Indelible Page 5

  The room’s warm embrace envelopes Fran. The walls seemed to whisper, “Come in and stay awhile. You can relax now and let your barriers down.” The tension in her stiff shoulders melts, and an unexpected smile perches on her lips. Libby was right. I’m going to love it here.

  Hand gliding over the smooth surface of the walnut desk, Fran gazes out the window into the woods. The shadows have grown more profound now. The spatters of red and gold giving way to the blues and purples of dusk.

  She thinks about how her life has grown small and claustrophobic.

  In an article she’d read in an in-flight magazine on the journey from Boston, there was a quote that brought her up short. “Whatever you are not changing, you are choosing.” Just eight little words, but they captured her attention, and she resolves that her time at Pines & Quill will be a catapult to change.

  Unfettered, she rakes her fingers through her lacquered hair, the first of many changes to come.

  On the way to the west side of the property toward Austen cottage, Emma tells Libby, “I knew that as a wheelchair-friendly facility Pines & Quill would have smooth surfaces, but this is exceptional.”

  “We learned so much when Mick was in a wheelchair,” Libby responds, smiling. “And we’ve put everything we learned into practice.”

  Emma looks up in wide-eyed surprise. “Mick was in a wheelchair?”

  “Yes, but that’s his story to share, not mine. Here we are now.”

  Nestled in a glade of Blue Elderberry, Austen cottage features womb-like seclusion. Libby gives a hand signal to Hemingway that conveys, “Sit and stay.” After he drops to his bottom, she activates a button on the outside wall and the door swings open. “There’s a matching button on the inside,” Libby says, “but it works manually as well.”

  Emma rolls up the ramp with ease, continuing right through the extra-wide doorframe.

  “Oh my gosh,” she exclaims turning around with a face-splitting grin.

  But Libby is already stepping out, pulling the door closed with her. “See you at six o’clock,” Libby says with a smile in her voice as the door shuts behind her.

  Emma loves the welcoming, soft hues of sage and lavender. Her artisan’s eye appreciates the wheelchair-friendly design with interior elements spaced for smooth transition. The wood floor reflects the same warm, honeyed tones of a massive beam that runs the length of the structure, parallel with the pitch of the vaulted ceiling.

  Something smells delicious. Emma rolls to the kitchen following the scent. On the granite counter she finds a beautiful glass diffuser with a handwritten note: Designed to enhance creativity, the top note is Caribbean pink grapefruit, the middle note is amber, and the base notes are Jamaican lemon, Tobago lime, and green florals. Enjoy!

  Emma feels warm with welcome. A battered and loved square oak desk with ample clearance space faces sliding glass doors that reveal a smooth-tiled patio of faded terra cotta. Outside the doors a wild profusion of potted flowers greets her. She realizes that with a west-facing view she’ll enjoy an ideal vantage point from which to gaze at the sun as it bows farewell, making way for its alluring mistress, the moon.

  After sliding the glass door open with ease, Emma wheels out and draws in a deep, invigorating breath. The pre-evening stillness is peaceful, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of San Diego. In the quiet, she hears the hum of a distant boat. From what she read online while researching Pines & Quill, she knows Austen cottage is near the water. If she remembers right, Bellingham Bay, a rather large inlet somewhat protected by Lummi Island, is to the west. I wonder how close we are to the cliffs that overlook the bay?

  Back inside, canopied by the honeyed tones of the vaulted ceiling, Emma leans against the wheelchair’s leather back and exhales, her eyes once again appreciating the soft hues of sage and lavender accents throughout. From the moment she entered the quaint space she loved it, knowing it will be the perfect place to finish her manuscript.

  On the east side of the property, Mick pulls the all-terrain vehicle up to Brontë cottage. Like its namesake, Emily Brontë, the cottage is reclusive behind a wall of Douglas Fir trees. Their massive evergreen branches provide an occasional glimpse of light reflected from a window, like a knowing wink.

  Mick carries Cynthia’s luggage up the steps of Brontë’s front porch. “Welcome to your home away from home,” he says to Cynthia whose gaze is focused on Jason waiting in the ATV. “Is everything okay?” Mick asks, his forehead creased with concern as he remembers how Jason pulled his hand away from hers at the airport.

  “I’m not sure,” she responds. To ease his worry, she continues with a smile. “One thing I know for certain, I’m looking forward to dinner.”

  Setting her luggage inside the door, Mick reminds her, “We eat at six o’clock. Would you like me to pick you up in the ATV?”

  “I’ll walk, thank you,” she says. “See you at dinner.”

  The wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to a sleeping loft is first to claim Cynthia’s attention. She discovers a haven that strikes the ideal balance between Parisian chic and relaxed bohemian romance.

  Second to claim her attention is the subtle fragrance flirting with her sense of smell. She follows the scent and finds a beautiful glass diffuser with a handwritten note: Designed to enhance clarity, the top notes are Sicilian mandarin and Italian bergamot, the middle note is night-blooming Jasmine, and the base note is Tahitian vanilla. Enjoy!

  On the main level, Cynthia gravitates toward a cozy window seat with a thick, inviting, jewel-toned cushion and matching throw pillows of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. How did Libby know those are my favorite scents and that I favor jewel tones? Is she an intuitive too?

  Cynthia’s eyes feast on the gem-toned palette as she admires the beautiful space. She stops, crosses her arms and hugs herself. With a bow at the waist, she slips off her shoes and flexes her toes. After taking a deep inhalation, she returns to her full height, sways from sole to sole, and then executes a flawless pirouette, made all the more beautiful because of her tall, willowy frame.

  In an east-facing pose, she curtsies toward a work-worn desk hugging the wall beneath a massive window. A proponent of supporting local artisans, one of Libby’s favorite pieces—“A statement piece,” she’d explained to Niall—sits on the wide windowsill. Created by a native glassblower, it’s made from cast-iron and five transparent, gem-toned glass bottles that hang from hooks: carnelian, ruby, citrine, peridot, and turquoise.

  Cynthia knows she’ll rise at daybreak for the next three weeks to watch the sun’s fingers grip the horizon and pull itself into the morning sky. Its natural mandala of inspiration is sure to stir her creative juices and not only help her complete the manuscript, but serve to lift the heaviness of her responsibilities as an intuitive consultant for law enforcement—even if temporarily.

  Located on the south end of the property, one has to know where they’re looking to glimpse Thoreau cottage. A double-take is in order because, by all appearances, it seems to have sprouted amongst the Western Red Cedar woods that surround it. Not much bigger than Henry David Thoreau’s cabin on Walden Pond, it’s the epitome of minimalism—simple, yet full—in natural surroundings.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Jason says, hopping off the ATV before it comes to a full stop. “I got this,” he says, grabbing his luggage.

  “Would you like me to pick you up for dinner?”

  “No. I’ll walk,” Jason says over his shoulder, heading to the cottage door.

  The moment Jason steps inside he freezes in his tracks. Mother, he thinks, lip curled in repulsion. He drops his luggage, steps in further, and shuts the door behind him. It smells like Mother. Disgusted, he sets out to find the source. It doesn’t take long to find the odd glass container sitting on the kitchen counter accompanied by a handwritten note: Designed to calm, the top notes are Moroccan amber and sweet patchouli, the middle note is heliotrope, and the base notes are bergamot and eucalyptus. Enjoy!

  Patchouli. Jason hates
that smell. His mother reeked of the stuff.

  Before opening the door, he looks out the window to make sure McPherson is nowhere in sight. He steps out and rounds the corner of the cabin. When he reaches the steep drop-off to a canyon, Jason chucks the bottle as far as he can. Designed to calm, he sneers to himself. What a crock of shit!

  Back inside, he takes in his surroundings. The fact that the furnishings are handcrafted pieces from a local woodworker, and that each creation is polished to accentuate its natural character and beauty, is lost on him. When she decorated the interior, Libby intended to convey the idea that “less is more.” She designed the room to say, “Since you can’t hide from yourself in a space this size, you might as well sit down and write.”

  The minimal nod to extravagance in Thoreau cottage is the south-facing wall, constructed entirely of glass. It frames a breathtaking view of the Bellingham Bay National Park and Reserve, home to El Cañón del Diablo—The Devil’s Canyon. So named because of the boulder field at the bottom of a hundred foot rock wall. As for the caves, they’re the nooks and crannies between the boulders and home to Townsend’s big-eared bats.

  This is the perfect location for what I’ve come to do. Elegant in its simplicity, inessentials had been trimmed away, leaving functionality. And although emotionally stingy, even Jason isn’t immune to the breathtaking southern view. This bird’s-eye perspective of a national park is beautiful, and should it become necessary, a quick sprint will provide safe hiding with its wooded, boulder-laden and sloping terrain leading to the canyon base. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. He smiles to himself like a Cheshire cat. And I’ve done my homework.

  Jason settles himself in a chair facing the wall of glass and sets the suitcase across his lap. He feels a surge of exhilaration as tooth by tooth, he unzips it. It contains his keepsakes, sweet memories of power and total subjugation. He lifts the lid, drawing a deep breath of anticipation. He caresses the top two towels, their memories bring a swelling wave of pleasure. The soft leather chair back supports his head as he loses himself in thought, replaying his most recent conquest in his mind’s eye.

  He sees himself standing behind the shower curtain in room 414, holding his breath when he hears a knock—tap, tap, tap—followed by a voice calling out, “Housekeeping.” Familiar with the routine, five seconds tick by before a louder knock—tap, tap, tap. Again, the call of “Housekeeping,” followed by the sound of a keycard releasing the lock and a housekeeping cart being maneuvered. Knife fisted in his right hand, his heart races in anticipation.

  And there it is. The look of sheer terror on her face as he pulls the curtain back when she straightens from collecting the liner in the bathroom trash can. He pushes the door shut, steps out of the tub and covers her mouth, turning the frantic, struggling woman toward the mirror. In the reflection, he reads “Devi” printed on a name badge pinned above her left breast. With the knife pressed at her throat, he whispers in her ear, “Devi, you get to watch and enjoy this as much as me.”

  A sudden ripple in the air breaks his reverie. Jason’s muscles tighten. Ready to run, he looks behind him.

  Nothing.

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head to clear it. His knees almost buckle in relief. All that talk about ghosts has me spooked.

  Jason wants a drink. No, he needs a drink.

  A quick forage through the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator reveal the absence of alcohol. He’ll remedy that on his first trip into town. For now, he heads up to the main house to gather information about Mick and to enjoy a before-dinner drink, or apéritif, as his mother liked to call their evening ritual. Poor dead Mom, he thinks, a self-satisfied smirk claiming his features. There are so many ways to hurt women.

  CHAPTER 5

  “The most important thing is to read as much as you can, like I did. It will give you an understanding of what makes good writing and it will enlarge your vocabulary.”

  —J.K. ROWLING

  Instead of heading straight to the main house, Jason takes a circuitous route to investigate the other cottages. Each one is surrounded by a copse of trees. His own cottage, Thoreau, is encompassed by Western Red Cedar trees. Brontë, Cynthia’s cottage, is circled by Douglas Fir. Austen, Emma’s cottage, is enclosed by Blue Elderberry trees. And Dickens, Fran’s cottage, is surrounded by Bigleaf Maples.

  Other than on the pathways, the forest floor is covered with lush maidenhair ferns. And while the wooded area provides the writers in residence with privacy, it also gives Jason camouflage. After noting the location of windows, doors, and each cottage’s unique surroundings, he brushes bits of fern from his shirt sleeves and pant legs. At five minutes ‘til six, Jason arrives at the main house.

  Niall meets him at the front door and extends his hand. “Please come in, dinner will be ready soon. I’m headed back to the kitchen,” he says over his shoulder. “Follow me, what can I get you?”

  “It’s been a long day. I’d like something on the strong side. Scotch and water.”

  “Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a moment,” Niall says, turning toward The Ink Well, their living room and in-home bar.

  Hemingway, observing their exchange from behind the Dutch door in the kitchen, lets loose a deep-throated growl.

  Surprised by Hemingway’s unusual behavior, Niall says, “Knock that off, big fella. You know we don’t allow that kind of talk around here.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jason interjects, throwing an icy-gray glare at Hemingway before following Niall. “By the way, I’m expecting two UPS packages tomorrow. I shipped my manuscript because I didn’t want to lug it with me on the flight. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  That’s odd, Niall thinks. It’s been years since a writer brought a physical copy of their manuscript with them. The authors who stay at Pines & Quill bring their work on laptops.

  Seeming to read his mind, Jason continues, “I know it’s a bit old school, but that’s the method that works best for me; give me paper and a red pen for editing any day,” he finishes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “No problem at all,” Niall says, pouring two fingers of scotch into a whiskey glass and adding a cube of ice instead of pouring water in. “Let the ice melt. It provides the ideal amount of time to unlock the aromas and flavors.”

  Niall’s advice goes ignored as Jason tosses back the drink. Then comes the obligatory grimace and purse of the lips. His eyes seem to melt a little, and his jaw relaxes as he extends his glass for another.

  Fran and Cynthia arrive at the main house together. They climb the broad stone steps to the rustic, paneled oak door. Both women have changed from their travel clothes—Cynthia, into a sweeping marine-blue dress, its skirt creating beautiful movement with each step, Fran into a circumspect gray blazer and matching slacks made less rigid by her soft-combed hair and a touch of pink lipstick.

  “I like what you’ve done to your hair,” Cynthia says.

  “Thank you.” Fran beams at the compliment while Cynthia uses the heavy brass knocker that’s polished to a subtle glow. Within moments, the big door is opened by Libby.

  “Welcome to our home,” she greets them with a warm smile. Libby steps back into the gracious foyer, inviting them into the casual elegance of the main house. “Niall says dinner’s almost ready. Let’s head back to the kitchen.”

  The aroma of grilled salmon mingled with mysterious spices teases their nostrils as they walk along gleaming hardwood floors, passing rooms on either side that feature wide windows boasting beautiful views. On the way to the kitchen, a dusk-filled, west-facing terrace leads to a garden of native plants where subtle uplighting exposes a handful of colorful birdhouses crafted by local artisans. The women stop and watch the sun bid its final farewell, casting deep purple shadows amidst vivid wildflowers sprinkled throughout.

  When they arrive at the massive eat-in kitchen, both Fran and Cynthia appreciate the cathedral ceiling and large picture window with a southern exposure. />
  “Welcome to my domain,” an apron-clad Niall greets them, bowing at the waist.

  “This is where all of the culinary magic takes place,” Libby adds. Pointing to the picture window that Fran and Cynthia are admiring, she continues, “When it’s daylight, you’ll be able to see Niall’s garden. Much of the food he prepares comes from right here. The rest he sources locally.”

  In spite of his limp, Mick strides along the pathway toward the main house. Up ahead, he spots Emma’s auburn hair caping her shoulders in silken sheaths. “Hey, wait up,” he calls, pretending to be out of breath. “You’re hard to catch, may I join you?”

  “I’d like that,” Emma says. “And your company ensures I won’t get lost. That wouldn’t be good, because I’m ravenous.” She laughs up into Mick’s deep green eyes.

  Mick leads Emma to the country kitchen where polished cutlery flanks sangria-red plates. Her artistic eye notices the hand-painted serving pieces. Swirls of sage and ochre in the gleaming stemware complement the glazed dinnerware. Old-world style. She smiles. I love it.

  Hemingway’s tail shifts into propeller mode letting God and everyone know that Emma’s arrival hasn’t gone unnoticed by him.

  Emma rolls her wheelchair over to give Hemingway a scratch under his bearded chin. “Hello, handsome,” she says. He stretches his neck further over the lower half of the Dutch door. “May I give him a biscuit?” she asks Niall, eyeing the clear container set out of Hemingway’s reach.

  “Yes, you may give the lummox one cookie,” Niall answers from in front of the stove where he’s stirring something that smells delicious. “Did you hear that, Hemingway? I said one. O-N-E.” Niall spells it out for emphasis.