Indelible Page 3

  With a quickly erased dark look, Jason extracts his hand and excuses himself. “I need to get my luggage.”

  “I’ll collect it,” Mick offers, not missing the swift transformation from worried misgiving to a warm smile on Cynthia’s face. This woman knows things.

  She’d only held Jason’s hand for a moment, but an instant’s all that’s necessary to receive a clairaudient impression. Inaudible to everyone else, Cynthia heard the distinct crash of waves growing in volume until it filled the air like thunder. She knows with certainty that it was precognitive in nature, a glimmer of something in advance of its occurrence. Something ominous.

  “I’ve got it, man, thanks anyway,” Jason says, backing away before turning to go collect his luggage.

  As Mick watches Jason’s retreating back, trying to decipher his own feelings, the incoming flight from Boston is announced.

  Emma returns unobserved, taking in the way Mick’s hands rest on his uneven hips—the left a few inches higher than the right. It would be hard to miss those masculine, denim-covered legs set in that determined stance. Hair, the wilder side of conservative, curls around his ears. His profile has a chiseled quality about it, with strong, imperfect features.

  “Hi Mick, I’m back on time.” Emma’s smile is contagious as she rolls up and joins the group.

  “That you are.” He smiles, noting that her presence does something delightful to his insides. Watch it, mister, he reminds himself. If you don’t let anyone into your life, you won’t have anyone to lose. Past experience has been clear about that.

  Emma turns to Cynthia and shakes her hand. “I’m Emma Benton. I just arrived from San Diego.”

  “Hi Emma, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Cynthia Winters; I’m here from Tucson.”

  “I can see you brought the sunshine with you,” Emma responds to the older woman who takes her hand in both of hers and turns it palm up.

  “Oh, are you a palm reader?” A mixture of excitement and intrigue lace Emma’s voice. “I’ve never had my palm read before.”

  “It’s just a little hobby of mine,” Cynthia says, studying the outstretched hand.

  “What do you see?” Emma asks, an eager lift in her tone.

  “The head line, here,” Cynthia says, trailing her own finger along the lower of the two lines running horizontally across Emma’s hand, “is bound to your life line, showing both caution and sensitivity. The forked end to the head line, here,” she points, “indicates mental flexibility, plus the gift of seeing other people’s viewpoints.”

  Holding high the name-board for “F. Davies,” Mick feigns concern in locating the last arrival while at the same time, trying to overhear what Cynthia is saying to Emma about her palm. Not that I believe in fortune-telling, he assures himself.

  Jason returns with a suitcase in each hand, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. “Should I put them here?” he indicates the baggage trolley with his head.

  “Yes, that would be great,” Mick answers, as the tall, willowy woman continues reading the volume that is Emma’s hand.

  Cynthia’s forehead creases a little. She leans in close so that only Emma can hear and points to a line of tiny dots on her palm.

  “That’s odd. I’ve never noticed those before,” Emma says.

  “Dots aren’t always this well pronounced on a palm. They can represent concerns about ill health or relationships, but that’s not what I sense for you. They can also serve as a warning sign.” Before releasing Emma’s hand, Cynthia gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll talk more later,” she whispers.

  Really God? Fran mentally asks a supposedly loving deity as the airplane wheels touch down. I’m heartbroken that I can’t have children and you seat me next to a woman with a toddler and a newborn on an almost six-hour flight?

  She turns to the exhausted woman in the window seat. “I hope the rest of your trip goes well. Can I get anything out of the overhead compartment for you?”

  After placing the woman’s bags and children’s paraphernalia into the seat where she’d been sitting, Fran waves at the little girl, Sarah.

  Sarah pries up three fingers on her right hand with her left hand and announces with pride, “I’m fwee.”

  With the back of her hand, Fran wipes a tear from her cheek and steps into the aisle, joining the crowd of passengers heading toward the front of the plane. Her head is pounding like a kettle drum. She doesn’t enjoy flying but has learned to tolerate it over the years. When Fran started traveling for work, she discovered that sitting behind the first bulkhead in the aircraft eliminates another passenger reclining in your lap, you gain an extra bit of leg room, and are among the first to deplane.

  Simple and straightforward, Fran is a practical woman. In fact, her most recent performance review at work indicates that she’s “Terrifyingly efficient and organized.” After hooking her glasses on the neck of her circumspect, navy blue sweater set, she heads toward the baggage area, stopping at the restroom along the way.

  She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror while waiting in line and mentally wrings her hands. Dishwater blonde is an accurate term. She gets an even closer view when she washes her hands. Her hazel eyes take in hair that looks like it’s been beaten into submission and shellacked into place like a helmet with several layers of spray. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want something else—anything else will do.

  After pasting a smile on her face, she continues to the baggage claim area. From a distance, she spots her name-board and continues on. Stopping in front of the man holding the sign, she extends her hand and introduces herself. “Hello, I’m Fran Davies.”

  Their small group heads en masse to the parking area. Jason brings up the rear, taking mental stock of the females. This group consists of an older, gypsy-looking woman; a woman so rigid she’d make a great prison warden; and a beautiful gimp in a wheelchair.

  Jason turns his attention to Mick, in front, pulling the baggage trolley. It’s evident that he’s fit and strong and moves quickly despite a limp. Focused on his gait, he watches Mick twist his left hip forward slightly, before propelling his right foot in front. No problem, Jason muses, with a self-satisfied smirk, this is going to be easy.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Plot is people. Human emotions and desires founded on the realities of life, working at cross purposes, getting hotter and fiercer as they strike against each other until finally there’s an explosion—that’s plot.”

  —LEIGH BRACKETT

  Much like a brilliant, multi-faceted gem nestled on the ragged hemline of the northern Pacific coastline, Pines & Quill, a wooded retreat for writers, sits Zen-like overlooking Bellingham Bay in Fairhaven, Washington, holding space to unleash possibility. The mango-colored sunrises and blood-orange sunsets compete in their breathtaking showiness, each vying for the rapt attention of would-be onlookers. One heralding the beginning of day, the other bids adieu, sending it off into the ink-black night sky.

  Niall MacCullough brushes damp soil from the knees of his pants. “Libby’s going to kill me,” he mutters under his breath while snipping fresh dill for the evening meal and adding it to the basket laden with garlic, basil, and potatoes he’s already gathered from his late spring garden.

  “Hemingway! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t bury your bones in the garden!”

  A bustling, five-year-old, rough-coated, Irish Wolfhound, Hemingway tips the scales at just under one hundred and fifty pounds. Well-muscled, lean, and strong, his appearance is commanding. An ancient breed, Wolfhounds were bred to hunt with their masters, fight beside them in battle, and guard their castles. He possesses the ability of a fierce warrior, but he’s gentle with family and guests, a magnificent combination of power and grace.

  His dirt-crusted paws—giant earth movers with strong, curved nails—put the final touches on his buried treasure between the yellow pepper plants, before bounding over the rows of vegetables and herbs. Not quite stopping in the nick of time, they both tumb
le over as Hemingway collides with his constant companion and second-best friend, Niall.

  Libby rounds the corner in time to see Niall’s feet and Hemingway’s wagging tail sail over the snap peas. Then she hears the deep, rumbling laughter of her husband of thirty-two years. She shakes her head and smiles to herself before calling out, “Boys, company’s arriving soon, and we’ve got to be ready.”

  With that, two bushy eye-browed, bearded faces peek at her over lush, green foliage. Niall’s hair is mussed like a boy’s, but gray-hued in the late afternoon light. Libby shakes her head in false exasperation. Humans do, indeed, resemble their companion animals, then bursts out laughing at their twin, mischievous grins.

  Set on twenty forested acres, the Pines & Quill writer’s refuge provides respite from the distractions of everyday life so writers can focus on what they do best, write. An environment that offers peace, quiet, and inspiration, it boasts four secluded cottages, Dickens, Brontë, Austen, and Thoreau, each is handcrafted by a long-dead Amish man whose skill and devotion to his trade is still evident in his work. When the structures were modernized, painstaking care was taken to reflect the same excellence in craftsmanship.

  Libby enjoys free rein expressing her natural flair for style and interior design in the main house, her brother’s cabin, and the four writer’s cottages. And while the original Amish builder saw that each cottage was similar in size and design, surrounded by its own type of tree, she ensures that they each have unique personalities: color scheme, furnishings, and hand-selected artwork created by local artisans.

  In addition to electricity and internet access, each cottage has air-conditioning, a wood-burning stove, and a bathroom with a shower. They’re also equipped with an efficiency kitchen that includes a mini-fridge, microwave, toaster oven, coffeemaker, and a fat-bellied tea kettle, ideal for a long day of writing.

  On each desk is a phone. Retro, they’re bulky and square, from an era before cell phones, even before cordless. Its sole purpose is to connect with the main house. A guest needs only to lift the receiver and dial zero to ring through to the MacCullough’s kitchen.

  The main house, large and rustic, is inviting in a down-home sort of way. Built for comfort, not grandeur, it sits at the center of Pines & Quill. And while each writer has the option to have breakfast and lunch delivered from the main house to their cottage door, they gather for dinner each evening at the enormous pine table Libby acquired at an auction in Seattle. Said to have seated a dozen threshers at mealtime in the early 1900s, it now serves the writers who’ve come to escape the distractions of life, who’ve come to this nurturing place for the sole purpose of writing.

  Not a brick-and-mortar churchgoer, Niall believes that anything done with care and joy is an act of worship; that’s why he strives to be a kind presence in people’s lives; that’s why the cookery and garden at Pines & Quill are his cathedrals. The casual atmosphere of sharing a meal in the spacious kitchen of the main house is conducive to esprit de corps—camaraderie.

  Every scratch and divot, a history of purpose and bustling activity, reads like braille in the wide, buttery pine boards of the floor in his sanctuary.

  With each group of writers in residence, Libby and Niall nod to each other under copper-bottomed pots that hang from the ceiling. In over thirty years of marriage, they’ve built an extensive repertoire of facial expressions that only they’re privy to the meaning of.

  Each month they settle back like satisfied cats washing their whiskers and smile as they watch a small community form, bonds deepening through conversation, as their guests share stories, histories, breakthroughs, and roadblocks, offering advice and feedback, and challenging each other to take risks. This month’s group of writers should prove no different.

  With its bevy of comfortable, overstuffed chairs, the living room is the after-dinner gathering place for guests to continue visiting over dessert while enjoying drinks from the small, but well-stocked main house bar, The Ink Well. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and massive fieldstone fireplace serve as an ideal focal point. The large mirror above the mantel gathers the entire room in its reflection.

  The retreat’s journal is housed in this community space; a journal in which each guest is invited to make notations during their stay. With entries dating from its inception in 1980, the Pines & Quill journal is a living legacy, a way for writers to connect with those who have come before, and those who will come after. And on more than one occasion, it’s served as a way-shower, yielding clues that helped solve mysterious occurrences at this writer’s haven over the years.

  Between nonfiction and fiction, every possible genre has been penned here. From biography to self-help, and everything in-between: romance, business, humor, science fiction, children and young adult, political, crime, screenplays, essay, poetry, fantasy, history, and mystery. Dedicated writers come to Pines & Quill to gift themselves with time and space, to let go and connect with nature’s muse, to find their creative rhythm, and to write about the many intersections of human activity, both real and imagined.

  Seated on the periphery of Bellingham, a spot where urban civilization adjoins agriculture and wooded wilderness, this writing refuge is comprised of fog-kissed bluffs, great horned owls and red-tailed hawks, winding paths, solitude, and the blissful absence of noise, demands, and chores, an ideal place for contemplating many things.

  In addition to Niall’s gourmet cooking, another popular feature at Pines & Quill is Libby’s movement meditation sessions—tai chi—a misty morning offering that many guests avail themselves of as a wonderful way to prime the pump for a productive day of writing.

  “Niall, I’ll take the ATV and put fresh linen in each of the cottages while you start prepping for dinner.” With its rugged stance, canopied top, and knobby tires, their all-terrain vehicle is invaluable for getting around the property, regardless of the weather.

  “Hemingway, you stay in the mudroom, I don’t want muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. Maybe you should leave your shoes there too,” Libby says, pointedly gazing down at Niall’s mud-crusted boots.

  A cross between a utility room and a large walk-in closet, the mudroom is separated from the spacious, well-appointed kitchen by a Dutch door. Divided horizontally into two half doors, it allows either half to be left open or closed. The mudroom is the place where the MacCullough’s stow outerwear, boots, and anything else they might need when venturing outside, including Hemingway. It also houses his food and water bowls, leash, and bed.

  Most people prefer not to have a curious, tail-wagging, pony-sized dog in their midst while eating, so they close the bottom, leaving the top portion of the Dutch door open during meals. This allows Hemingway to pop his head over—with its awning eyebrows and mop-like beard—and still be part of the gatherings without being in their midst.

  Libby lifts her face skyward to feel the warmth of the elusory sun before heading north to Dickens cottage first. She smiles when she sees a weathered Adirondack chair on its covered front porch. A writer herself, she knows the value of not being confined, of being able to move around, and that nature’s breath, fresh air, is an encouraging muse.

  With this in mind, during the planning phase, she ensured that the porch of each cottage—Dickens, Brontë, Austen, and Thoreau—has ample space for quiet reflection. A handcrafted, bent-willow chair with a deep seat, the graceful lines of its arms open in welcome, and plump pillows is ready to receive a weary back at the end of a productive day of writing.

  After making the beds with crisp, clean linens and setting out fresh towels and washcloths in each cottage’s bath and kitchen area, Libby leaves a cheerful monogrammed notecard with P&Q, Pines & Quill’s initials, on each kitchen counter. Inside is printed:

  Pines & Quill offers writers a peaceful, inspiring, wooded setting in which to pursue the work they love. We aim to encourage artistic exploration, nurture creative thought, and forge bonds between diverse thinkers. Our vision is for you to find inspiration and make progress on yo
ur work.

  Located between the main house and the garden is a common area that includes laundry facilities and supplies, a printer and paper, and assorted office supplies should you need them. There are also bicycles with covered saddle-baskets if you feel adventurous and would like to explore the surrounding area or pick up sundries in town. Each basket contains a map of the town, a brisk fifteen-minute walk, or a five-minute bicycle ride from Pines & Quill.

  Satisfied that everything’s in place for the arrival of their guests, Libby returns to the main house under a saturated blue sky dotted with white cushions of clouds.

  CHAPTER 3

  “My writing is a process of rewriting, of going back and changing and filling in. In the rewriting process you discover what’s going on, and you go back and bring it up to that point.”

  —JOAN DIDION

  Mick parked in Sea-Tac’s area reserved for handicap pickup. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to jockey for position in the much busier central arrival section. After pulling curbside, he pushes a button, and both side panels of the van slide open for the waiting guests.

  The MacCullough’s had the body of their vehicle modified to offer three entry points and a rear lift-gate for wheelchair users. Guests using motorized wheelchairs that doesn’t fold have different needs than those who are able to transfer themselves into a vehicle and collapse their chair.

  Mick exchanges a glance with Emma, his jet-black eyebrows raise in query. She takes his cue. “Last one in, first one out,” she says, rolling her wheelchair back somewhat from the rest of the group.

  Without effort, Mick transfers the mountain of baggage from the trolley into the back of the spacious van.

  While Jason sizes Mick up—tall, fit, and strong—Cynthia folds her willowy frame and eases herself onto the bench seat in the far back.