Keepsake for Eagle Cove

by M. L. Buchman

  “No, I—” Tiffany was protesting as the blonde pulled her farther into the room.

  It was easy to see what was going on and Devin was hard-pressed not to laugh.

  The tall brunette stepped up close in front of him and his desire to laugh dissipated rapidly as he looked up at her. She stood at least five-ten and that was, he risked a glance to check, barefoot.

  “If you so much as touch her, I’ll personally—”

  “No, Natalya,” Tiffany cut her off. “He’s a guest. I’m just showing him to his room.”

  The tall Natalya glanced over her shoulder, then she turned back to glare at him, her protective ire only slightly tempered.

  “Hi, I’m Devin,” he held out a hand. “I’m actually not a guest.”

  Natalya was halfway to shaking his hand, but stopped.

  “A Gina Lamont hired me.”

  “Mom hired you?” The handshake never completed.

  So the wedding dress had been Natalya’s, Natalya Lamont’s—Tiffany had said it was both Lamonts’ weddings today. At a quick glance he saw that she and the cheery blonde both wore wedding rings. He double-checked, but Tiffany wore no jewelry. Neither rings nor earrings, at least not that showed through her hair.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient,” the blonde said suggestively, winking at Tiffany, who blushed fiercely.

  She fist-pumped at Tiffany’s reaction.

  “Yes! We’ll be wearing black for you next. Another one bites the dust!” She began a small stomping dance, her bright red cowboy boots marking a muffled circle on the rich Oriental carpet.

  Devin finally got the joke of wearing black—the “death” of another single woman.

  Tiffany shook her head fiercely, creating a cloud of hair, but kept her peace.

  Natalya’s continued glare told him that her interrupted threat was still in place.

  Devin felt as if he was suddenly swimming in deep waters. He’d come here for a fresh start, a reset on a life that had gone sideways (so sideways), and he was already in it neck deep.

  Welcome to Eagle Cove, buddy.

  Tiffany slipped the key into Devin’s hand and abandoned ship. She felt bad about doing that to him but she’d suddenly felt so claustrophobic, the room and the two strong personalities crushing in on her, that she had to run.

  Downstairs was little better. The kitchen crowd surged into the parlor. Dance music sounded from out on the lawn. Danny McCall on vocals, the Judge (as everyone called the retired Judge Slater) on stand-up bass, and his wife playing a rocking lead acoustic guitar. Becky would be on the drums soon now that the music was gearing up. Tiffany played her harp with them on occasion, but not today.

  Through the window, she could see that Jessica was still on the verandah bench. Tiffany didn’t dare go out that door or she’d be trapped in a conversation she didn’t know how to avoid.

  She retrieved her harp from where she’d tucked it behind the basement door and made for the B&B’s back door, ready to flee Eagle Cove just as her ancestor Lillian Lamont had over a century before…though Tiffany would only go as far as her farm, not all the way to San Francisco as Lillian had. Tiffany was never going back there.

  Tiffany made it through the crowd, using the harp in its case as a shield, and opened the back door to escape just as Becky swept down the rear stairs. She hooked an arm through Tiffany’s.

  “Come on! They’re waiting for us.”

  “There’s no need…” Tiffany tried to point out that the band was already playing and people were already dancing on the lawn; therefore, no one was waiting for them, especially not for Tiffany. But she never had the chance.

  Becky didn’t let go, so Tiffany was helpless to head back to her home in the hills. Instead she was towed out the back door and around the house to where the band had set up under the spreading branches of a big old cherry tree on the front lawn. Becky deposited Tiffany on her usual seat, a nicely carved stump of a tree that had gone down in the Christmas Day Gale of 2005. She knew that because of the date carved by the chainsaw artist who had reshaped the stump.

  At a loss for what else to do, she pulled her Celtic harp out of the padded case. The harp stood about three feet tall and had twenty-six strings, exceptional for a harp that she could carry on a shoulder strap and play while standing. As she was seated, she screwed in the lapbar crosspiece that would rest on her knees. The harp was one of her prized possessions, one of only two from her entire childhood—the only two she had brought north with her to Oregon and later to Eagle Cove. From the inlaid Celtic knots of shimmering abalone to the smoothness of the dark walnut wood, she loved everything about it. It was one of only two things she had ever felt to be absolutely and completely hers.

  Tiffany listened for the harmony line in the Cat Stevens ballad. She slid in on the beat and kept her head down.

  As it always did, the music soothed and lifted. She’d come to enjoy the rare community events when they played in a group. She knew her harp added a warmth to the sound. They occasionally tried to have her take a solo. An offer she always refused except for a few Harry Chapin songs, where she took the soulful cello part, or anything by Sting; she preferred being an accent rather than a statement.

  Usually she watched the townspeople. There was always something amusing to learn, something to watch. Some were the great forces that shaped the town: Judge Slater, Gina Lamont, and Maggie Winslow—the town’s second-grade teacher and a primal force for decades. Then there was the upcoming generation of Jessica, Natalya, and Becky, the self-declared overseers of the town’s future. But there were other, subtler forces at play and she enjoyed watching those as well.

  Tiffany had moved to Eagle Cove shortly after Ma Slater’s death. Tiffany had seen right away that Peggy Naron was going to be the Judge’s next wife…even though it had taken him three years to learn the same. Cal Mason Jr. and Sr., who had just married Natalya and Gina Lamont today, weren’t chaotic influences. Rather, the two big men were solid, stabilizing influences to their dynamic women.

  But today she didn’t watch even though she could hear their laughter, pick out their voices. She kept her head down and focused on the music.

  Until the moment a second guitar joined in on a chorus of the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.” A glance to her left had her fingers jangling on the harp strings.

  “Hi,” Devin Robison sat cross-legged on the ground close beside her with a beautiful Martin twelve-string acoustic in his lap. He easily picked the backup line, filling in spaces between Peggy’s lead and her own harmony.

  “Hi,” she tried in response but it came out strange and discordantly squeaky. Her fingers found their way back into the music. Once she was solid, he ducked over to the harmony himself, teasing her with a descant to her line, counterpointing the harmony. She responded by leaving him in the harmony and sliding in above Peggy’s melody.

  He chased her through a tricky round of rock and roll, Maroon 5 and Five for Fighting, which were always a challenge on the harp. She teased him with half harmonies in Jimmy Buffet and Fleetwood Mac, forcing him to fill in around her gaps so that the harmony line wouldn’t shatter.

  Only when Peggy finally called a break was Tiffany aware of how sore her fingertips were—they must have played at least a double set for them to be so sensitive. They’d played long enough for the sun to slide well down toward the ocean, making it painfully bright to look westward. Somewhere in that shining blur, the crowd began applauding wildly. All of the musicians were bowing. Even Devin had risen to his feet to join the others. Tiffany used the harp in her lap as an excuse to stay seated and simply bowed her head.

  The applause went on far longer than normal. When each of the band members made a point of stopping by to shake Devin’s hand and tell both him and Tiffany how wonderful their playing had been, Tiffany knew she’d messed up again. She’d always been careful to play simple harmonies, avoiding notice; but with Devin challenging her, she’d played far beyond what she normally let others see. Had her lif
e been different, she might well have accepted the San Francisco Symphony’s request for her to audition for them—one of her only regrets about abandoning her past.

  As the band dispersed into the crowd, some calling for drinks, others simply heading for them, Devin remained by her side.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “You are fine. You play wonderfully.”

  “I meant you can go join the others.”

  He shrugged as he sat back down on the grass close beside her and she couldn’t help but look over at him.

  “You have a nice smile.” She bit down on her tongue. Tiffany had meant to compliment his playing.

  “Thanks. I’m waiting for you to smile to see if you do.”

  “Really, I’m okay by myself.” Was he flirting with her? The whole flirting thing had somehow passed her by without her ever learning how to do it.

  “I don’t know anyone else here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? You’re the one person I do know. Other than Natalya Lamont.”

  He said it in a way that was funny.

  “Oh,” he said softly, “you don’t have a nice smile.”

  Tiffany slapped a hand over her mouth to hide it.

  “You have a great smile. Do it again.”

  Tiffany just shook her head, but her smile really was incredible. Even over the hand presently covering her mouth, Devin could see her eyes sparkling.

  It made him feel as if he’d done something right. As if leaving everything he knew back in Chicago and driving into the coastal wilderness might, just might, not have been the most idiotic maneuver of his entire lifetime. Well, no, the absolutely most idiotic moment had been six weeks earlier and that had launched him on the path to Eagle Cove. But maybe there was finally a glimmer of light in his personal tunnel.

  “I’m sorry I left you with Natalya. She’s mostly wonderful,” Tiffany spoke from behind her covering hand.

  “Except when she’s teasing you?”

  Tiffany nodded uncertainly, then shook her head, covering half of her face with her hair.

  There were television ad shampoo models who didn’t have such incredible hair. It was hard to look away from its shimmering length as it reflected Tiffany’s every move and mood.

  “No, Becky was teasing me. Natalya was…” Tiffany tapered off, looking puzzled.

  “Protecting you,” that much had been obvious.

  “Really?” Her eyes went wide and her hand dropped to clutch the harp that she held against her chest like a warrior’s shield. Because he was seated below her, he could see every expression despite the wide-brimmed hat... No, more than that, he could see every emotion. There was a purity that couldn’t be real. Humans were never that honest. Not brothers, not ex-fiancées, and not conniving—

  He shook his head, trying to shed the sudden, dark thoughts.

  “She was guarding you like a mama bear,” he said and liked the image though he wondered how the slim woman in question would feel about the description. “Natalya threatened to feed me to an orca whale.”

  “I have an orca-colored cat. Does that count?”

  Devin laughed. “Absolutely.” He almost asked if he could come see that, but decided against it at the last moment. He remembered the way she’d bolted from the upstairs bedroom—her hand had actually been shaking as she pushed the key into his palm. Shy. She was remarkably shy and it again made him wonder that she’d taken his hand in the first place. A momentary lapse? He liked being her momentary lapse.

  That smile slipped back. This time he didn’t comment on it for fear of scaring it away again. There was no calculation behind the smile, just a brightness to her eyes and a curve to her very nice lips. Again that strange dichotomy as she switched back and forth between seeming just a little simple and then having a quick humor. And the way she’d played, it had taken his breath away. She was beyond performance-level skilled; she should be playing concerts on international stages or something. He tried to remember if his brother’s weekend band had ever been that much fun to play with before it all went so wrong, but not that he could recall.

  “Excuse me?” Tiffany’s voice was so soft that he’d almost mistaken it for a trick of the breeze.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you h—” But Tiffany was cut off by a stern voice.

  “Now we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Devin looked up and wondered what new disaster was headed his way. The very pregnant blonde from the porch was approaching, arm in arm with a gray-haired battle-ax of a woman.

  Tiffany jolted to her feet. But rather than running off, she handed her harp to him and rushed to assist the pregnant woman.

  “I’m not an invalid,” she protested as Tiffany and the older woman practically forced her into the seat Tiffany had just vacated. “I’ve got another month of this? Why didn’t anyone warn me!”

  Devin noted that Natalya wasn’t the only over-protective one in this group as Tiffany quickly fetched the padded stool from Becky’s drum kit and offered it to the gray-haired woman.

  “You will not find me perching on that, Tiffany Mills.”

  “We’ll trade,” the blonde began to lever herself up.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Winslow,” Tiffany whispered as the older woman pushed the blonde back into her seat. “I’ll get a chair from the house and—”

  “I may be gray on top but I am not dead. I stand all day in the classroom,” she folded her arms and glared at all three of them. “I can certainly stand here. Now sit yourself down.”

  In response, Tiffany sat straight down where she was standing, close beside the stool, but not on it. She ended up on the grass almost close enough for Devin to rub shoulders with her.

  He silently offered her harp. She took the instrument and wrapped it protectively in her arms once more. It was as big as her torso, ornately carved, and well-used. The sweeping arch climbed past her shoulder, reaching higher than her head. He wasn’t a harp aficionado, but while his Martin was one of the best commercial twelve-string guitars made, it was clear that her harp was a custom piece of a whole other class.

  “Now what is this I hear?”

  Devin cringed, having no idea what was about to happen.

  “Jessica…”

  That must be the pregnant blonde.

  “…tells me that you have knowledge of what divided our town a hundred years ago.”

  So this wasn’t about him. Still, his nerves were having trouble relaxing. Mrs. Winslow reminded him of too many dictatorial teachers from his past. Though now that her obvious displeasure was aimed elsewhere, he discovered in himself a desire to protect Tiffany just as Natalya had. Though there was something about her, that enigmatic quality to her reactions and the way she’d leapt to Jessica’s aid, that made him suspect that perhaps Tiffany didn’t need as much protecting as all of her friends thought. And her playing had nothing to do with timidity in any form.

  Tiffany nodded reluctantly—he was learning to read her. Like her music, there were complex interactions that were as much body language as facial expression.

  “A little bit longer than that actually.” Then she rested her chin on the smooth curve of the neck that formed the top of the harp as if to clamp it shut.

  “You know that I value our town’s history.”

  Tiffany nodded carefully.

  “And yet you did not tell me, though we’ve known each other two years.”

  “Two years, eleven months.” Then Tiffany actually bit down on her lower lip and stayed very still.

  “Is your reason good?” That had Jessica looking up sharply at Mrs. Winslow. She’d clearly never thought there might be a reason.

  Tiffany tipped her head, rolling it enough to lean her cheek against the upsweep of the pegboard…then shrugged uncertainly.

  “You will not make it too much longer,” Mrs. Winslow did not make it a question.

  Tiffany shook her head, but Devin co
uld see the deep reluctance there.

  The older woman considered them all for a long moment, nodded once, and turned to go.

  “No, wait,” Jessica called after her. “There can’t be any reason for her to not tell us now what—”

  “Hector Jackson,” Mrs. Winslow said as she walked off, “has asked for my hand in the next dance when the band starts once more. I must find him and confirm if that is still his intent.” And she was gone.

  Devin couldn’t help laughing. “Why in the world does she talk that way?”

  “Second-grade teacher,” Tiffany said quietly. So quietly that Jessica didn’t hear though she sat only a few feet away.

  “She was my second-grade teacher,” Jessica answered in kind. “Started long before me and still is, though she’s past retirement age. She wants to exemplify the English language to her students. She firmly believes that contractions will not communicate the importance of learning the language properly to young minds,” Jessica sounded a little like the woman herself. “But after so many years, she can’t switch it off when she’s out of the classroom either.”

  Devin could hear the love that poured out of Jessica as she spoke. He was used to home, where people always seemed to have a hidden knife waiting in every conversation. Here people protected one another like, well, he was going to say kin, but experience had taught him that was the least true of all.

  “Why would someone choose to teach second grade their whole life?”

  Jessica spun on him, suddenly looking as dangerous as Natalya.

  Devin held up his hands, “I meant that with nothing but respect. I just remember me in second grade and I was no blessing.”

  “I’ll bet,” her tone was as dry as the prairie in August. “Who are you?”

  “Devin,” he was getting tired of that question. As if everyone already knew everyone. Then he glanced at the number of wedding guests spread across the lawn and guessed that some fair portion of the town’s population was here…and knew each other. And if they’d all shared the same second-grade teacher—he couldn’t even guess how many second-grade classrooms there’d been at Alexander Graham Bell Elementary. That had him laughing again.