Indelible Page 8

  Jason rubs his shoulder as he walks with steady determination to Mount Bakery Café only to discover they don’t open until eight. Eyes blind with fury, he steels himself against the urge to smash his fist through the showcase window. He turns on his heel—the town’s shops are little more than a blur—and strides back the way he came, stopping when he reaches a park bench at Padden Creek Lagoon.

  He glares at his right hand, trembling, as it clenches the crumpled map in his balled fist. Son of a bitch! He extends his left hand, turning it palm up for closer inspection. It, too, is shaking. I need a drink, but I have at least an hour to kill.

  Surrounded by a dozen historical markers, Jason walks from plaque to plaque reading. Not what he’d planned for the morning, but by the time he heads back to the café for coffee, he’s learned quite a bit. Playing it back in his mind, he adds his own two cents worth:

  “Fairhaven, Washington was founded in the late 1880s and is now part of the City of Bellingham. It’s on the south side of Bellingham and borders Puget Sound on the west, and Western Washington University on the northeast. Its center is the Fairhaven Historic District.” Where I’m walking right now. “It features a seasonal farmer’s market.” Who cares? “As well as numerous restaurants and shops.” Yes, but they’re not open when you need them.

  “The district is a popular tourist destination.” God only knows why! “All newly-constructed buildings in the historical district are required to conform in outward appearance to the community’s traditional 19th-century style.” My task in life has been to conform in outward appearance to the rest of society.

  The tinkle of the shop bell announces his arrival. Jason’s nostrils widen in appreciation of the heady smell of warm baked goods mingled with the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. His stomach lurches. So focused on getting a drink—a single drink goddammit!—he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. While placing his order, the pleasant woman behind the counter looks at him with concern.

  “Are you okay?” she inquires, her glasses perched precariously close to the end of her nose.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Jason says, smiling at the woman. “You must be Maggie. Niall told me to tell you he sent me. I’m at Pines & Quill this month and stayed up late following the thread of a good story. I ended up pulling an all-nighter.” He shoots her a manufactured, embarrassed grin. “I didn’t realize until this morning that I’m out of coffee.” I hope this broad doesn’t know how well stocked the cottages are.

  Jason turns at the tap on his right shoulder and sees a man wearing a clerical collar.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re staying at Pines & Quill. I’m Father Patrick MacCullough, Niall’s brother. Welcome to Fairhaven. I hope you’ll join us at St. Barnabas while you’re here.”

  When hell freezes over! “Thank you. I don’t think there’ll be time for that.”

  Maggie wipes her hands on a cloth, leans over the glass display case, and asks, “What are you writing about?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Jason winks. “It’s cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “Oh dear! Well we can’t have that now, can we?” Maggie says, with a conspiratorial smile as she fits the plastic lid on a large to-go cup of black coffee.

  Jason pauses at the door and turns back. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I’ll be back.” He smiles. “By the way, can you tell me where the nearest liquor store is?”

  “Old Fairhaven Wines is just up the street,” Maggie says. “They have a large assortment of local vintners including Oregon and California, and a great selection that spans the globe.”

  “I’ll remember that for my hostess,” Jason says. He’s seething with impatience, but his face is a mask of diplomacy as he continues. “I mean hard liquor like scotch, gin, and vodka.”

  Father MacCullough interjects, “Oh. That’ll be Washington State Liquor out on Old Fairhaven Parkway.” When he sees Jason’s eyes widen in urgency, he adds, “But they don’t open until ten.”

  “Is it within walking distance?”

  “It’s about a mile and a half from here.” Father MacCullough points west. “Near Interstate 5.”

  His words fall on deaf ears as the door shuts with a resounding bang and the tinkle of the shop bell echoes after Jason’s retreating back.

  It’s eight o’clock now. The liquor store doesn’t open until ten. I’ll go back and hitch a ride into town with Niall. I can’t waste any more time. I want to be there when UPS delivers my packages.

  The walk back to Pines & Quill is much slower as Jason eats the baked goods and sips at his hot coffee. He sits on a fallen tree. His hawkish features are frozen in concentrated effort as he thinks about his next steps. Buy alcohol and poison. Kill Mick and the damn dog.

  Buoyed by his thoughts, Jason arrives back at the retreat. Careful not to be seen, he slips behind the wall of Western Red Cedar trees and enters the confines of the simple, natural cottage named after Henry David Thoreau. He pauses in front of the all-glass southern wall. A glint of reflected morning sun winks at him through the foliage. He leans forward and squints to get a closer look. He can just make out two figures, one walking with a limp, the other in a wheelchair. He remembers how Mick and Emma talked, laughed, and looked at each other during dinner last night.

  The coin drops.

  Emma is Mick’s Achilles’ heel—his weakness, his vulnerable point. I can use her to get to him. Jason’s slow smile is self-congratulatory, having nothing to do with the breathtaking view.

  CHAPTER 9

  “The less attention I pay to what people want and the more attention I pay to just writing the book I want to write, the better I do.”

  —LAWRENCE BLOCK

  Heading back to Austen cottage after the early morning tai chi session, Emma says, “Mick, that was amazing! I would have started tai chi a long time ago if I’d known I’d feel like this afterward. My body’s relaxed, my head’s clear, and I feel revved up and ready to tackle my manuscript.”

  “That’s why it’s called ‘meditation in motion,’” Mick says. “The combination of low impact circular motions, slow movement, and deep breathing focuses attention. And because nothing is forced, it initiates flow—in your case, creative flow.”

  “I think it should be called ‘medication in motion.’ I feel like I just drank a healing elixir. It’s like I’m a new person.”

  Mick looks at Emma’s dew-kissed face. God, she’s gorgeous. “You’re glowing.”

  She scrapes a hand through her hair. Freed from the scrunchie, her dark auburn mane falls to her shoulders. “What I am, is burning to write. I want to dive into my manuscript while I still feel energized.” The cloth-covered elastic gets a vigorous workout on her lap. A tell-tale sign of her excitement.

  After passing through the glade of Blue Elderberry, they reach her cottage. “What’s that?” Emma asks, pointing to something on her porch.

  Mick picks it up and shakes his head. “It looks like you have an admirer. Hemingway’s left you a gift,” he says, holding a dirt-crusted bone out for Emma to see.

  “The feeling is mutual.” When they realize they’re talking about each other, Emma tips her head forward to hide her blush behind a curtain of hair, and Mick uses the moment to activate the button on the outside wall. The door to Austen cottage opens, revealing the soft hues of its sage and lavender interior.

  “If that big hairy galoot comes around and bothers you, send him home. Can I bring you anything for lunch?”

  “I assume you’re referring to Hemingway.” Emma laughs. “He’s welcome company. And Libby saw to it that my kitchen is stocked, thank you.” She turns, looks at the sky, and notices cracks in the blue-violet clouds giving way to golden rays that cause the still-damp leaves to shimmer.

  “If it doesn’t rain, how about a picnic tomorrow afternoon?” Mick asks.

  “I’d like that.” Emma smiles.

  “We can work out the details tonight at dinner.”

  Emma watches Mick
’s thatch of charcoal-colored hair until he vanishes in the distance.

  He thinks about her clear green eyes and the vibrancy of her voice. Her enthusiasm is contagious. Mick whistles a merry tune, his feet barely touching the ground all the way back to his cabin.

  Emma sits before her laptop and readies herself for a day of writing. Before starting, she picks up a smooth rectangular stone and runs her fingers over it. It makes her smile every time she handles it.

  While attending a writing conference in Los Angeles, she and the other attendees were told that they’d encounter every author’s nemesis. Writer’s block.

  Determined to make a preemptive strike and embrace this thing rather than run scared, she shifted her perspective and sought out a physical reminder when she returned home. She scoured San Diego to find what she was looking for and found it in a crystal shop near the beach in Encinitas.

  A beautiful piece of jade, or “yu” as it’s called in China, it symbolizes the five virtues of humanity: wisdom, compassion, justice, modesty, and courage. I love my writer’s block. It’s all about flow.

  “Niall. Niall!” Libby calls from the mudroom before bursting through the bottom half of the Dutch door. “Where’s that man gone off to?” she asks the empty room. “Niall!” she begins again with exasperation.

  Niall pokes his head around the wall of the hallway entrance. “Where’s the fire?” he asks, with mock fear in his blue eyes shining under bushy eyebrows.

  With hands clasped in front of her chest in childlike glee, Libby says, “The fire’s in Mick. He’s hot for Emma.” She laughs at her play on his word. “And I think the feeling’s mutual. After this morning’s session, they left together, and they didn’t take the direct route to Austen cottage. They took the southern route behind Thoreau,” she says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

  Niall loves Libby’s pixie nose that tends to wrinkle in disapproval or disdain. The same nose whose delicate nostrils flare when aroused.

  “Good heavens, woman. It appears you got some extra exercise this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been jumping to conclusions again. It’s none of your business, Libby. Stay out of it.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I know how much you want Mick to be in a relationship again. But he’s a grown man and doesn’t need you to interfere.”

  It’s difficult for Niall to hold a stern look while facing Libby. There she is, tendrils of hair spilling from the loose ballet bun she wears while working around the house. Now and then she raises her hand and fingers the rosewood hair-stick Mick carved for her. A long and slender bird, he says it reminds him of Libby holding the crane pose in tai chi.

  “I’m not interfering. I’m observing nature taking its course.” And with that, Libby cocks her head haughtily, sweeps past him—hands on her hips—and sashays up the stairs for a shower.

  Hot and bothered, all Niall can think of is following Libby, pulling the carved stick from her hair, and watching as it tumbles to her beautiful naked shoulders.

  As she tucks through the Bigleaf Maples toward Dickens cottage, Fran thinks about the morning’s exercise, the hospitality, and the protected time for writing. She thinks about last evening’s conversation at The Ink Well. Cluttered and comfortable, it says home, family, and welcome. It dawns on her that Pines & Quill is like a balm to her soul.

  She remembers on the drive from the airport, Cynthia, a complete stranger, taking her hand. After close examination of her palm, she whispered, “When you forget what you have, for what you’ve lost, grief is an indulgence.”

  Instead of stinging, that observation buoyed her, just as Cynthia knew it would.

  As Fran opens the door of Dickens cottage, the warm sepia tones of its interior envelop her. Delicate splashes of mahogany, ochre, and rust vie for attention. A safe harbor.

  After putting the kettle on, Fran sits in an overstuffed chair and lets her thoughts drift. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve known for a while now that an internal storm has been biding its time, waiting to break loose.

  Moving to the desk chair, she turns on her laptop and selects a soft backdrop of music to appease her heart, then clicks on the document titled Mother in Waiting: The Stigma of Childlessness and begins to type.

  This book is dedicated to all mothers whose hearts are held hostage by their unborn children.

  While reading and rereading that first line, she twists her wedding band, removes it, and replaces it again. She admits to herself that she’s become what Cynthia whispered on the drive to Pines & Quill, “A woman defined by her biology.”

  That’s the moment the floodgates open and healing begins.

  Except for sex, I can’t remember a more enjoyable form of exercise, Cynthia muses, eyeing the wrought-iron spiral stairs that lead to the loft bedroom. My muscles feel relaxed rather than tense, because as Libby explained, “In tai chi the joints aren’t fully extended or bent, and the connective tissues aren’t stretched.”

  A tall, thin woman with a gamine crop of snow-white hair and eyes of far-seeing liquid brown, Cynthia thinks, No matter how good my body feels, a feeling of unease—dread—has settled in the pit of my stomach.

  More than perceptive and insightful, she has an almost infallible gut instinct that most people refer to as premonition, intuition, or clairvoyance. Both a gift and a curse, Cynthia’s learned to walk softly in other people’s lives. But every time she thinks about, or is near Jason, she receives the impression of pure, unadulterated malice.

  After taking a bowl from the kitchen cupboard, she fills it with water from the tap and sets it on her desk in front of the east-facing window. She smiles when she sits down, thinking of her mother, the woman who’d taught her to scrye. Her gaze, almost trance-like, rests on the water’s surface. Within moments, the smile is wiped from her face by what she sees.

  After a few hours of productive writing, Emma showers and then changes into a mint-colored cowl-neck tee and white ankle pants. With her feet still bare, she maneuvers her wheelchair across the honey-toned wood floor, gathers her laptop, and rolls out onto the terra cotta patio.

  The overflowing pots of vivid flowers perfume the air with citrus, spice, earth, and sweet floral notes.

  Moving her hair to one side, the angle of the sun hits the back of her neck at just the right spot, dousing her in a slice of warmth.

  Taking a deep breath, Emma tips back her still-wet head to appreciate the cloudless, robin’s-egg blue sky, a rare sighting in Fairhaven. She knows by the faint taste of salt that the ocean, framed by a wind-whipped bluff, is nearby. Closing her eyes, she remembers as a little girl when her family neared the beach, her mother would say, “If you lick the back of your hand, you can taste the ocean.”

  As if on cue, a large wet tongue licks her hand. Startled, Emma’s eyes fly open. “Hemingway!” She laughs. “You’re the size of a pony. How did you manage to sneak up on me like that?”

  With what she knows to be a toothy grin beneath wiry whiskers, he circles a spot next to her and settles in. Within minutes his tongue is lolling, and his feet are twitching as he enjoys a dream-laden nap in the sun.

  A vagrant wind ruffles Emma’s now-dry hair. She’s typing away, lost in thought. A mere channel for her contemplation. But there, drifting at the edge of her absorption, is a picture of Mick. In her mind, she likens him to the tall tree standing sentinel on the west side of the cottage. Deep-rooted, with a sturdy, powerful trunk that’s able to bend in a storm and stand tall again after the battering winds have passed.

  Mick circles his desk several times—like a big cat stalking its prey—keeping a wary eye on his laptop. It’s been a long time since he’s worked on his memoir, Collateral Damage. Not until his jaw hurts does he realize how tense the memories still make him. Pain flashes across his face as he remembers what the last attempt dredged up. Without conscious thought, he rubs his leg.

  In his mind’s eye he sees his partner, Sam, slumped over the ste
ering wheel of their squad car with a bullet hole between unseeing eyes. If the day’s coin flip had come up tails, I would have been the driver. Not Sam. I would have been killed. Not Sam. Guilt chokes him.

  Unbidden, a picture of Emma comes to mind—intelligent, tenacious, witty, stubborn, passionate, unconventional, candid, and curious. I can do this, he thinks, pushing jet-black hair from his forehead. I can, and will, exorcize the demons.

  White knuckled, Mick pulls out the chair, sits down, and begins.

  True to his word, Niall gives Jason a lift into town. “So you weren’t able to take care of everything this morning when you walked to town?” Niall asks.

  “The liquor store doesn’t open until ten. I’d like to go to the one out on Old Fairhaven Parkway.”

  “I’ve always prided myself on the selection we offer at The Ink Well.” Niall smiles. A question in his voice.

  “You have a fine selection. I’d just like to have my own stash, if you know what I me.” He gives Niall a conspiratorial wink. “By the way, I met your brother at the creperie this morning.”

  “Yes. Paddy called to say he’d met you.”

  This town may be dead, but the gossip line is very much alive, Jason thinks.

  Niall pulls into a parking space in front of the liquor store.

  “This won’t take long,” Jason says.

  Niall reviews his shopping list while waiting in the car. Lost in the task, he doesn’t see Jason approach until he opens the back passenger door and places two brown paper sacks on the floor behind the front passenger seat.

  “Well, that’s done. Where to next?” Jason asks. “Will it take long?”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  Jason works to keep the edge out of his voice. “I’m just eager to get back. I’m expecting my manuscript to arrive today, and I’m anxious to get started on it.”