Jon took a sip of coffee. “You don’t trust journalists, huh?”
She gave him an innocent look. “What makes you think that, Mr. Byers? Am I not cooperating?”
He exhaled. Whatever had happened in her past, he guessed the media hadn’t been kind to her. But he was writing a puff piece, one step away from advertising, as Jamie’d said. Daphne had no reason to think he was looking for “dirt.” And this was barely a conversation, let alone an interview.
Maybe that was the problem.
He consulted his notes and adjusted his posture.
“I hear you’re a self-defense expert with a green belt in kickboxing. How’d you get into that?”
“Fitness,” she replied, lifting a leg, stocky with muscle, onto a chair. “You don’t get gams like these by accident.”
“You’re someone who can take care of herself. I admire that.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I learned the hard way. A lot more women my age should do martial arts. But our generation was trained for marital arts instead.”
“Really.” He raised his eyebrows. It sounded as if this wasn’t the first time she’d said that, but it still made a great quote. “What classes were those?”
“We were trained to be nice, pretty, to smile, to be good and never make waves. Useless shit like that.”
He took another bite of cake. A great quote, but not for a community paper. Time to change the subject.
“Tell me about your family.”
“Was married once,” she said. “He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I killed him.”
Jon dropped his fork. “Pardon me?”
He could imagine the feisty cook guilty of civil disobedience, not paying parking tickets, perhaps arguing with a traffic cop.
But murder? No.
“That’s right. Tried, convicted, paid my debt, here I am.” The lines on her face settled into an expression of such serenity that she’d either had a lot of time to make peace with the event or she was messing with his head.
“What, uh, what happened?”
“The man was talking when he should have been listening so I whacked him on the head with my rolling pin. Actually, I didn’t so much swing, as I lifted it when he ran at me. The rolling pin killed him. It was not a helpful distinction in the trial.”
A tendon in her neck twitched. Not so serene after all, then.
“I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”
“Life’s too short to be serious all the time.” Daphne grinned. “Now, quit wasting your time on an old woman like me. The piece is about the garden. You should be talking to Abby.”
Perfect segue. He’d follow up on the dead husband later.
Or not.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, pulling his thoughts together. “She doesn’t like to talk about herself. She’s obviously very talented. Has she studied horticulture or garden design professionally?”
Daphne narrowed her eyes. “Newsflash, Peter Parker. If she doesn’t want to talk, that’s your problem, not mine. I’m sure she has her reasons.”
“Fair enough. How about this? How long have they been here at the ranch? You can tell me that, right?”
She considered this. “Okay. They first came here a couple of years ago, seasonal workers, to help out in summer, general labor, cleaning rooms, gardening, helping me with meals. I don’t know where they were before that or where they went after. But they were both good workers. So when they came back looking for permanent work, I voted to bring them on.”
She clipped the last word short and snapped her lips shut tight. It was a tiny emphasis, a subtle but certain something that rubbed beneath her saddle blanket.
He could practically see the words leaping at the inside of her teeth as she fought to keep them corralled.
“Did someone vote against them?”
That was hard to imagine. From what he’d seen, Abby and Quinn were polite and quiet. They worked hard and didn’t make waves. If anything, they weren’t rough enough for this group.
The cook kept her back to him, stirring her soup, but Jon saw her back stiffen. A protective mama bear with split loyalty. She wasn’t going to tell him anything more. He could almost see the sentences, the meat of his story, fading away before his eyes.
“Listen, handsome, you’re sitting in a place of peace and harmony, looking for trouble, and I don’t have time for that. You want to know more about Abby, talk to Abby, not me. But know this.” She turned around then and her expression was like ice. “The Warren girls are like daughters to me and I protect my own.”
The vehemence in her tone made him think she was entirely capable of bashing a man’s skull with a rolling pin. Her fast, fierce reaction told him there was far more to Abby and Quinn’s arrival than she wanted him to know about, but instead of putting him off the trail, it only increased his curiosity.
Her implication, however, hit a nerve.
“I’m not here to hurt anyone, least of all Abby.” He got to his feet, scraping the feet of his chair against the floor. “I owe a huge debt of gratitude to her and all of you for your kindness to my father. I offered to write this piece in hopes that it would benefit the ranch and Olivia seems to think it will. If you feel otherwise, you ought to bring it up with her so I don’t waste my time.”
* * *
“We lived in Los Angeles when I was small but we moved around a lot. Schools weren’t great in the neighborhoods we could afford.” Quinn Warren glanced around Jon as if looking for someone. Her hair and skin were fairer than Abby’s, and she was a bit thinner, but her high cheekbones, expressive eyes, and graceful movements identified them clearly as sisters.
Right now, her tight shoulders and fidgeting fingers indicated nervousness. Like Abby, she had a heart-shaped tattoo with a stylized semicolon on her left wrist. He knew better than to comment on that, at least for now.
He’d specifically chosen to interview her in front of the wide window in the main house great room. Comfortable, private but not alone. A few guests sat on the couches by the fire, reading. Beyond them came the muffled sounds of kitchen utensils, running water, laughter.
“Do you miss it?” Quinn was so reticent, he probably wouldn’t do more than mention her in the article, but since she was Abby’s sister, he wanted to make her part of the process.
And learn a little more about Abby.
“No.” Quinn bit her lip. “We lived in Portland after that but I didn’t like it there. As soon as I finished high school we went to Eugene.”
“You and your family?”
“Me and Abby,” Quinn said.
No parents? But before he had a chance to ask, she jumped back in, her words quick, her tone high and tight. The kind of voice people used when they were anxious not to seem anxious.
“Abby wanted me to go to college, become a teacher, maybe. Or get into graphic design. I like art, you know? Tuition was cheaper there than in the bigger cities.” She smiled wistfully. “I didn’t do very well, though.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Then we went to Lincoln City for a while. She still wanted me to go to college and thought a different school might be better. It didn’t work out, though. I kept telling her she’s the one who should go to college, not me. She was always taking online courses through community college programs, or open source learning. Even YouTube videos. She said that was enough for her. Maybe, if we’d had more money . . .”
She trailed off, rubbing her left wrist with her thumb.
“Sounds like Abby wanted to make sure you had a solid future ahead of you. You two are close, I take it.”
The girl gave him a startled glance. “Yes, of course.”
“Was she always interested in gardening?”
“Gardening?” Quinn gave a little laugh. “Maybe. She always had a couple of houseplants we packed from place to place. She read a ton of books about it before we got here. She’s good at it, and I know she lo
ves it, but she’s good at everything she does. She’s worked at so many things, and not just housekeeping and waitressing. She’s worked in a bakery, done bookkeeping, learned coding so she could build websites, helped out on movie sets.” She stopped abruptly, and pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “Anyway, we needed a change and when she heard about the ranch, she figured, why not? I wasn’t thrilled. But it turns out I like it here better than anywhere else we’ve lived. It’s quiet, you know?”
She got to her feet and rubbed the sides of her jeans, as if unable to keep her hands still. “I should get back to work. Is that enough?”
“Of course. Thanks for your time, Quinn.”
He watched her go, thinking not so much about what she’d said, but what she hadn’t said. She’d casually skipped over everything that happened before high school. Nothing about her childhood. Nothing about her parents. Next to nothing about herself. Mostly, she looked like all she wanted to do was jump to her feet and flee.
Why?
* * *
Later that evening, Jon met Abby on the back porch, overlooking the distant ocean. The gold and crimson light danced on the water, painting her dark hair auburn, her cheeks pink. She’d pulled two wicker chairs up to the railing, and was curled up with a cup of tea, one bare foot tucked beneath her.
She gestured to the glass-topped matching wicker table. “I made you a cup. Lavender-and-lemon balm, with a bit of honey. It’ll help you relax.”
He smiled. “Do I look stressed?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Your dad is in the hospital. You’re away from home, trying to figure out what to do with him. Not to mention that ‘uh, sabbatical.’ I’d be surprised if you weren’t stressed.”
So, she’d picked up on that.
“About that.” He sat down. “I’m not working for the magazine anymore. Freelancing is more flexible, which is what I need right now. Dad doesn’t know though and I’d rather keep it to myself for the time being, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” she said.
He lifted the mug and took a sip. The crazy newsroom pace had turned him into a die-hard coffee addict, but this was nice.
He met her inquiring gaze. “I feel better already.”
“See? I knew what you needed.”
The smile on her face bloomed slowly, starting with her eyes, spreading to her cheeks and then her mouth. It wasn’t the tea that was sending warmth through him, but he’d let her think that it was.
“I talked to Quinn earlier today,” he said.
For a moment her expression stayed the same. Then, the corners of her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly and she turned back to the sunset. “I hope she was helpful.”
“She’s certainly a big fan of her older sister.”
The pink in Abby’s cheeks grew stronger. “No more than I am of her.”
“She says that you’re a self-taught gardener.”
He let the statement hang, without adding a question. People usually jumped on any opportunity to talk about themselves, but Abby merely nodded, then let the silence drag.
He wondered what it would take to ruffle that calm exterior, to make her face light up with joy. Or outrage.
Or desire.
“Quinn implied that you were orphans but then she took off without explaining more. I know Olivia often hires former foster kids. Is that how you found your way here? Were you and Quinn raised in the system?”
Her shoulder jerked. “Absolutely not. I made sure of that.”
So much for serenity. He leaned forward. “If you don’t want me to include your family history in the article, I won’t. But you’re an interesting person, Abby. You’ve got more than a green thumb. You’ve got a gift and people love success stories, especially when they involve challenges.”
Her cheek twitched in a half smile. “Challenges. Yeah, you could say we’ve had them.” She set her mug down and gave a big sigh. “Okay. Our dad died when I was eight. I don’t remember much about him but Mom never got over it. Quinn was just a baby when it happened and I liked looking after her. She was like my own living doll.”
Her face softened at the memory.
“You must have been a great help to your mother. It explains your work ethic, too.”
It would have been very tempting for an overwhelmed, grieving woman to allow a precocious eight-year-old to take on too much responsibility.
“Mom always struggled to make ends meet. I wanted to do my part. Life wasn’t easy for her.” Abby hesitated. “It wasn’t easy for us, either, but Quinn and I did okay. I always worked. We always had enough to eat, clothes on our backs and a few African violets sitting in the windowsill. They’re easy to grow and so cheerful. I guess that’s where my green thumb began.”
Enough to eat? Hardly a ringing endorsement of their childhood.
“What kind of work did you do?”
“Oh, the usual. Babysitting, waitressing, cleaning, retail. Once, I got an after-school stint in Hollywood walking dogs for a couple of actors, while they were on set shooting. That was fun.”
She smiled at the memory, but then the smile faded.
“So you worked throughout high school?”
Abby nodded. “Except for when I was looking after Quinn. Mom wasn’t around a lot, with work and stuff. It’s hard, being a single mother. She really struggled. But she taught me to be self-reliant and that’s a huge gift.” She looked down. “She’s gone now, too.”
It was the second time she’d mentioned her mother’s struggles.
Jon frowned. “How old were you when she passed away?”
She waved her hand and gave a little laugh. “Let’s talk about happier things, instead. You need some quotes for your article, right? Let’s see.” She tapped a finger against her bottom lip. “I believe that when life tests you, it’s an opportunity to learn, to change course, to start over, try something new. Gardening is all about change. It forces you to slow down, to really look, to breathe, to be patient. Our garden makes people happy and helps them heal. Working in our garden, being surrounded by all that beauty, makes me happy.”
She was wary about giving details of her past, but this had the ring of truth. Her peace was hard won but she’d prevailed and in that, he envied her. His career had stopped bringing him happiness long before he’d been fired, he realized. He had no hobbies or personal life to speak of, his family was complicated, his connections with them weak.
As he drove back to Roman’s that night, he wondered if he’d ever had the kind of purpose he sensed in Abby. Writing celebrity gossip was supposed to be a stepping stone to something more, not the stumbling block that ended his career. But maybe getting dumped by Diversion was the wake-up call he needed to sort out his true goals. Maybe this was his chance to start over, too.
* * *
On her way to the hospital the next day, Abby stopped in at the local bakery to pick up a few treats. She wished she could have brought Roman something she’d made herself, but in the mental turmoil following her conversation with Jon, she’d forgotten.
Chaos whined in the passenger seat as she closed the door, leaving the window open a generous crack.
“Stay here, boy,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”
There were so many other things she could have mentioned in the interview, benign responses that safely deflected anything truly personal. Yet when he’d asked about her childhood, her parents, she’d answered. His perceptive gaze had lowered her guard, made her want him to know things about her.
That wasn’t good. He was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. He was trained to make people feel comfortable confiding in him.
He was good at it.
She pushed open the door to the bakery, setting aside her thoughts and focusing instead on the fragrant pleasures of butter and yeast and spices.
Over the winter she’d gotten to do a lot more of the baking at the ranch and had grown to enjoy the process, often getting up early, when she couldn’t sleep, to get a jump on the br
eakfast favorites. But now, with the rush to get the garden ready for the festival, her kitchen time had been curtailed, and she missed it.
“Hi, Goldie,” she said, as the proprietor came to the counter.
“Hi, Abby! Hi, Chaos, you sweet boy.” Goldie leaned over the counter and waved at Abby’s truck, where Chaos’s muzzle was poking out the window. His whole back end was wagging. He couldn’t hear Goldie, but his sense of smell told him exactly where they were.
“He’s a little excited at the moment, so I thought I’d spare you the destruction.”
The dog also knew they were going to see Roman. How he knew, Abby wasn’t sure. But there was no doubt. He also loved Goldie’s, though. He’d been there enough times with Roman, and the kind baker always had a dog biscuit waiting for him.
“When are you going to take over for me, Abby? It’s too much work for an old woman, but someone like you could bring it back to its heyday.”
Sunset Bay’s old-town charm depended upon businesses like Goldie’s. Developers waited in the wings, with outrageous offers out for waterfront properties, but so far, the town had stayed united. Rows of condos above expensive, franchise shops might bring more profit to the town, but it would destroy the character.
“My kids tell me to take the deal from FrontCo,” Goldie said, “but once one of us sells, the whole street will go, like dominoes. I love this place too much for that.”
“If only I could be in two places at one time.” Abby peered through the display glass. “Alas, I’ve more than enough keeping me busy these days.”
She adored Goldie’s shop. It was on the main street for maximum tourist visibility and had a view of the ocean on the back. No wonder FrontCo wanted it. It had a covered deck on the side, so that on nice days, customers could watch the waves and listen to the gulls, while they enjoyed their baked treat.
Before Abby had gone full-time at the ranch, she’d helped out at Goldie’s and had recognized within a few weeks what loving mismanagement was costing the place. Untapped income streams. Unchecked expenses. Minimal brand recognition. Zero online presence.
If Goldie expanded the menu and updated the decor, she could increase her walk-up trade immediately. She’d never pursued the catering side, or made contact with businesses who might want regular deliveries to sweeten meetings. A simple Web site could facilitate orders and they had plenty of access to local couriers.
Blackberry Cove Page 7