Indelible Page 4

  Fran uses the grip bar and enters the opposite door, sitting next to Cynthia on the smooth, gray leather seat.

  “I’ll ride up front with you,” Jason says looking at Mick, not bothering to help with the baggage.

  “That’s fine,” Mick nods.

  The toned muscles of her arms and shoulders make it look easy as Emma transfers herself into the van. Seated behind the driver’s seat, she collapses her wheelchair, stowing it in the space to her right.

  Mick catches the faintest hint of vanilla and another scent he can’t quite put his finger on. Is it lime? He looks at Emma in the rearview mirror. Whatever the combination, it wreaks beautiful havoc with his senses.

  “Buckle your seatbelts, everyone, we’ve got a hundred-mile drive ahead of us. It could take a little more than two hours, depending on traffic. At about the mid-way point, Marysville, we’ll stop for a few minutes so everyone can stretch, get a breath of fresh air, and use the restroom if needed. Once we arrive at Pines & Quill, dinner will be served within an hour.”

  Fran asks, “I’m curious to know why you have your guests fly into Sea-Tac in Seattle instead of Bellingham International Airport. Wouldn’t it be a much shorter drive for you to pick us up there?”

  Curiosity piqued, Emma leans forward a bit. I wondered that, myself.

  Mick nods. “It sure would. But—” He holds up a finger for dramatic effect. “Experientially, we learned that it’s the drive that cements the initial bond between our writers in residence.” He smiles at everyone in the rearview mirror before continuing.

  “As a captive audience, you get to know each other even before you arrive at the retreat. Added to that, you benefit from enjoying the beautiful scenery while I share a little bit about the surrounding area.”

  “That makes sense,” Fran says, smiling. “Thank you.”

  When Mick eases the van out from under the enormous cement overhang, they’re greeted by a vast arc of blue sky.

  “Take a good look at that gorgeous sky,” Mick says. “It’s not raining. With an average of thirty-eight inches of precipitation a year, it’s no wonder Washingtonians refer to rain as ‘liquid sunshine.’”

  With a look in the rearview mirror, Emma catches his eye and joins his playful banter. “Then it would be accurate to say that Washington is on the wet coast instead of the west coast.” She throws her head back and laughs at her own joke.

  Everyone joins in, except Jason who’s looking out the passenger window, focused on the congested traffic on I-5. “Is traffic always this bad?” he asks.

  Mick has to brake hard when an SUV swerves in front of their van. The jolt causes Jason’s backpack to fall forward on the floor mat, spilling some of the contents. Mick notices him tuck two airplane-sized liquor bottles back in, then zipper the compartment. Brows knit, I wonder if this guy’s a nervous flyer and drinks to take the edge off?

  “Sorry about that,” Mick answers, without letting Jason know he saw what spilled. “The traffic in the Seattle area is notorious, but the further north we travel, the better it gets.”

  Emma, Cynthia, and Fran talk like strangers do, sharing snippets and brief histories, putting the best light on things.

  In the front seat, Jason sits quietly, listening for any weak links, noting hesitations and evasions, storing them for future consideration—ammunition. Though I doubt their stories are anywhere near as fabricated as mine. He smiles to himself.

  Cynthia smiles at Mick’s green eyes in the rearview mirror. “Should we be on the lookout for Sasquatch? I understand the Pacific Northwest is rife with them.”

  “It’s true that a large number of Bigfoot sightings have occurred, but they’re mostly in the area surrounding Mount St. Helens which is south from here. We’re heading north. Pines & Quill is situated among the waters of Bellingham Bay, Mount Baker, and the Snoqualmie National Forest. Our village, Fairhaven, is considered a gateway to the North Cascades National Park.”

  With a grin, Mick continues, “I think the chances of us seeing a volcano erupt are greater than glimpsing a Sasquatch. Washington state is home to five volcanoes. From north to south they’re Mount Baker, Glacier Peak, Mount Rainier, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Adams. These volcanoes, including Mount Hood to the south in Oregon, are part of the Cascade Range, a volcanic arc that stretches from southwestern British Columbia to northern California. The last eruption was in 2008 when Mount St. Helens blew.”

  Fran joins the conversation. “We’ll be going past Seattle, won’t we? Can you tell us why it’s called the Emerald City?”

  Catching her hazel eyes in the rearview mirror, Mick answers, “The city of Seattle lies between two bodies of water, Puget Sound on the west and Lake Washington on the east. In the mid-1980s the city was given the nickname by tourism officials promoting Seattle for its lush, green forests and more than six thousand acres of parks within the city limits.”

  As the silver van catapults north on Interstate 5, Jason’s face is concealed, in part, behind dark aviator glasses. Catlike, he slits open his blasé, yet chilling eyes, keeping to himself while absorbing the conversation.

  Every surreptitious forest-green glance Mick takes of Emma in the rearview mirror is met with an equally covert moss-colored glance. Finally, her grin blossoms into a beguiling smile. Contagious, he grins back like a fool.

  What the devil’s gotten into me? he wonders. I feel like an enamored teenager, for God’s sake. With that, Mick takes in the snowy white, and dark blond crowns bent together clandestine-like behind Emma. Cynthia’s reading Fran’s palm. He smiles.

  Fran can just hear Cynthia’s whispered voice. It’s warm and somewhat smoky, like oolong tea with a lot of sugar. “Timing is everything,” she says. “You need time alone. Time to be quiet. Time to reevaluate. Fran, it seems to me that you’re a woman who’s allowing herself to be defined by biology.”

  Cynthia continues studying the map of lines on Fran’s outstretched palm. Fran feels reluctant to speak, to draw her guileless brown-green eyes away from her palm nestled in the warm, tanned hands of another.

  After a brief stop in Marysville, the conversation in the van turns to the indigenous Indian tribes of Washington. “The Lhaq’temish, the Lummi Nation, are the original inhabitants of Washington’s northernmost coast and southern British Columbia,” Mick tells them. “For centuries they’ve worked, struggled, and celebrated life on the shores and waters of Puget Sound. They’re a self-governing nation within the United States. The third largest tribe in Washington state, they manage thirteen thousand acres of tidelands on the Lummi Reservation.

  “Is it true that Pines & Quill is located on an ancient Indian burial ground?” Emma asks.

  Theatrically lowering his ebony eyebrows, and with a melodramatic voice, Mick answers, “We’re not on an Indian burial ground, but we do have our share of ghosts. Fairhaven Village was founded in the late 1880s, but it’s now part of the city of Bellingham. The Mount Baker Theater is home to a woman, though long dead, who wants nothing more than to watch over her property and its current owners.

  “The Shuksan Nursing Home has rooms with moving objects, call-lights going on and off by themselves, and they say that you can hear someone walking with a walker in the middle of the night.”

  In the rearview mirror, Mick sees a wide-eyed captive audience and continues in a hushed, eerie tone. “The Eldridge Mansion has disembodied voices and screams. People who work at the Old Town Cafe have seen dishes levitate for minutes at a time, then set back down. Some people have even heard piano music, but there’s no piano. Others have seen the shadow-thin spirit of a woman looking down at them from a second-floor window.

  “In the Sunset Theater, there’s an apparition of an old woman who sits in the back of auditorium one, while a childlike waif roams auditoriums three and four. Employees have reported hearing unnerving noises and whispers and experienced cold sensations down by the screen while cleaning when no one’s there.”

  Jason’s tension-filled laugh erases the s
ilence in the van. “You’re making that up, right?”

  In the rearview mirror, Mick sees time-etched tiny crow’s feet at the corners of Cynthia’s liquid-brown eyes. She knows I’m not kidding. And with that, they round a bend and stop at a massive wrought-iron entry gate, its overhead sign silhouetted against the cloudless sky beckoning, Welcome to Pines & Quill.

  “If you wear a watch, you won’t need it,” Mick smiles. “The pace of life here is much slower. Libby, my sister, says that ‘Time at Pines & Quill passes like a herd of turtles in a jar of peanut butter.’”

  The three women laugh.

  Mick presses a button on the remote attached to the visor over the driver’s seat. The huge gate swings open and the vehicle sensor buzzes in the main house, notifying the occupants that their guests have arrived.

  Niall turns the burners to simmer and removes his blue-and-white striped bistro apron. “Hemingway, our guests are here. Come on, boy, let’s go find Libby.”

  Although well-traveled, this tranquil location, separated from the rest of the world by a long road and acres of trees, is Mick’s favorite on the globe.

  He notices the women’s appreciation of their forested surroundings and uses the automatic controls to lower their windows as he takes the lengthy drive to the main house, slowing so they can drink in the beauty.

  Tall trees flank the smooth road—like soldiers—their canopied shade expansive, with a few rays of light piercing the foliage in certain spots. The effect is mystical. The scent of evergreen fills the van as it glides around familiar curves. It carries with it a certain mellowness that only pines bestow.

  At the end of the drive, the trees open into a natural space, and the main house comes into view. The two-story home sits on a gentle rise, accentuated by a large circular drive surrounding low, well-maintained shrubs and bushes.

  Jason’s gaze sweeps the area, taking everything in, as Mick eases the van into the roundabout. He makes a mental note of the side road off the circle leading to a large garage and what appears to be a workshop. He also notices the nearby, two-car parking space with plantings that integrate it into the landscape.

  Casual yet elegant, the drive widens at the front door. It’s here that Mick pulls to a stop and activates the sliding side doors on the van. Once open, Niall, Libby, and Hemingway step forward to greet the new arrivals.

  Emma stretches out her hand and wiggles her fingers. Hemingway knows an invitation when he sees one. He shifts into a happy, full-body wag and steps to the open van door, plunging his whiskered muzzle into Emma’s hand. She tosses her head back in laughter as his cold, wet nose makes contact. “I can see that we’re going to be good friends.”

  Libby steps forward and takes hold of Hemingway’s collar with her left hand while extending her right. In a rich, warm voice, like whiskey by a fire, she says, “I’m Libby MacCullough.” She nods her head toward Niall, and with a loving smile, continues. “And this is my husband, Niall.”

  Emma takes her hand. “I’m Emma Benton. It’s so nice to meet you both.”

  “Let me introduce you properly to this big lummox.” Libby turns to Hemingway, taps his rump, and says, “Sit.” When he does—his wiry tail dusting the ground behind him—she continues, “Good boy. Now give Emma your paw.”

  Hemingway lifts his massive paw, and Emma takes it in her hand.

  “Emma, this is Hemingway. If he becomes a nuisance, just point to the main house and tell him ‘go home.’ If you’re lucky, he’ll leave.”

  “You’re like a small horse,” Emma says to Hemingway while scratching behind one of his ears, the only unassuming thing about him. Within moments, one of his back legs starts twitching like a rabbit’s.

  “You’ve found his spot.” Libby laughs. Under awning-like eyebrows, the now-delirious Hemingway’s eyes roll back, and his long, pink tongue lolls out the side of his mouth. “You’ve got a friend for life now.”

  Cynthia and Fran walk around from the other side of the van. “I didn’t know you raise livestock,” Cynthia says, appreciating the Irish Wolfhound’s massive size.

  Libby’s eyes regard a white pixie hairstyle, feathered around a face as tan and smooth as a child who plays in the sun. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed she’s yet to see fifty.

  As if reading Libby’s thoughts, Cynthia looks into her eyes and smiles.

  While Libby introduces herself to the other two women, Mick and Niall shift the luggage to the back of the ATV, and Emma transfers herself with ease from van to wheelchair.

  Hemingway takes the opportunity to check out Cynthia and Fran while Emma’s hands are busy elsewhere.

  Not a fan of dogs, Jason uses this busy moment to exit the van. When he researched Pines & Quill on the internet, he learned about the resident dog. And while he isn’t happy with that particular fact, there’s nothing he can do about it. At least not yet.

  Libby says, “Emma, you’re in Austen cottage. Mick, here are the tags for her luggage.”

  “I won’t need tags, sis. Emma’s luggage is easy to distinguish from the rest. It’s ‘Pumpkin Spice,’’’ he says with exaggerated care, his grin bearing a hint of conspiracy as Emma laughs at their private joke.

  Not lost on Libby, she notices the easy banter between her brother and the beautiful young woman.

  “Fran, you’re in Dickens cottage. Cynthia, you’re in Brontë. And Jason—by the way, it’s nice to meet you,” she steps forward to shake his hand. “You’re in Thoreau.”

  Then she turns and hands Mick the other color-coded luggage tags. “For those who’d like a ride, Mick will give you a lift in the ATV while he takes your luggage to the cottages, or you can come with me on the pathways.”

  Not wanting to spend any more time near the behemoth dog than he has to, Jason is the first to speak up, “I’d like a ride.”

  Cynthia chimes in, “I’m a bit travel-weary. I’d enjoy a ride too.” Travel-weary my ass, Cynthia thinks. I want to see if I can get more of a read on this guy. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

  “I’d prefer to come with you and get the lay of the land.” Emma smiles at Libby while stroking Hemingway’s anvil-sized head, now resting on her shoulder.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to join you.” Fran smiles at the endearing picture that Emma and Hemingway make.

  Niall glances at his watch. “While you folks are getting settled in your new digs, I’ll put the finishing touches on dinner. We’ll see you back here at six o’clock. That gives you just about an hour to catch your second wind.”

  Jason settles himself in the ATV. I wonder if there’s any booze in the cottage?

  CHAPTER 4

  “Making people believe the unbelievable is no trick; it’s work. Belief and reader absorption come in the details: An overturned tricycle in the gutter of an abandoned neighborhood can stand for everything.”

  —STEPHEN KING

  “Fran, Dickens cottage is located on the north end of the property and closest to where we are now, so let’s head there first,” Libby says, pointing in the distance to a thick curtain of Bigleaf Maple trees. “I think you’re going to love it because the quiet is conducive to writing.”

  For a moment they stop to admire the surroundings in the tranquility of pre-dusk. The tinkling of wind chimes and the rustling of leaves from the breeze through the copse of trees surrounds them.

  Fran brings up the rear as they continue. Her heart aches as she watches Emma roll herself forward with ease. She’s trapped in a wheelchair but is freer and more alive than I’ll ever be.

  The moment is interrupted by a mighty “WOOF!” Something that looks like a cross between a Highland cow and a wookie barrels toward them through the trees. The muscles in Fran’s body clench in fear as her brain scrambles to figure out where she can hide. Before she can move, the beast runs up to Emma, stops on a dime, sits down, and begins wagging its tail. Fran’s racing heart slows down, and she laughs, realizing the giant furry thing is Hemingway.

  Hands still
at her chest, “Oh, my God, he’s huge!” Fran exclaims.

  Hemingway shakes his wiry head, causing his ears to flap.

  “Yes, he’s a big lummox,” Libby agrees.

  Emma reaches out her hand toward Hemingway. He moves his head under Emma’s fingers so she can scratch behind his ears. “You handsome boy,” she coos. When she bends forward, Hemingway moves even closer and leans against Emma’s wheelchair.

  Fran watches the scene and hopes he won’t topple her over. She’s sure the dog outweighs both Emma and the wheelchair, combined.

  Fran looks up and inhales the earthy fragrance wafting from the forest surrounding them. As they continue toward Dickens cottage, Hemingway in tow, Emma and Fran admire the subtle walk lights that begin to shine along the path.

  Libby explains, “All of the pathways at Pines & Quill have solar powered walk lights that come on at dusk and go off when their batteries are depleted. That time differs from day-to-day, depending on the amount of sunlight. We want our guests to feel as comfortable in the evening as they do during the day. Here we are.” And with that Libby opens the door for Fran. “If there’s anything I’ve forgotten, please let me know when you come to the main house for dinner. We’ll see you at six o’clock.”

  Fran’s arrival at Dickens cottage is like slipping into an old photograph of warm sepia tones—chocolate and ecru. The colors of unbleached silk and linen fabrics throughout the small space are welcoming and pleasing to the senses.

  She remembers while researching Pines & Quill online that previous guests who’d resided in Dickens cottage wrote of their appreciation of the queen-size bed in the cozy sleeping loft, and the comfortable, overstuffed brown leather chair and ottoman with nailhead trim that welcomed them at day’s end. More so, the large, smooth, walnut desk placed beneath a north-facing window, an invitation to survey the cool, quiet woods—Mother Nature’s sanctuary.

  Fran stands still in the center of the room and takes a deep inhalation. She follows her nose and finds a beautiful glass fragrance diffuser with a handwritten note: Designed to comfort, the top notes are fresh pine sprigs and mandarin orange, the middle notes are pomegranate and cinnamon, and the base notes are roasted chestnuts and Madagascar vanilla. Enjoy!