by Irene Hannon
At least she’d offered the front window of the Mercantile as a display space. Everyone in Starfish Bay came in once or twice a week, and she intended to post the photos and the accompanying written memories near the door.
Spotting an old photo album wedged into one side of the box, she took it in a firm grip and tugged it out. The rest of the contents slid into the cavity, and she huffed out a breath. Fitting the bulky album back in was going to take some effort. Worth it, though, if she found a photo or two.
Book in hand, she sat on one of the sheets of plywood her dad had laid on the rafters years ago and began to go through it.
The first few pages didn’t yield any photos suitable for the campaign, but they did summon up a treasure trove of memories. There she was at seven or eight, clutching a spelling award, her dad and mom standing proudly behind her. Another showed her in a tutu, before or after some dance recital. In a Christmas photo, she and her mom sat cuddled under their ornament-bedecked tree, an array of gift-wrapped packages around them as Lindsey offered a gap-toothed grin to the camera.
A melancholy smile tugging at her lips, she turned the page.
Her smile faded.
In the center was a shot of her and Nathaniel on The Point, the corner of Starfish Bay Chapel visible in the background.
Had she found this photo a month ago, she had a feeling she’d have passed over it without anything more than a fleeting, “I wonder who that kid was?” or perhaps a vague memory of a long-ago friend. But she didn’t have to wonder now. Their ages were about right for the time he’d lived in Starfish Bay. And the location was a dead giveaway. They were sitting on the bench at The Point.
She traced the edge of the slightly faded photo with one finger. Given the huge ice cream cones in their hands and the grins on their faces, it wasn’t hard to figure out this had been taken in August, at the church’s annual ice cream social. And from their joyful expressions, it had been an all’s-right-with-the-world moment.
But that moment had also been fleeting, she suddenly recalled, as another memory tickled her brain. Seconds after this shot had been taken, she’d dropped her cone. It had landed with a splat at her feet, pointy end up. She’d been crushed.
And then Nathaniel had offered her his.
In the end, her dad had rounded up another cone for her and Nathaniel had kept his. Yet even as a kid, she’d been touched by his generosity. Just days before he’d told her how much he was looking forward to the social—and the free ice cream—since they didn’t have a lot of treats like that at his house.
Proving again that selfishness wasn’t part of Nate Garrison’s character.
Then or now.
Stifling the niggle of regret that tugged at her conscience, she removed the photo and turned the page, searching for other pictures of the chapel. She had more important things to do than reminisce—or nurse regrets about ill-spoken comments.
Less than two minutes later, after scanning every picture on every page, she reached the end without finding any more shots of Starfish Bay Chapel. She hoped some of the other residents were having better luck.
After setting the photo of her and Nate on a carton beside her, she rose to her knees and dug through the box, trying to eke out room for the album among the jumbled detritus of the past. Her fingers encountered a smooth round object blocking the way, and she pulled it out, balancing it in one hand as she slid the collection of photos back in with the other. Then she examined the small snow globe of an angel hovering over the stable in Bethlehem.
Yet another memory surfaced.
It was the Christmas Eve service, four months after the ice cream social. She’d noticed Nathaniel across the aisle, but she’d been too excited about the gifts waiting at home to pay much attention to him.
As they’d all been leaving, though, he’d managed to work his way over to her through the crowd. He’d only had time to thrust a small wrapped package into her hands and murmur “thank you” before his mother had hurried him back toward their car—and out of her life—under the dark, starless sky.
She hadn’t seen him again until he’d walked into the Mercantile twenty-five years later, all grown up.
Lindsey sat back on her heels, cradling the globe in her hands. In the bounty of Christmas that had always characterized her childhood, somehow this small offering had been misplaced. And eventually forgotten.
She took another look at the photo of the two of them, balanced on the carton beside her.
Once more, guilt began to gnaw at her.
Nate had come back to Starfish Bay because of the happy memories he harbored of his brief stay here. Some of those memories included her. Yet she’d rebuffed every attempt he’d made to rekindle their friendship.
And she knew why.
Fear.
Just as Nate had pointed out yesterday.
Though she’d countered by saying she was nervous, his assessment had been accurate. She was scared. For a very simple reason. The feelings he awakened in her threatened to disrupt the quiet, safe little world she’d retreated to after Mark’s death. She might have told everyone her father’s accident had brought her home, but in all honesty, she’d been glad to have an excuse to come back to the sheltering shores of Starfish Bay. Here, she’d hoped to heal. And find answers.
She suspected those were the same reasons Nate had returned. That he, too, considered this place a haven. Perhaps from the traumatic battlefield experience he’d mentioned. Or from whatever culpability he felt over the death of his mother. Hadn’t he told her it was his own fault he’d lost her and ended up in foster care?
While she hadn’t pushed him to share any of the details of those experiences, Lindsey was curious about his past. Why was he afraid to let people get close? What had he meant when he’d told her once he didn’t need her to lay more guilt on him because he had plenty already? What drove him to fling himself into the line of fire in his work, no matter the personal risk?
She hadn’t exactly laid the groundwork for such confidences, though. Nor did she want him to think she was ready—or willing—to take their relationship to a different level. But they’d been friends once. Good friends, based on the evidence she was unearthing and the memories that were surfacing. The least she could do after his long journey was let him know she was willing to be his friend again.
Given their tumultuous reunion to date, however, figuring out a way to do that could turn out to be a bigger challenge than saving The Point.
“So are you leaving this weekend?”
At Jarrod’s question, Nate looked up from the document they’d been reading on his computer in the Mercantile’s coffee nook.
“When do you start school?”
“Not for almost two weeks.”
“Then I’m staying at least another week.” It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but it felt right. He’d taken six weeks off, and he was only approaching the halfway mark. Returning to Chicago early held no appeal, and he had nowhere else to go.
The boy’s face lit up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. We’re not done with our article yet.”
“Cool.”
His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt to check caller ID. As his editor’s name flashed on the display, he frowned. Clark was an email junkie, reverting to the phone only when he had a very serious matter to discuss.
Nate’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“Check out that last paragraph again and see if there’s anything else I might be able to use, okay?” He rose and started toward the front door.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Once he was in the parking lot, he tapped the talk button. “Hi, Clark.”
“Nate. Got your piece on Starfish Bay. You’ve been holding out on me.”
The fried egg he’d eaten at the Orchid for breakfast congealed in his stomach. “That must mean you plan to run it.”
“I don’t plan to; I already did. Jeff Gorski is on vacation and we’ve been using syndicated colu
mnists to fill his Viewpoint spot. Your piece will run in tomorrow’s edition. It’s online now.”
The whole world was already reading his private thoughts? He fought down a surge of panic.
“So what else do you have along these lines?”
“Nothing. It was a one-time shot, Clark.”
“There must be more where that came from.”
“Touchy-feely stuff isn’t my shtick.”
“You could have fooled me. Look, I know you like the action assignments. I get that. But there’s no reason you can’t do both. I think you’re on to something. We’re already getting hits on this from our syndication partners. Especially from West Coast papers.”
“That’s great.” He tried to muster some enthusiasm. Lindsey would be happy, even if he was unnerved. “But I don’t know what else I’d write about.”
“Personal experiences. And you’ve had plenty of those. I bet you’ve got another idea already noodling around in your brain.”
Nate thought of the piece Jarrod was helping him research. Could he work that into a commentary rather than a straight reporting article?
“Your silence tells me you do.”
“No.” Nate jumped back into the conversation. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He massaged his temples and looked toward The Point, hidden behind the dense forest, but waiting if he needed it. “I have to think about this.”
“You do that. In the meantime, we’ll see what kind of reader reaction we get to this first foray. You still coming back in three weeks?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. I’ve got a couple of assignments in mind for you.”
“Overseas?”
“No. I’ll keep you in the States for a while, unless you’re ready to go back to the Middle East.”
“Not yet.” Maybe never.
“Okay. I’ll be in touch in a day or two with some feedback. Nice work.”
“Thanks.”
As his boss signed off, Nate slipped the phone back onto his belt, willed the mutiny in his stomach to subside, and rejoined Jarrod. Ten minutes later, after Cindy reclaimed her son and disappeared into the aisles of the store to do a little shopping, he checked out his piece in the online edition of the Tribune.
Seeing it in print restarted the churning in his gut.
The copy desk had added a headline: “A Tribute to Touchstones.” They’d also run his file photo, a shot taken a year or so ago while he was on assignment in Afghanistan. He’d forgotten they used author photos in commentary pieces. Seeing his words in print was bad enough. The picture made him feel doubly exposed.
“Everything go okay with Jarrod?”
At Lindsey’s question, he looked up over the screen on his laptop. She hadn’t said much to him since their encounter at the town council meeting two days ago, but a subtle nuance in her demeanor gave him hope that for some reason that was about to change.
“Yes. He’s doing well.”
Before he could motion her over and show her the piece on his screen, she pulled her hands from behind her back, where they’d been clasped, and held up a small snow globe.
“I was going through some boxes in the attic, hoping to find some photos to add to our collection—” she gestured toward the front window, where pictures and reminiscences of The Point and the chapel had been appearing over the past twenty-four hours “—and found this. Do you remember it?”
He stared at the small globe. Of course he remembered it. He’d emptied his coin bank to buy it, then labored over his selection while on a shopping trip with his mother. He’d wanted to buy a special Christmas present for Lindsey to thank her for being his friend.
In the end, though, it had turned out to be a farewell present.
He couldn’t believe she still had it.
“Yeah. I do.” The words came out ragged, and he cleared his throat.
Cradling the globe as if it was from Tiffany’s instead of a five-and-dime in Crescent City, she moved closer. “To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. But once I pulled it out, I remembered you giving it to me the last time I saw you. As a matter of fact, I’ve been remembering a lot about the time we spent together. And the fun we had. And your kindness.”
She reached into the pocket of her shirt and pulled out a small photo, laying it on the table beside him. “I found this, too. I’d like to post it in the memory display. Along with this. If you’re okay with it.” She added a small typed slip of paper.
The photo, too, brought back a rush of memories, so vivid he could almost taste the double chocolate mint ice cream he’d consumed that day. He scanned her write-up.
Nate Garrison and Lindsey Callahan Collier, Starfish Bay Chapel ice cream social. Memories like this last forever—and call people home.
She’d added the year at the bottom.
A rush of warmth flowed through him, and his throat tightened again. “Yeah, I’m okay with it.”
Still cradling the globe in one hand, she picked up the photo and paper with the other and slipped them back into her pocket. “Look, I’m sorry I said you were selfish that day at The Point. You’ve never been selfish.”
Some of the warmth evaporated. “Yeah, I have been.” His father had drilled that into him.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.” Maybe someday he’d tell her about that painful episode from his past. But this wasn’t that day, despite her public gesture of friendship with the photo. “I did do one unselfish thing recently, though. Take a look.” He angled the computer and motioned her to come closer.
She hesitated for a second, then circled the table and leaned down toward the screen. Her lips parted as she began to read, and she twisted her head to stare at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I sent the piece to my editor. He liked it. It’ll run tomorrow in the spot usually reserved for one of our regular columnists, who’s on vacation. The online edition comes out earlier.”
“No.” She shook her head, twin furrows creasing her brow. “I understand that you decided to send the piece in. What I meant was, why did you change your mind?”
With her face inches from his, he found himself mesmerized by the flecks of gold in her brown irises. By the long lashes framing her eyes. By the soft, supple shape of her lips.
Willing his pulse to steady, he shifted his focus back to the screen. “After I cooled down the other day, I thought about what you said. And I agreed. A piece like this might help create some positive public sentiment about The Point. And it’s already been picked up for syndication. From some papers in this part of the country, in fact.”
She didn’t respond at once, and when the silence lengthened he risked a glance at her—only to have his lungs short-circuit at the tenderness in her eyes.
“This was a huge stretch for you, wasn’t it?”
Breathe, Garrison.
“It’s a lot different than the stuff I cover on my regular beat.” He knew she was looking for more than that, but he didn’t trust his voice.
To his surprise, she didn’t push. Instead, she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until we see if it has any effect.”
“It’s already had an effect.”
She wasn’t talking about the Save the Point campaign. Her soft, personal tone told him that. And he didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“I’m glad.”
She gave him a tentative smile. Removed her hand from his shoulder. Moistened her lips and straightened up, her fingers still wrapped around the snow globe. “I don’t know how much sightseeing you’ve managed to work in since you’ve been here, but I was thinking about going hiking in Prairie Creek State Park tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?”
“Are you going to the redwoods?”
At Jarrod’s question, Lindsey swung toward the boy as he rounded a shelving unit, a bag of pretzels in his hand. “I don’t know. We’re, uh, talking about it and, uh…”
“Yes,” Nate r
eplied, answering both their questions.
“Cool! Could I come, too?”
Lindsey pivoted back to Nate. She seemed to be trying to communicate some message, but he didn’t have a clue what it was. So he, too, stalled.
“We’d have to talk to your mother first.”
“Okay. I’ll get her.” The boy took off.
The instant he was out of earshot, Nate gestured Lindsey closer and lowered his voice. “What’s going on? I got your vibes but not your message. And talk fast. My guess is he’ll be back in less than sixty seconds.”
Following his prompt, she leaned down. “Cindy told me he used to love to go to the redwoods with his dad. But since he died, Jarrod has refused every offer she’s made to take him back. I think this might be a breakthrough of some sort. Although to be honest,” she caught her lower lip between her teeth and swept a few imaginary crumbs from the table with her fingers, “I wasn’t planning on a threesome.”
She’d been hoping this would be more like a date.
That was the best piece of news he’d had all day. No, all year.
But it wasn’t going to happen tomorrow.
“I’d prefer it just be the two of us, too. Based on what you’ve told me, though, I don’t see how we can say no.”
She sighed. “Me, neither. I guess we’ll—”
“Here’s my mom.” Jarrod rejoined them, tugging Cindy along by the hand behind him.
“What’s this I hear about a trip to the redwoods?” She addressed the question to both of them, her expression equal parts hope and caution.
“I already told you, Mom.” Jarrod heaved a sigh. “They’re going to the redwoods tomorrow to hike. Can I go with them? Please?”
“Were you invited?”
The boy gave her a blank look. Then a faint flush crept across his cheeks. “I can’t remember. I think so.”
Nate stepped in. “We’d be happy to have him join us.”
“Are you sure?” Cindy addressed the question to Lindsey, her expression skeptical.
“Absolutely. I haven’t been for a while, and I don’t remember all the best trails. I bet Jarrod would be a great guide.”
“I would! I could take you on the Brown Creek trail. We might even see some banana slugs.”