We heard the surf pounding the rocks in front of us, though we couldn’t see the waves in the inky blackness. Far out on the water’s surface a flame flickered and glowered, illuminating the edges of a wooden pier. Festive white lights ran up and around the palm trees next to our table, and I read the menu by the dim light of the candle. It was too beautiful not to sit outside, though my dress-up skirt and cute jacket were obscured by layers of towels from the room and my fiance’s extra jacket, a navy blue workman’s number with Loctite written in bright yellow letters. We were staying at The Cliff House Inn and Shoals Restaurant, a locale more reminiscent of a weathered bungalow in Maine than a beachfront hotel off the 101 in Ventura.
