When she turned to leave the barely recognizable meadow, the road was another harsh shock. Other than the occasional US Coast Guard four-by-four truck sent up to inspect the lighthouse, no one else had tried to get a vehicle up here in the three years she’d lived in the State of Tiffany.
Now there was a clear passage down the lower part of the hill. Where there had been a gentle forest trail, there was now a wide and civilized dirt road. It was hard to not think about its surface. She could see each place she had made an adjustment to the cut of the blade. Could remember how it felt to be rubbing shoulders with Devin as they jounced over patches that were still rough in the early passes.
Devin had been so comfortable. Why did he have to ruin it with—
Though maybe she shouldn’t lay all of the blame on him. He’d done nothing beyond a simple kiss. She had been the one to overreact. Yet another thing she didn’t like about yesterday’s memory.
“What are you thinking about so seriously?”
Tiffany was jolted to realize that she’d exited the trees and arrived at the Lamont B&B without first checking to see who might be there. And now that she did, the first thing she noticed was that Devin’s truck wasn’t here either.
But Gina Lamont was and she had her knitting bag draped over her shoulder.
“Hello, Gina. I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.”
They climbed into Gina’s Prius together. When Tuesday afternoon knitting had moved from the B&B out to Becky’s Brewery near the airport, Gina Lamont had offered her a ride. Her first time in a car in years, it had been bewildering—as confusing as the unexpected kindness. Now she was used to the feel of her typical two-mile walk between the B&B and town sliding by in mere minutes. And Gina extended her kindness to Tiffany every week as if it was a simple “of course” assumption with no idea how rare and precious that was.
As rare and precious as a kiss.
“You’re doing that thinking thing again,” Gina told her as they turned onto Beach Way. “About something juicy, I hope.”
Not a chance that Tiffany was going to answer that. Instead, she watched the stores go by: Merganser Weaving and Fishing Tours, Carrier Pigeon Pizza (that didn’t deliver), Blackbird Bakery (that did), Brass Plover Inn, and Puffin Bay Diner anchored at the far end of town close by the water.
Gina didn’t push, and for that alone she deserved an answer.
“I’m just being startled by all of the changes happening.”
“Like the lighthouse cottage project?”
“And the road. And your and Natalya’s weddings.”
“What’s wrong with those?” Gina sounded suddenly defensive.
“Nothing. That’s not it.” Tiffany floundered. “It’s not what I meant.” She tried again. “Your weddings were so beautiful and you all looked so happy. I just…” And she finally ran out of words.
“And you started thinking about your own.”
“Right. What? No!”
Gina’s big laugh filled the car. “I know. I watched Monica remarry Ralph for the fourth time and I didn’t think much of it. But when Peggy married, that was a shock to the core. She and I had been single-type girls together since forever. And there she suddenly was, wearing wedding white and looking as if she owned the world. What woman wouldn’t want that feeling?”
This one, Tiffany thought. But it didn’t sit well.
“And I can tell you what’s even crazier,” Gina said as they parked in front of the old cow barn that was now Becky Billings BlueBird Brewery. “It’s completely true.”
“For you,” Tiffany hadn’t meant to make it sound like an accusation.
“I dare you to ask Jessica and Becky about that during knitting. Natalya too, if she wasn’t away on her honeymoon.”
Tiffany shook her head. That was a dare she wouldn’t be taking.
Gina’s laugh led them out of the car and indoors to join the knitting circle.
Devin surveyed the airstrip and couldn’t help but feel good about it.
He’d driven the road grader back through town this morning, with a minimum of mishaps, though he’d had to stop and pull a parking sign back into position, mostly, at Kingfisher’s Court, and had gotten lost again among the seabird roads—they wound and twisted and overlapped as if they were in flight themselves.
He’d started talking advanced grader technique with Peggy, which had turned into a long discussion. Then she’d sent him out to scrape and shape the runway. With her instructions in his head, he’d finally gotten a good feel for the machine and had enjoyed refinishing the runway’s surface before she returned from another flight.
“Nice job,” she said after landing her Stearman 4 biplane and taxiing back and forth over the surface a few times. “Can I borrow you for a minute more? I have to carry a couple of pies over to Becky’s.” She nodded toward a barn across a hundred yards of pasture deep in hay.
“It might cost you a slice,” Devin warned.
Peggy nodded at the deal.
“What do I owe you for the grader?”
“Nothing. Gina lends me a room whenever my sister comes to visit—which I count as a blessing because she makes me too crazy to have close night and day. Besides, I’ll consider the nice job on the runway as me owing you.”
Devin sniffed at the pie she placed in his hands. He did it again, deeper. Strawberry-rhubarb. Not a construction man worth his salt wasn’t an expert on pies.
He was also getting the hang of how things worked away from the city.
“Smells like a slice of this will set us even there. If it tastes even half as good as it smells, I’ll owe you.”
“Good,” Peggy picked up another pie and a cloth bag in which he could see some yarn and needles. “Because it tastes even better.”
There was a narrow path beaten through the hay, which was waist high. Chicago snow had just been melting out at his non-wedding. By the time he’d left a month later to drive west, the hay fields were barely ankle high. They had some kind of crazy growing season out here on the coast. When was everything going to stop surprising him?
Not yet!
That question was answered soundly when he stepped through the barn’s side door. He’d seen the “5B—Becky Billings BlueBird Brewery Tasting Room” sign and assumed it was some hobby operation. He remembered the short blonde who had danced in the darkness with her husband after the wedding. He expected a little craft setup.
Through the tasting room door was a spacious area with a dozen tables and a long bar sporting a dozen taps. It was a beautiful space that made him want to sit down and draw a pint.
Up above the bar was a painting of Eagle Cove as it would appear from Peggy’s plane, reaching from wall to wall and from bar mirror to peaked ceiling.
“Your photo originally?”
Peggy nodded.
The representation of the town itself looked modern and had been painted by an artist who managed to bring the high view to life. Another artist had painted framing images of an old-time sailing ship and a couple of women in Victorian garb.
“Don’t miss this,” Peggy called his attention to a long glass wall beyond which stood an immaculate brewery. “I helped Becky assemble most of this. Her work, I was just labor.” She didn’t need to mention how proud of it she was; it was clear in her voice.
Tall, stainless steel tanks surrounded a big copper kettle and a host of other mysterious equipment. There was one person in back working a bottling machine. The guy waved and Peggy nodded back, her hands full of pie.
Peggy led Devin into a big living room area. A dozen women were gathered in a big circle, chatting happily. There seemed to be three or four conversations going at once and he estimated that his best strategy was to grab a slice and beat a hasty retreat.
Calls of greetings sounded out for Peggy, and then one by one the conversations quieted as heads turned, noticing him for the first time. He’d met Gina, Mrs. Winslow, Jessica, and Becky. He recognized several others from the wedding even if he hadn�
�t met them.
Maybe he’d skip the slice and just beat a hasty retreat.
That was the plan until a person sitting on one end of a couch turned slowly to look in his direction.
Tiffany Mills’ hands stopped with their knitting, even as the rest of the room resumed what they were doing. Was there anything she couldn’t do? Play harp, knit, farm, and shoot a bow and arrow.
That image had cost him an entire night’s sleep.
Tiffany with her feet well planted in the forest, her long hair billowing soft in the breeze, and smoothly powerful in her handling of the bow. Robin Hood would be an idiot if he didn’t recruit Maid Tiffany after a single glance. Forget Marian, whether played by Olivia de Havilland, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, or even Cate Blanchett (his personal favorite—true of almost any movie Cate was in). Tiffany wielding her bow and arrow was a revelation.
Peggy took the pie from his hands. “Sit while I slice these up.”
Devin headed for the seat over by the brewery’s master control board. At least that’s what he hoped it was, because if there was another one with even more controls and readouts he didn’t want to know about it. These controls were plenty complex enough.
“Don’t disappoint me,” Peggy’s whisper was sharp and private.
Devin looked at her and again was the target of her steady gaze.
“I’m not blind, so don’t you be stupid.”
Which was exactly what he’d been about to do. Sure he was curious to see what information a brewery reported to its operator. But there was also an empty chair close beside the couch Tiffany was seated on. “For a slice, I’ll sit for a bit,” he offered loudly enough to be heard.
Peggy rolled her eyes at him, but nodded when he turned for the chair by Tiffany.
Devin had three steps to figure out how to approach this.
Only a pissant would embarrass her in front of her friends.
He could act hurt that she’d bolted.
Or he could pretend everything was normal, as if their last conversation had merely been interrupted.
He sat, smiled at her, and looked down at her knitting.
“Wow!”
He’d never seen anything like it. Intricate designs in multi-colored yarns made beautiful pictures creating a tube that he could only imagine would be a scarf someday. A glance revealed that it was easily the most complex piece in the room. He turned back quickly so that she wouldn’t disappear.
“What’s that?” He nodded down to her knitting.
Tiffany looked down at it and she had absolutely no idea.
Devin’s unexpected arrival had broken the seams of normality she kept wrapped around herself during knitting.
“It’s—” It had been so clear in her head just seconds ago, but like a dropped stitch, it was gone without noticing.
Devin leaned in and traced a finger over one of the patterns.
It felt as if his finger traced upon her cheek, just where he’d touched her before the kiss.
“It looks like a windmill.”
“It is,” Tiffany gasped out. She remembered that now, the long propellers of a big windfarm on a field of dark blue. “Denmark. Copenhagen. The water is so shallow that they plant them in the bay like giant tulips.”
“Have you been there?”
She shook her head. “But I’ve seen pictures of them standing in the sea.” Her family had traveled a lot, but mostly to the Orient, where her stepfather’s business interests had been. “This is my anti-trip.”
“Anti-trip?” Devin’s finger traced over other patterns. “Places you’ve never been but want to go?”
That had Tiffany looking up at him in surprise. “Yes. Exactly.”
“What are the green steps?”
“Vineyard terraces of Liguria.”
“And this?”
“Gelato, by the cone and cup.”
Devin had her lead him through her fanciful adventure, a bit of Scottish tartan, a classic Fair Isle pattern from the Shetlands and another from the Highlands. It was actually a map of her heritage: Scottish, Italian, a little Norse, and a chambermaid of Henry VIII (at least according to family legend), who’d been banished to Alnwick Castle for producing yet another girl for the king without a male heir. Online, Tiffany had found water sculptures in the Alnwick gardens and included those for the chambermaid.
“F,” she explained on the last section he pointed to, a whole row of them connected together in a long chain: black with white block letters. “For Fitzinger the cat.”
“The orca-colored cat.”
He’d remembered. She wasn’t sure if she was charmed or if it felt a little intrusive.
“Why Fitzinger?”
“Leopold Fitzinger was the first to include the killer whale in a genus-species taxonomy.”
His laugh tipped her over into charmed.
It was easy to join in.
Then she was aware of the abrupt silence around the entire circle of women. It was as if her and Devin’s shared laughter had snipped off all other threads of conversation. A quick peek revealed that, indeed, everyone was looking in their direction with differing reactions. Jessica was scowling at Devin, Becky and Gina were both smiling as if to say “of course.” Most were simply surprised. Maggie Winslow looked at her thoughtfully—not at Devin, at her.
Tiffany tried to read her expression, but it was elusive. Neither surprise nor misconceived congratulations, but rather as if she was somehow finding Tiffany’s laugh as food for thoughts of her own.
Unable to stand the pressure, she shot to her feet, barely rescued her knitting, and headed out the door.
Devin caught up with her a dozen steps across the gravel parking lot.
“I’m sorry. You should go back with your friends. I’ll leave. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
She shook her head, then tried to explain. “It’s not you that’s making me uncomfortable.”
Devin blinked at her several times and then offered one of those glorious smiles she was rapidly learning to appreciate. “Let me guess: that’s exactly what is making you uncomfortable. That you aren’t uncomfortable around me.”
“I—” she shrugged. “No point in denying that, since you’re right. You don’t have to look so pleased.” And he did look terribly happy with his discovery.
“Do you want to go back?”
Tiffany considered the closed door. Her friends were in there. Actual friends. Ones concerned for her and ones happy for her. Actual, real, live people she would count as friends. Then she looked back at Devin. She thought about his kiss and the way his questions about her knitting had tickled up her spine. And oddly, about the arrow he’d left in the tree like some lucky talisman.
Devin waited patiently while she dragged her thoughts back from the four winds.
“I—” She was going to have to find a way to start sentences without stuttering to a stop every time. “I,” she pushed through, “would rather spend some time with you.” There, she’d said it. Not what she’d expected to say, but still it was true.
He offered one of his great smiles, “I know this great parking spot.”
She heard the tease this time and the flirt.
“Hang on,” he raised a finger, then turned to the brewery and went back inside.
Tiffany was left to stand in the gravel parking lot, reviewing the conversation to see where it had gone astray. He’d left her to go and…do what?
“We can’t miss these,” Devin came back out carefully balancing two paper plates, each with a generous slice of pie.
“We’ll need forks.”
“Right! Here,” he handed her the pie plates so quickly she almost lost them to the gravel drive. Then he ducked back inside and returned wielding two plastic forks. “I had to promise a day of labor in the brewery if I don’t return these. I think Becky was kidding.” He took back one of the pie slices and then nodded across the hay field toward the hangar.
She could see his little pickup parked ther
e and followed him to it.
It was a totally different experience riding through town in Devin’s small truck than Gina’s Prius. And it wasn’t just the additional height off the road. The last time she’d been in a car with a man had been her assistant three years ago who helped her start the farm. Now a man was driving and she felt as if she was floating. But she was also conscious of the closeness. The SR5 was not a big truck and it felt closed in. Not unsafe, just…as if a pressure was squeezing her gently inward like a dive into deep water.
“Don’t lose our pie,” Devin’s admonition grounded her in the moment.
She held the two plates, one balanced on either knee. They were perfectly safe, why was he—
“I mean, who knows if we can trust the guy who cut this road.” Again he made it easy to smile at his joke.
Tiffany had daydreamed herself all the way to the B&B. Devin didn’t stop. He rolled out the far side of the little parking lot by the big Victorian and turned up the hill along his newly cut road.
He needn’t have worried. The surface was smooth and well packed; his truck climbed it easily.
Rather than parking alongside the lighthouse and facing outward as he had with the road grader, he turned and backed the truck into the same place. Tiffany was now looking toward her path home—across the newly shorn and level meadow and off into the trees. She felt no desire to run this time, but didn’t know what Devin was doing. The view was now behind her.
He came around and opened her door as if she was some sort of a lady. “I’ll take those,” and he lifted away the two pie plates.
Now what was she supposed to do? Get out of the truck for one thing, Tiffany. And when she did, she saw that Devin had lowered the tailgate and perched on it facing the ocean. The evening sun was ducking down into the clouds far out to sea, lighting up the sky with warm yellows and soft oranges. The sea was calm; the breakers down below no more than five or six feet high where they crashed into the rocks at the base of Orca Head. The ocean breeze was still warm in the sun, though it would be cool in the shade.
Keepsake for Eagle Cove Page 7