Keepsake for Eagle Cove

by M. L. Buchman

  If he stayed here, he’d have to talk to them about offering some Chicago-style as well.

  “If I stay here?” There was as unlikely an idea as he’d ever had. He made sure that he had the permits on display. “We’re just—”

  “Talking to ourselves.”

  “Oh. Hi, Peggy. What are you doing up here?”

  “Thought I’d come see how you’re doing. I take it that talking to yourself is a good sign?”

  He smiled. “I’m used to working with a large crew. Seems awfully quiet if I don’t.”

  He noticed the way she was looking at his work with more than just a casual eye.

  “You know construction?” Then wished he could take it back. She owned a road grader, ran the airport, rebuilt airplanes… “Wait a minute.”

  She waited him out.

  “You’re married to Judge Slater.”

  A nod.

  “But Slater isn’t your last name.”

  “It is now. He’s still old-fashioned enough to want his wife to take his last name. I didn’t see any point in arguing.”

  “But that was recent.”

  Again the nod.

  “What was your maiden name?”

  “Naron.”

  Devin was standing right next to the permits where he’d nailed them to a stud, but he didn’t need look at them; the last name of the contractor who’d arranged the permit for him to work under started with an N. “You’re Eagle Cove Contracting.”

  She shrugged as if it shouldn’t be a surprise. “I’ve done a lot of building in this town.”

  In Chicago, getting a woman on the crew was such a rarity that she was still often razzed or even harassed until she left. Devin was proud of his DR crew because they had two women who insisted they were treated fine whenever he checked in with them.

  In Eagle Cove, the main contractor in town was a woman.

  “Huh,” was all he managed. He made a mental gear shift, hard enough to do some grinding inside his skull. So she was here to make sure that his work was up to whatever standards Eagle Cove Contracting was known for. Because it was Peggy, he now knew that her standards were sky high. And the fact that she hadn’t bothered to come by until shortly before the inspectors’ planned arrival said something of what she thought of his skills.

  “Well,” he waved as casually as he could toward the rest of the interior, “let me know if you find anything. Inspectors are due any time.”

  Without a word, she turned and began walking through the cottage, doing her own pre-inspection inspection. He’d stripped the inside walls down to stud as well, so he could see her moving about. It felt as if someone was silently peeking inside his head to make sure his brain was still operating properly. She took more time than any self-respecting building inspector ever would.

  She went upstairs and he resisted the urge to follow though he certainly traced her steps back and forth across the ceiling. When she returned, he realized that he hadn’t moved an inch from standing in front of the permits, like some kind of a wind-up doll that someone had cranked full tight and had forgotten to hit the release switch.

  “Why not fur out the old two-by-four walls to two-by-six so that you can fit R-21 insulation batts?”

  “I’m going to do a closed-cell polyurethane. I didn’t want to steal space as the rooms are already small. I’ll get the same insulation factor and it doesn’t get cold enough here to justify the expense and loss of interior space to push up to R-33. In Chicago, different answer.”

  “Doing it yourself?”

  “Could, except my equipment is in Chicago. Subbing it out.”

  “To Gregor?”

  At his confirmation, she nodded.

  “What about sound insulation between rooms?”

  “Standoffs and more spray-in foam, open-cell. Guests want their privacy in a romantic getaway but there’s no need to waste money on an R-value we don’t need.”

  She never once turned or pointed, demonstrating that she’d absolutely seen every single thing she’d looked at. “Second floor, third stud in the back bath has an age split. You’ll need to sister on a new board.”

  He’d spotted that, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.

  He had seven items by the time the inspectors’ arrival finally rescued him. Was that good, a nice short list? Or bad? He couldn’t read Peggy well enough to tell. They were all minor items and not a one would concern an inspector, as none were structural.

  Despite their long drive down from Newport, the inspectors completed their inspection in well under half an hour. Devin had the feeling that it had less to do with his workmanship and far more to do with Peggy’s presence and her name on the permit.

  “See ya’, Peg,” and they were gone again.

  Both permits were signed, “Okay to insulate.”

  “Wait!” Devin stepped outside but they were gone.

  Peggy joined him. “What’s the problem?”

  “They also signed ‘Okay to cover.’ I haven’t insulated yet and they need to inspect that once it’s in.”

  “John’s also a building inspector for remote locales like Eagle Cove. He knows that I’ll trounce you if you don’t do a good job. Saves him a trip.”

  “Oh.” Devin blinked at the bright day. The interior of the cottage was relatively dim through the smaller style of windows prevalent a hundred years ago. “Are you going to trounce me?”

  “Nope,” Peggy stuck her hands in her pockets. “Nice work.”

  “Uh, thanks.” She’d proven that she expected the same standards of work he did from his own crew and it felt good to find another contractor who truly cared about the quality of work. He handed her a water bottle and took another himself from the cooler he kept in the back of his truck.

  “Now what’s this about you living up at Tiffany’s?”

  Devin was glad he hadn’t opened his water yet or he’d be choking on it.

  Tiffany was surprised that Mrs. Winslow understood the peace that making tea deserved. There should be some rituals that are sacrosanct and Tiffany had always enjoyed the process making a pot of tea. Preheating the pot with a swirl of boiling water. Loose tea leaves, then a tea cozy to retain the heat while it steeped.

  Mrs. Winslow’s cozy was simple, attractive…and tea-colored.

  Tiffany’s first one had been a nice bit of cable-knit wool, in the purest white. In days it had been stained with brown splashes of tea. It had gotten uglier and uglier until she’d had the idea of doing a tea-leaf dye bath. The white wool cozy had come out nicely tea-toned and she still used it every morning. They carried the tea service out into the backyard.

  Mrs. Winslow’s back garden was a lush wonder.

  Tiffany’s gardens were a study in the practical and the robust. Much of her food came from the garden, and it had to be strong enough to thrive despite the massive winds that occasionally slammed into the high ridge. A smaller seventy- or eighty-mile-an-hour wind down in Eagle Cove could easily top a hundred on her anemometer there above the headland. When those big storms arrived, the yurt’s fabric flexed and slapped, making it impossible to sleep even by wearing earplugs…one of the only drawbacks to her home.

  Mrs. Winslow’s garden included a tiny herb bed and not another practical plant in the whole lot. Late tulips and early roses. Snapdragons teased peonies. Freesia borders accented Gerbera daisies.

  And it was filled with bird life. Hummingbirds sipped sugar water from floral feeders. Stellar jays, chickadees, and red-winged blackbirds abounded at seed and suet feeders.

  “Fairyland,” Tiffany kept turning about, trying to take it all in. She needed to build a place where she could do this. “It’s magical.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Mills.”

  “Is it okay if I never leave?”

  “I am glad that you appreciate it. You are always welcome in my garden, Ms. Mills.”

  Mrs. Winslow didn’t make it sound like an empty offer and Tiffany retreated into silence.

  When the tea was brewed, Tiff
any poured while Mrs. Winslow went inside and returned with a plate of cookies. “Scottish shortbread. One of my weaknesses that I indulge in only on special occasions.”

  “Special occasions?” And Tiffany’s nerves shot to life once more. Suddenly she wished she’d never come. She knew that, after Mrs. Winslow’s kindness, there was no way that she could avoid revealing Lillian Lamont’s story. And when she did, her own life would so pale in comparison. Lillian had founded a town and a matriarchy—two of them actually, here and in San Francisco—Tiffany had founded a farm with six goats. And the truth of her heritage would come out and her connection to—

  “Yes,” Mrs. Winslow studied her closely. “It is not often you fall in love.”

  Tiffany attempted to breathe but wasn’t having much luck with it. Okay, even scarier than any revelation of her past was that simple, yet ever so true, statement of her present.

  Devin sat down abruptly on the lumber he’d stacked up to build the roof over the porch.

  “I’m not living with her.”

  “Oh.” Peggy sat opposite him on a large rock he’d nudged into place using the grader. A nice big boulder, it made a statement close beside the front door. “What do they call it these days?”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Wasn’t trying to.”

  “Great. What are you trying to do?”

  Peggy kicked at the dirt a bit before answering. “Some people in this town are mighty protective of that girl.”

  “I’m one of them.”

  Peggy nodded without looking up. “Thought so. Anyone harasses you about that…”

  “Then…” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

  “Then,” she finally looked up at him. Her blue eyes were suddenly hard as steel. “Tell ’em to go climb a cliff and leap. It’s between you and her.”

  He sipped at his water while he considered his next words. “Peggy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If you’re ever in Chicago looking for work, I can always use a good crew boss.”

  “Ha!” It was a single short bark of laughter. Then she stood and pulled her gloves out of her back pocket. “I’ve got the last replacement window in my truck; just came in.”

  “I’ll do the list and then I’ll meet you there.”

  They finished their water bottles, chucked the empties into his truck bed in unison, and headed back inside to finish the prep work for the insulation.

  Tiffany wished she could argue, but being in love was exactly the problem. Being really in love. She deeply feared that Lillian Lamont had only experienced true lust. And while it had clearly been joyous based upon her entries, it now left Tiffany wholly adrift without any clear guidance of how to be.

  “Why come to me? What about your friends?”

  “You are my first friend in Eagle Cove, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Oh my dear child.”

  Tiffany looked up to see her wiping at her eyes.

  “That… Oh dear.” She blew her nose into a paper napkin and then reached across the small table to squeeze Tiffany’s hand. “Well, if we are such great friends, Ms. Mills, then you had best call me Maggie and I shall call you Tiffany, henceforth.”

  “Okay, Maggie,” Tiffany stumbled a bit over it. Because she’d almost said…well, why not? “Unless Dragon Maggie would be better?”

  And Maggie let loose a big laugh that would fit a woman three times her size. “Oh, there’s hope for you yet, Tiffany. There’s hope for you yet.”

  Tiffany was surprised. She’d driven Maggie Winslow to contractions—a rare event indeed.

  “Seriously though. What about your friends?”

  Tiffany considered her teacup, turning it around several times on the saucer. Jessica, Becky, and Natalya. “They’re all recently married. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but I expect that their perspective is that everyone should be as happily married as they are and the sooner the better. I suppose it’s a lot like how it must be for you watching Peggy Slater and Gina Lamont’s recent weddings.”

  “Hmm,” it sounded distinctly like a dragony growl of dissatisfaction with Tiffany’s statement. “And that is not your perspective?”

  “I have reasons to be careful. And cautious.”

  “Which of those are you going to explain first?”

  Tiffany half wished she was speaking with someone far less perceptive, but then again, that’s why she’d come to Mrs.—to Maggie. She needed a sounding board.

  And Maggie waited patiently.

  “Cautious,” Tiffany decided. “My past relationships have rarely been…pleasant.”

  “Did you make them pay for what they did to you?” The Dragon was suddenly at the forefront.

  Tiffany didn’t like to think of it so bluntly, but she had and finally nodded.

  “Good! There were events in my life…but those were different times. Or so I thought then…. Now I am less sure. And your present relationship?” She made it sound like a threat to commit mayhem on behalf of all women everywhere.

  “He’s glorious!” Tiffany assured her. “Devin is the most wonderful man who has—” And she realized that she was effusing. She took a deep breath, which almost turned into an incipient hiccup, but she managed to defeat it by exhaling slowly. She was ridiculous when she got the hiccups; her hair flounced in all directions with each attack.

  Maggie was smiling at her.

  “He’s better than anything I ever dreamed of.”

  “Thing?” The second-grade schoolteacher tone was unmistakable.

  “One. Anyone.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “How do you know?”

  “That you are in love?” Maggie shrugged. “I married a good man. We were compatible for over thirty years until he passed. Gave me two sons whom I love very much. But was I ever ‘in love’ with him? I do not know, which perhaps answers the question itself.”

  “But Hector?”

  And Maggie sighed. “Next you will have me asking you ‘How do you know?’ I would much prefer to not consider such eventualities.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  And the two of them shared a laugh as they turned back to watch the birds flit about the lush garden.

  Because Tiffany had learned one thing: they were both ladies who already knew.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quietly before Mrs. Winslow gave her a ride back up to the lighthouse meadow. Devin’s truck was parked there, but there was no sign of him, which told her that he was already up at the farm.

  Thankfully, her friend Maggie never asked about the second half: why Tiffany also had to be so careful in addition to being cautious.

  Chapter 8

  “Devin!” Gina flagged him down as he drove by the B&B.

  He stopped and climbed out of the truck as she swooped down the front stairs. He’d learned, in a small town, there was always time. In Chicago he wouldn’t have bothered to exit the truck or even shut down the engine. Here such an action might not be actively rude, but it wasn’t exactly sociable either.

  “I tried calling you.” Gina was a very fine-looking woman, but she was practically glowing this morning.

  “You’re looking good, Ms. Lamont. Like marriage really agrees with you.”

  “You have no idea. Neither did I. It took me until I was past fifty to find the right man, but oh did I ever,” and her smile spoke sufficient volumes for Devin to feel a bit voyeuristic.

  “I heaved my phone into the ocean,” he told her. “I haven’t missed it enough to replace it yet.” Which was actually surprising. In Chicago, if he was disconnected for even an hour, he’d worry about what he was missing.

  Gina held up a hand and he high-fived it. “Welcome to the coast, Devin.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “I don’t suppose Tiffany has a phone,” there was some tease in her voice, but it was friendly rather than judgmental.

  “I doubt it. I certainly haven’t seen one. She’d have
even less use for it than I do.”

  “Thought as much,” Gina leaned back against his truck hood and raised her face into the morning sunlight.

  He leaned beside her and did the same. It was late April. Back in Chicago it could be cold-snapping down to the teens, or baking into the eighties. Here it was late morning, so the air was mid-fifties and so fresh he felt better just for breathing it. The sun was different here. He’d never believed that…Monet returning time and time again to Liguria, Italy because the light was so special there. But it was true. The Oregon sun was a kinder, gentler light than the Chicago one. There it was all glare and brightness, hard as a slap. Here it was warm and pleasant, then as often as not, slipping behind cloud or tree branch to leave a cool caress when a breeze slid by.

  “Are you busy at the moment?”

  He shrugged, “Not really. You probably saw the insulator’s truck arrive this morning. Tomorrow I have the sheetrockers in. I’ve finished the concrete pour for the front porch, but I’d just be in everyone’s way if I framed it up now. What do you need?”

  “Not me. I’m all set for the festival, but Peggy could use a hand out at the airport.”

  “Festival?” He’d heard something about a festival as he passed through town on errands, but between the renovation and Tiffany, he didn’t slow down often…not even this much. After a month his thoughts might be shifting to Eagle Cove Time, but his body was still clearly on the Chicago clock. Now that he thought about it, that was another thing he should heave overboard…at least for as long as he was here.

  “Flameagle Days,” Gina didn’t look down from the sun. “Jessica’s fourth festival. She became the town’s marketing manager nine months ago.”

  “And pregnant eight and a half ago.”

  “The two are definitely related, but that’s a story for another time. This town wasn’t dying, but it was fading. She planned a big festival every three months along with other advertising campaigns. We’re financially healthier in the last year than in the prior thirty and it’s all that girl’s doing. This is her fourth one and no one except her knows what all of the pieces are.”