonds and coconut. David stopped, bought a handful of roasted nuts and asked the man, Where is the most popular restaurant here in San Antonio?

The man smiled and answered, Raul’s. Keep going toward the beach.

A short walk down the cobbled street and onto a dirt road left David standing in front of a thatch-roofed seaside restaurant. He studied the large, vastly over-complicated hand-lettered sandwich board menu for Restaurant Raul.

Breakfast suggestions included Hot Kacks, and Pooched Eggs with Bacon. Among the dinner specialties were Comfy Bed-Head Clams, and Beef Delighting in Her Own Juices.

Nearby on the street, a city bus ground to a halt and spewed exhaust. A string of vendors in tribal wear, men in checked shirts and women wearing long dark skirts, white lace-trimmed blouses and gingham checked aprons, exited the bus carrying their wares--colorful blankets, t-shirts, woven hats and velvet covered jewelry trays.

David glanced once toward the heavens as if saying a two-second prayer and he entered the restaurant. He saw a strapping, salt-and-pepper-haired man who approached David with a firm, familial handshake.

Beautiful day, no? David asked.

Come in, Señor. Sit. Please. You enjoy to eat breakfast? Lunch? The man asked in halting English. I am Raul.

I'd love breakfast, David said, But I'm here to look for work. Do you need a cook? Kitchen help? David asked.

Outside, a motorhome passed by. It sent a swirl of dust into the open-air restaurant. A silver colored travel trailer pulled by a pick-up truck followed. The vehicles reached the end of the road on a rugged knoll above the bay.

A flashy converted bus and truck-and-camper followed, but they turned onto a side street and headed for an arched entrance marked San Antonio Trailer Park.

David and Raul stood staring. Finally, David asked, Where are they all going?

The second group is checking in at the paid trailer park down that street over there. But those first ones. I want to see, Raul said. Come.

They stepped outside and walked briskly to a higher vantage point. From the rise above the shore, they could watch the first two RVs pass