Blackberry Cove

by Roxanne Snopek

  Abby felt hope spring to life within her. It was exactly the sort of thing Quinn needed. Perhaps if she had something positive to focus on, she’d forget about Carly and Los Angeles. And Mom.

  “I’ve already talked to Olivia,” Jamie continued. “She said she can hire someone new to take over Quinn’s housekeeping duties. Bookings are up, thanks to the exposure from Jon’s article and all the foot traffic.”

  “So why are you asking me?” Abby said.

  Jamie rolled her eyes. “Come on, Abs. Everyone knows you’re a total Mama Bear when it comes to your little sister. No point getting Quinn excited about something if you’re just going to put the kibosh on it.” She turned her attention to the sun, drifting toward the horizon. “Plus, you never talk about your plans. No one knows if you’re here for good, or what.”

  The familiar tension ratcheted up inside Abby again. They’d been at Sanctuary Ranch longer than any place she could remember. She didn’t want to leave. But you never knew. Keeping your options open was the safest bet.

  “I have no plans,” she said. Which was the truth.

  A grin broke across Jamie’s face and she exhaled loudly. “Glad to hear it, girlfriend. You’re hard to peg sometimes, you know that? But I’ve gotten used to having you around. And not just me. If you took off, Daphne would hunt you down and make you pay. No one wants that.”

  Abby laughed. “True, that.” She gave her a one-armed side hug.

  Jamie was a good friend, though she was cautious with her affection. Falling in love, or rather, having her love returned, had transformed her. No, Abby amended. Not transformed. Jamie was still the same funny, opinionated, passionate woman she’d always been. But since she and Gideon had become a couple, the sharp edges of insecurity had softened.

  They made their way to the far end, where more weeds were popping through the mulch.

  “So I can ask Quinn if she’s interested?” Jamie asked.

  “Go ahead. She’ll be thrilled. She looks up to you. I think she identifies with you.”

  “Poor soul,” Jamie replied with a laugh. “But hey, I live to inspire others. If nothing else, I’m a cautionary tale. Never use shoe polish on your hair. It takes forever to grow out.”

  She patted the stubby brunette ponytail high on her head. Jamie’s appearance had changed subtly over the winter as well. Her hair was longer, she didn’t paint her nails black anymore and she’d let a few of her facial piercings grow closed. Instead of hiding behind a shell of Goth and sarcasm, she was now just . . . herself. Comfortable in her own skin.

  Funny, thought Abby with a pang. Jamie had used her rough exterior to hide a tender heart while the softness that everyone saw in Abby was only skin-deep, a mask for her shriveled soul.

  “You’re quiet.” Jamie tossed a handful of weeds into a bucket. “Have you and Jon had a spat?”

  Abby froze. “There’s no me and Jon. I mean, we’re friends. I’m helping him with Roman so we’ve gotten close . . . but there’s no . . . nothing . . .” Abby sputtered to a stop.

  Jamie burst out laughing. “You love him.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You . . . love . . . him.” Jamie turned each one-syllable word into at least three.

  Abby tossed a chunk of crabgrass at her.

  Jamie snatched it out of the air and dropped it in the bucket. “Okay, you like him. Is that better?”

  Abby groaned and dropped her chin to her chest. “No. It’s worse. Do you think he likes me? Oh, God. I just heard myself. It’s like high school all over again.”

  “Everyone likes you.” She waggled her eyebrows. “But he likes you, likes you. It’s pretty obvious.”

  “To who?”

  “Me, of course. Which means Gideon knows.” Jamie held out her fingers, one by one. “Haylee. Aiden knew before any of us, according to her. He saw you in the hospital together. Daphne, naturally. Probably Olivia.”

  “Stop. Do you think Quinn knows?”

  Jamie cocked her head. “Why wouldn’t she? Do you two not talk?”

  “Not about this. Even if there was something to tell, which there isn’t,” she emphasized. Maybe that had been a mistake. “Our mom didn’t have a good track record with boyfriends. I don’t want to perpetuate that.”

  “So,” Jamie said, “you don’t talk about it, or you don’t date?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  Jamie’s eyebrows went up. “So Jon is a big deal, then.”

  “Yes. No!” She exhaled. “I don’t know what he is. And I don’t want her to have to worry about losing me. Not that there’s any reason to think that would happen. I mean, Jon and I are just hanging out. To think it’s anything more is completely presumptuous.”

  “Where is it going?”

  “What is this, an interrogation? I don’t know. Nowhere, probably. I mean, he’s got a life in L.A. I live here.” She gestured helplessly. “There’s nowhere it can go.”

  “So, a relationship is impossible because you’re staying in Oregon. Is that it?” Jamie blew her a raspberry. “Your optimism is positively inspiring. Look, Gideon and I shouldn’t have worked. His ex made him choose between me and Blake. He almost lost his son, because of me. That strains the viability of a relationship. Your only problem is geography.”

  Jamie made it sound so simple. But that was because she didn’t know the whole story. Uprooting Quinn wasn’t an option. And certainly not to go back to California.

  That was assuming Jon was still willing to talk to her, once he knew the truth about Roman.

  She knew better than to count on that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jon’s afternoon with his father went as well as could be expected. Roman downplayed his pain—as usual—declared he was just fine—also as usual—and went into his bedroom to take a nap.

  He knew better than to revisit the idea of Roman moving to a more suitable residence, but that didn’t stop him from researching the options, when he got back to the house.

  Thing was, the best place depended entirely on where Jon found a job. Something he’d spent the last two days working on, with zero results.

  Whitey Irving hadn’t been kidding when he said Jon was done. Every entertainment magazine between Mexico and British Columbia had been expecting Jon’s call. And without exception, they’d all sent form rejections.

  Via e-mail.

  Well, he wasn’t desperate. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to spend some time here cooling his jets, thinking about what he really wanted.

  Exploring his options, as they said.

  He shut his laptop, got up from the table, and stretched his arms overhead. At least the bed in his dad’s spare room was comfortable, a king with a supportive mattress and nice linens.

  Roman still enjoyed his creature comforts, Jon was glad to see. He didn’t know how long he and his father could live under the same roof but so far, so good.

  It was quiet in the house. He opened the refrigerator. Not a lot of inspiration there. He ought to go grocery shopping. He rinsed out his coffee mug, watered a wilted plant on the windowsill, straightened the shoes by the back door, and then stood there, looking over the backyard.

  Dad must have had help with the yard. The graceful lines and carefully placed shrubs suggested that Abby had been involved.

  As soon as the thought came into his head, he was grabbing his jacket. He was going crazy here. He’d head over to the ranch and see if she was available for a coffee, maybe pick her brain on how best to warm Roman up to the idea of moving.

  * * *

  Daphne told him to look for her in the garden.

  Abby, however, was nowhere to be seen. He followed the path down to the little bench overlooking the ocean. Her wheelbarrow stood next to a tidy row of hilled soil, with a rake and a spade leaned up against it. Her leather gloves lay inside.

  But no Abby.

  He sat down on the bench, wondering where else he should look for her. They needed to talk. She had more than enough to do here with her own
work, without looking after Roman, too. He appreciated all she’d done, without a doubt. But he wanted her to know that he’d look after things from here on out.

  Something else had been bothering him. Not only had she refused to talk about her time working as a movie extra, but she’d specifically asked him not to discuss it with Quinn. She’d implied that the subject brought up memories of when their mother had died, but Jon had a feeling there was more to it.

  Far down the long, wooded slope, he could see white-capped waves drifting into shore. From this distance, he could only hear the sound if he really focused his ears, and even then, he expected it was his imagination. But he could definitely hear the cries of the gulls as they swooped above the shore, angled toward the ridge, eyeing him as if wondering what he was doing.

  The peace of the place drifted over him like autumn leaves riding a breeze, and for the first time since his mad rush out of the Diversion headquarters, he allowed himself to examine his feelings about the event.

  He wasn’t screaming. That was a good sign.

  It still seemed unreal. He was no longer an entertainment journalist. The shining climb of his career was over. No more interviews with stars and celebrities. No more invitations to red carpet events. No more having his finger on the pulse of Hollywood.

  He was done.

  He knew it. The dozens of rejected e-mails made that clear. But he hadn’t allowed the truth of it, the scope of the event, to soak in.

  He was done.

  Jonathan Byers, Diversion magazine, was no more.

  Memories of his office, his colleagues, the place he went for coffee every morning, washed over him. The inside of his chest felt raw, hot, ragged, like it had when he’d been down with pneumonia. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him then, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone to see him now.

  You were vulnerable when you were down.

  Whitey Irving had done this. And all because he was protecting Richard Arondi. It was so unfair.

  He breathed, in and out, letting the anger roll through him until it wore itself out, turned to something else. A loss like this was a kind of death, he supposed. Not as deep as the loss of a loved one, of course. But if Jon was no longer the man he’d worked so hard to become, if that man was gone, how else could he make sense of it, on a gut level, but to react as if that part of him had died?

  Then it struck him that this must be exactly how his father had felt, when Hollywood had turned on him. As soon as Roman had been released from the rehabilitation center, having recovered as much as he ever would, he’d sold the house, packed what little he wanted, and left L.A. Jon had been in college then, immersed in his own life and future plans. He’d done what he could to help, of course. But the gravity of Roman’s experience hadn’t come home to him the way it did now.

  Sadness settled heavily on him. He and Roman both, screwed over by the same industry, in different ways.

  Something caught his eye, a flash of red.

  He peered closer, shading his eyes against the bright light of the sun behind the clouds.

  It was Abby, down the ridge, doing something in a little sheltered area. He quickly found the rough deer trail she must have used. Carefully, he followed, picking his way through brambles and ferns and moss-covered branches, all damp with mist.

  The forest enveloped him, green-smelling, fresh and full of life. Once full summer hit, this place would be almost inaccessible and rampant with birdcalls and insect life. But for now, it was full of dripping silence, swollen and waiting. The hush felt almost worshipful, the tall cedars around him creating a cathedral-like grove, welcoming and warning at the same time.

  He found her sitting on a boulder. She’d been watching his approach for some time.

  “Hey, Jon,” she said. “You found my secret lair.”

  “Am I intruding?”

  She considered, then pressed her full lips together and tilted her head, indicating a second boulder next to hers. “Sit, if you want.”

  As he stepped over a mossy nurse log, something grabbed his sleeve. He pulled away from the thorny vine, only to find another one tugging at him.

  “Hold still,” Abby said. “Those blackberry canes will cut you to ribbons if you’re not careful.”

  “Blackberries? As in the fruit?”

  Abby pulled a small pair of pruning shears from the pocket on her thigh. “As in the fruit. We pick gallons of these every fall.”

  “Without bloodshed?”

  She smiled. “Oh, there’s always bloodshed, especially with newbies. Eventually you learn to work around the thorns. And you learn to wear boots, jeans, and long sleeves. No shorts and flip-flops, no matter how warm it is. It’s so worth it.”

  She was close enough that he could smell her hair. One warm hand held his arm, while the other snipped.

  “There’s nothing like the taste of blackberry pie, baked fresh from berries picked yourself, that very day. There.” She patted the sleeve. Was it his imagination or did she linger a half second too long?

  “You’ve got a little tear in your shirt. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s just a shirt.” He took a seat on the rock. An opening in the vegetation provided a windowed view to the ocean and from here, the sound of the surf was soft, but clear. It would have been, if he hadn’t been busy listening to the beat of his heart, thrumming from her touch.

  “So,” she said. “What brings you out here?”

  She gazed at the distant horizon and spoke as if she was tired.

  “First,” he said, “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for my dad.”

  “Stop.” She kept looking at the horizon. “He’s my friend. I’m happy to do what I can. What’s the second?”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. She was about six inches away from him but he could smell her unique scent, her skin warm from working, touched with earth.

  “You’ve done enough. I’ll look after things from here on out.”

  She laughed. “Okay. We’ll see what Roman says about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s like the lion with a thorn in his paw. I pulled it out, so I’m stuck with him now.” She made a face. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t resent helping him. But I greatly appreciate you being here. You have no idea.”

  An unexpected warmth ran through him at her words.

  “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

  “Was there a third thing?” she asked. “I should probably get back to work, although I could sit here like this all day.”

  Jon hesitated. “You never said anything about the piece I wrote about the ranch.”

  She raised her eyebrows, then looked out to the ocean again. “Olivia was pleased. It was fine.”

  “Fine.” He nodded. “Yeah. I’m a word-man. You know what fine means, in today’s popular vernacular? Especially from women? It means, ‘Go ahead, I’ve got a high pain threshold.’ Or, ‘I don’t like it but you’re going to do what you’re going to do no matter what so there’s no point arguing. ’ Or, ‘You bore me and I want you to go away.’ Which is it this time?”

  Amusement brightened Abby’s eyes. “I actually do have a high pain threshold. But sometimes fine is just fine.”

  “Whew.” He mimed wiping sweat off his brow. “I don’t bore you. That’s a relief.”

  “Hey. That’s subject to change at any moment.”

  He watched as her smile faded, then probed further. “Why didn’t you want me to write the piece?”

  She dropped her head slightly, nibbled the corner of her mouth. “It was good for the ranch, so I’m glad you did it. I’m a very private person, that’s all.”

  “But you’re the one who created the garden, Abby. That was my hook.” He frowned. “You should be proud to take credit for it. Everyone can see you’re an amazing gardener.”

  “I’m not an amazing anything. I’m a hard worker. I’ve read a lot of bo
oks on gardening, but I’m hardly an expert.” She hesitated. “I just like to keep a low profile. Same with Quinn. That’s all.”

  Was it false modesty? Or was she truly uncomfortable with praise?

  In Jon’s experience, most people were more than happy to talk about themselves and their achievements, usually at far more length than he needed.

  “I couldn’t write about the garden without mentioning you. But I didn’t betray any confidences. How could I? You didn’t give me any.” He paused. “It was a little disappointing, to be honest. Nothing a reporter loves more than a story.”

  She gave a little sniff of amusement. “No story here. Sorry.”

  “Why not let me be the judge? You fascinate me, Abby Warren. How about this? You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. A breeze rustled the blackberry bushes behind them, sending a strand of hair over her cheek. She brushed it away, then sighed.

  “Fine.” She gave him a bland look. “What do you want to know?”

  “There’s that word again.” Quick, he thought. Ask her something non-threatening. “What made you come out here today?”

  “I came out here today for the same reason I always do,” Abby said. “To think. FYI, you ruined that.”

  “Sorry. What do you think about when you’re out here?”

  “This and that. Past and present. Good and evil. The usual.” She looked off to the horizon, as if searching for something miles away.

  He followed her gaze. It was easy to believe in infinity, out here. That there was no beginning, no end, that none of the petty, everyday burdens mattered. That life followed the rising sun and the sea and the little blades of grass beneath their feet.

  “You didn’t mention the future. Most people worry about the future, but you didn’t say that.”

  “Good try. Okay, my future. I’m teaching a pie baking class tonight. You should come. Bring your dad. Now it’s your turn. Tell me something about you.”

  The more she danced away from him, the more curious he became. He wanted to know what was behind the serene face of Abby Warren. What made her more interested in listening to others, than talking about herself? What made those big brown eyes go distant, why did she duck away from praise or attention, how had she and Quinn ended up alone in the world?