*
Val sat in a claustrophobically small, plain gray-wallpapered room the size of her chair plus about six inches on all sides. The bank teller checked her ID, verified her mother’s death certificate, and led her into the vault. She showed her how they both had to open the numbered vault door with two keys to access the safe-deposit box and then walked her to the room before handing her the box and closing the door behind her.
The safe-deposit box sat on a diminutive table in front of her. She ran her finger down its cool, metal side. The last time someone had touched this box, her mother had been alive. She thought to look for telltale fingerprints, but what good would that do? She couldn’t take the prints home with her as a keepsake. Still, she felt closer knowing her mother had probably sat in this same room, in the same chair, looking at the same box.
She lifted the lid and peered inside. A large manila envelope and a small, white envelope with a paper-clipped note attached lay inside.
She took a deep breath, full of melancholy, and opened the note.
Dearest Val,
I know one day you’ll be sitting here reading this. That means I’m now gone. This is for you. It’s not much, but you’re my only child and it’s all yours. The lawyers told me that a living trust is the best way to ensure that you receive the most possible from my estate.
Love, Mom.
Val opened the white envelope.
In her mother’s handwriting, it read, Cremains Wishes. She stared at the first line. How had it felt, writing about yourself being dead? There was an address of a mortuary and directions to a place up the Siletz River.
She hadn’t been there since she was a kid and her mother would take her for drives there. It wasn’t until junior-high school that she found out the reason for the infrequent one-on-one time: her mother had needed to get away from whatever asshole boyfriend was living with them at the time.
Val would tell her mother how she wished they lived right on the river so they could sit and watch the water roll by on its way to the ocean.
The note with the directions made Val’s chest ache and her eyes fill with tears. She blinked them away, watching a few drip from her cheeks and splash onto the note like the beginning storm warnings of an unwelcome cloudburst.
She closed the note and then opened the manila envelope. Flipping through the numerous pages of the thick living-trust document, she realized she wasn’t absorbing any of it. Her thoughts were still in her mom’s car on the road that wound along the curvy Siletz River as she wondered how the hell she ever got from there to here. Her eyes registered the black words on the white linen paper, but nothing was intelligible.
Suddenly, she felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her arms were heavy and her eyes wouldn’t focus. Slowly, she slid the living trust back into the manila envelope. She’d read it later, she decided. Putting it under her arm, she got up and walked out.
*
Hemlock had always been too small to support a mortuary so Val drove down to an address in Newport. The fairly sunny ocean-side ride was pleasant, though the mission was certainly not.
Quietus Mortuary was easy to find. It was a serious-looking building of brick and white trim and had none of the gratuitous flourishes that would call attention to itself. Sitting stoically between a real-estate office, which was selling the best of the Oregon coast, and a flower shop, whose strategically chosen location was obvious, it looked solemn without appearing dismal.
Soft music played in the lobby, and Val waited there until she heard muted footsteps coming down the carpeted hall.
“May I help you?” An older gentleman, dressed in a gray three-piece suit and black loafers, bore the kind of thoughtful expression and soft voice Val always pictured that a person of that profession would have. She almost wished he’d been rougher around the edges and had a snarky attitude, because her throat immediately tightened and she was afraid she might run into his protective-looking arms and cry her eyes out.
“Yes, I’m Valerie Montague,” she said, hoping that concentrating on simply fulfilling the task at hand would save her from thinking any deeper than she wanted to. “I am here to…pick my mother up.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Kris Montague, is that correct?”
Val nodded.
“I’m William Boswell, Director of Quietus.” He offered his hand and Val shook it.
“Please come with me.”
Val followed him to a small office designed expressly for grieving families. There was nothing showy about the room, and Val thought it was decorated rather well, offering a comfortable place to discuss the uncomfortable business of death.
“Please sit down.” He gestured to a plush but modest couch sitting against the wall between two rather sizeable flower urns.
He didn’t sit but excused himself and left the office. The wallpaper was a mauve color with tiny flowers and vertical gold pinstripes. On the wall hung two oceanscapes, one taken in the early morning and the other at dusk. Were they meant to suggest the passing of time, or maybe the passing of people?
Like her mom, she thought, fighting back a grape-sized lump that caught in her throat. And then something occurred to her. If she was handling her mother’s pickup, who had dealt with her arrival?
Mr. Boswell returned with some paperwork and a container the size of a square box of Kleenex.
“First of all,” he said as he sat down at his desk, “I am very sorry for your loss.” He flipped through the paperwork. “Your mother left instructions to be cremated.”
When he gently patted the box, Val stared, wondering how her mother could fit in such a small space.
“Her lawyer contacted us and gave us those instructions. They’re here in the paperwork we’ll release to you.”
Her mother was gone, and though she wondered certain things like who knew to contact the lawyer and who drove her here, the answers now seemed as insignificant as what her mom had for breakfast on her last day. She had so many questions about her death, but the answers wouldn’t help her feel any better. The details didn’t really matter.
Mr. Boswell went over the paperwork and, after verifying Val’s identity, handed her the file and the box of cremains, then walked her to the door.
Now in her car, driving back to Hemlock, she checked her watch. The open house wouldn’t be over until two o’clock, so she still had two hours before returning to her mother’s place. What would she do to fill the gap?
“Well, Mom,” Val said to the box sitting on the seat next to her. “Here we are. I imagine when you pictured my coming back here to visit, it didn’t look quite like this.”
She drove north and slowed her car as she reached the south end of Hemlock, where the few tourists that did choose to vacation during October were flying kites on the beach. A colorful octopus with long flowing tendrils chased two fat ladybugs high over the sand, while an immense yellow-and-black bumblebee cavorted above the waves. The kites, as well as their pilots, looked so carefree and happy. The ocean breeze seemed delighted to lift the plastic critters and take them for a cheerful ride, while her own ride was anything but.
She reached over and placed her hand on the box. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Tears suddenly flowed and she cried for the next few blocks. When her vision became blurry, she pulled over to the curb, in front of a T-shirt shop, and turned off the engine.
Luckily, a past renter had left a small travel-size package of Kleenex in the glove compartment. She opened the package and wiped her eyes with a few sheets, pushing them into her face because the pressure seemed to relieve the onset of a dull but rapidly intruding headache.
She found nothing enjoyable about this day or this trip. Not that she’d expected it to be festive, but now that she was in the middle of it, her sadness completely engulfed every part of her, attacking every cell inside her like an unwelcomed flu. Her bones hurt, and she was suddenly more exhausted than she could ever recall being. Even the sight of those beautiful kites didn’t bring any lightness to her h
eart.
She remained there for quite a while, just letting the traffic pass her by like so many of the missed opportunities in her life.
She should have had better contact with her mother. She should have made peace with the frustration that had lived inside her right after graduation. She should have forgiven herself for leaving town with hardly a good-bye to anyone. And while she was at it, she should have slowed down when she reached Texas and gotten to know a few of the women she was so good at running from.
She’d hit the pavement in Dallas with two goals. She had to support herself and never end up second fiddle again. Her mother had pushed her to the back in favor of her boyfriends and their various sources of income, and while she knew that her mother was only trying to survive after her husband left, Val was still that kid that needed to stay out of the way.
So when Val began meeting single available women in Dallas, she’d tried dating them and even lived with two. But she just couldn’t trust that something or someone else wouldn’t come along and drive her to the back again.
Val took a deep breath and slapped herself lightly on the cheek. This pity party wasn’t doing her any good. A few extra Kleenexes and a check in the rearview mirror seemed to wrap up her brief collapse. She took a deep breath, blew it out noisily, and checked her watch.
She had another hour and forty-five minutes to kill.
A walk down the street seemed like a good way to change her state of mind. She locked the car and strolled down the block. The most she was able to do was window-shop and peruse last season’s inventory of souvenirs, beach blankets, and T-shirts. A few blocks down, though, the kite shop was open for business. Maybe surrounding herself with bright colors and vacationers would smother a little of her gloom.
But when she walked into the store, she saw kids with moms and dads, and they were all laughing and oohing and ahhing as they frolicked around the aisles. Val stepped backward and out of the store, doubting that anything there could make her feel better.
Walking away from the kite place, she shook her head in frustration. This sensitivity thing was getting way out of hand. Maybe she should find a bar, order anything that was a deep-caramel color and drink it straight.
Man, she was messed up. She had her mother in a box on the front seat, a house filled with childhood memories to sell, and she’d killed a deer.
With that triple downer to contend with, what the hell was her key to salvation? Val looked up and, suddenly, it was obvious.
Saltwater taffy.
Chapter Three
When Val walked into Oregon Coastal Confections, the sweet and warming scent of melted sugar was so thick she was probably ingesting calories with each breath. If she’d seen a bucket of free money right in front of her, she’d have easily passed it by to get to the front counter.
Val was staring so intently at the scrumptious chocolate shapes lining the shelves of the glass counter, she thought one of the pecan turtles had spoken to her.
“Afternoon.”
Val looked up to the shopkeeper and quickly said, “Hello.”
The woman was about Val’s height and maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven years old. Her hair was black and curled just slightly as it came to rest on her shoulders. She was smiling at her.
The woman’s eyes fascinated Val. They were of such a pale-blue color they appeared gray. Maybe it was the slate-colored tight shirt she was wearing that played with her eyes, but whatever it was, Val had seen eyes that intense only once, though she couldn’t remember when.
“Take your time,” the woman said, and began placing chocolate-dipped Oreo cookies on one of the shelves.
Val nodded and slowly walked around the shop ogling the bins of candy and taffy and shelves covered with vintage candy and European delights. The walls were like museum displays dedicated to every candy ever produced.
“This is incredible,” Val said.
“I want to be known as the candy shop, not just some candy shop.”
Val stood and surveyed the absolutely amazing assortment. “Wax lips, Necco wafers. Wow, candy cigarettes.”
“Sales have gone up since they outlawed them in bars.”
Val looked up, the question really forming on her lips, but the woman’s smile stopped her. She chuckled and went back to relishing the inventory.
“That’s the biggest Almond Joy bar I’ve ever seen.”
“One pound of chocolate, almonds, and coconut. In terms of pure bliss, that horse hits the trifecta.”
“And, at that size, it’s triple the sugar buzz.”
“Yeah, but what a way to go.”
This time Val laughed. A few more steps brought her to another display.
“I haven’t seen Pixie Stix in years.” The taste of the paper came right back to her as she remembered when, as a kid, she’d bite into the striped straw and rip the top off. “They still make them?”
“Yup,” the woman said. “The philosophy is not only well proven but wise. When chewing becomes too much of an effort, you can just tip your head back and mainline the sugar.”
“Oh, how many summer days I spent in a candy coma from those things.”
“They’re still just as potent, so be careful.”
All of the merchandise left little room in the store for walking or anything else, but who wanted an empty candy store? Making her way over to the chocolate counter, the woman pulled out a pleated paper cup and offered it to her.
“Try this.”
Val took the paper cup and noticed it held a square piece of milk chocolate. “What is it?”
“Well, mostly it’s an experiment. It’s a chocolate-covered piece of coffee cake I made with brown sugar, cinnamon, and Mexican vanilla extract.”
Val hadn’t heard the last few words because what greeted her mouth was so incredibly amazing that her brain exploded in her ears.
“Oh, my God,” she managed to say.
“Unlike the ease of Pixie Stix, you still have to chew, though.”
“I know, but who cares? This is fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
“No, really. This is beyond words.”
“I’m still testing different batches, but I hope to have them for sale within the week.”
“I’d say you’re done testing.” Val pointed to her mouth. “This is like chocolate heroin.”
“Hmm,” the woman said.
Her smile was so engaging that Val suddenly felt like the only other person in the world. The sensation both delighted and alarmed her.
“I was just thinking about calling it that, too.”
“You were?” Val had never been hypnotized before but it might be happening now. Shouldn’t it involve a swinging pocket watch or something?
“No. But I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. I may have to order a few kilos.”
Val studied the rest of the candy on the glass shelves.
“Got a sweet tooth,” the shopkeeper said, “or are you looking for a gift?”
“Definitely a sweet tooth.”
“What looks good?”
She considered one type of candy, then another, and finally looked up at the woman, smiling. “I can’t decide.”
“How about starting with our fundamental and essential offering?” The shopkeeper came around from behind the counter and over to an area filled with counters full of buckets of saltwater candy.
“That’s another treat I haven’t had since I was young.”
“You probably didn’t have this flavor back then.” She handed Val a piece.
When she tasted it, she paused. “What is this?”
“Cheesecake.”
“Wow.”
She pointed around to the different bins. “We have our standards—vanilla, banana, apple, and cinnamon. And then we have our more extreme flavors like amaretto, rhubarb, bubblegum, jalapeño, and even habanero.”
“Do you make them?”
She tilted her head. “Back there, in the corner.”
A large copper kettle sat next to a marble shelf, and a pull machine was attached to the wall. It looked almost magical.
“Is it hard to make?”
“Not really, just a little time consuming. After I melt all the ingredients the taffy has to be pulled to add air to the corn syrup and sugar. So I drape ten or fifteen pounds over that hook on the wall. The taffy starts to stretch. When it’s about five or six feet long, I place it on the puller that loops the taffy back over and folds onto itself. The air that’s trapped in between helps to keep the taffy soft. After that, I roll it by hand, cut it, and wrap up the pieces.”
“That’s quite an undertaking.”
“That’s because my taffy’s special. It contains rather formidable powers.” She handed Val a basket and said, “The first handful’s on me.”
“I couldn’t do that—”
“You look like you could use some down-home, good ol’ sugar.”
Val took the basket and tried to remember where she’d seen eyes like that before. “Okay, but it sounds like I have to be careful about these special powers.” She started reading the flavor labels. “Especially the habanero.”
“Yeah, I’d stay away from that one. I made the mistake once of rubbing my eye while making a batch and thought I was going to have to call the fire department.”
Val laughed. “You look really familiar,” she said, but stopped short of adding that her unbelievably beautiful eyes were absolutely mesmerizing.
The woman took a moment to scrutinize her. She squinted her eyes slightly and said, “You’re not from Hemlock…”
It was a little humorous that she knew Val wasn’t a local. She’d already gotten that look a few times in the last twelve hours. “Not now, but I used to live here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Val Montague.”
The woman smiled widely. “We went to high school together.”
“We did?”
The 45th Parallel Page 3