The Mist of Quarry Harbor

by Liz Adair

  Standing where she felt she couldn’t be seen, she looked out at the tall, rangy figure leaning against the fender of his car, idly playing with a shiny object, and she realized she must have dropped her barrette when she got out. She sat down abruptly. She pressed her hands against her cheeks and mentally scolded herself for acting like an adolescent.

  Just then they called her flight for boarding, and she thankfully got in line to file out of the building and across the tarmac to the commuter plane that would take her to Salt Lake City and her connecting flight home. As she climbed the stairs to board, she could see that Chan had driven around to where the plane was visible through the fence, and he waved to her. Cassie paused, and just before she ducked inside the door, she stood with her hair blowing in the breeze and lifted her hand in reply.

  As the plane took off and circled back to go north, they flew over St. George, and looking down Cassie could see a white convertible driving off the mesa. Dragging out the book she had brought to read as reward for a job well done, she opened it, only to find herself staring time and again at the words on the page and seeing instead a pair of brown eyes above a strong jaw and a rectangular smile that seemed to light up the world.

  2

  It was six o’clock when Cassie’s plane touched down at the Phoenix airport. Grateful to finally be home, she restrained the impulse to stand and press into the crush of people inching forward in the aisle. When the crowd had thinned, she gathered her purse and her computer case and deplaned.

  At the baggage claim area, she looked around for Punky Jones, her friend who was to pick her up. Punky was nowhere in sight, but as she scanned the crowd, someone waved and called her name. It was Ben Torres, smiling as he made his way to where she was.

  Cassie returned the smile, watching him approach. He was a little above medium height, fit and trim with a muscular litheness to his walk that showed him to be an athlete. With his black hair and eyes, olive complexion, and white teeth, Cassie wasn’t the only one watching him with appreciation.

  “Ben!” she exclaimed, returning the hug he gave her. “Where’s Punky? She was supposed to meet me.”

  “She got a chance to work a banquet, so she took it. She asked me to cover for her.” He held her at arm’s length and looked at her, “You’ve got your hair down,” he said. “I’ve never seen you wear it that way.”

  A faint tinge of color came to Cassie’s cheeks. “I lost my barrette. Stupid thing to do, really.”

  Ben, Punky, and Cassie were fast friends and the only active single adult members of their ward. When Cassie first came to church with the missionaries, Punky reached out to her, not letting the aloof manner that Cassie affected because of shyness deter the formation of a really good friendship. In the same way, Punky had pulled Ben into the threesome, painfully aware that he would do things as a group that he wouldn’t be comfortable doing with her as a couple. “He’s a little wary about women,” she told Cassie. “His wife left him when Ricky was just three months old.”

  “How could he marry someone like that?” Cassie asked.

  “You make some stupid decisions when you’re young and think you’re in love. Don’t I know! We just need to support Ben and help him get through this.”

  Punky dubbed the group The Three Amigos, and as much as schedules would permit, they spent free time together.

  “I thought we could go out to dinner on the way home,” Ben said as they walked to the carousel and examined the luggage that circled round and round. “Is that one yours? The one with the red ribbon?”

  “That’s it.” Cassie stood aside so Ben could heft the suitcase off the turntable and pull up the handle. She wouldn’t let him take the computer case from her, but towed it behind as she walked with him through the airport to the parking garage. “Where’s Ricky?” she asked.

  “I left him at my mom’s. He doesn’t have real good table manners yet.”

  “Oh, you’re thinking about what happened last time. You shouldn’t let one waitress keep you from bringing him. She probably had a bad day, or didn’t like kids in general. Or maybe she’s just a chronic sourpuss. Punky says Ricky is better than most kids she serves—and besides, how is he ever going to learn if you leave him home?”

  Ben cast her a grateful look. “You’re right. I’ll bring him next time. You know, I really like your hair down like that.”

  Cassie looked away in confusion, wondering why the compliment should discomfit her. As they arrived at Ben’s car, she was glad for the diversion of putting the luggage in the trunk. He opened the passenger door for her and then walked around to get in.

  As he backed out, Cassie said, “You’re looking very fine this evening. Is that a new jacket?”

  “It’s a hand-me-down from my brother, the lawyer. He cleaned out his closet.”

  “He has good taste.” She looked him over. “I guess since you’re out of uniform, you have to expand your wardrobe. How is the new position going?”

  “I’m the new kid on the block, but it’s going okay. Mostly I’m just tagging along with Sergeant Ridley.”

  “And what are you? Private? Corporal?”

  “Detective,” Ben said, flashing his white teeth. “Detective Torres.”

  “I like the sound of that.” She touched Ben’s arm lightly. “We’re all proud of you. You worked hard for that promotion.”

  “Thanks.” Ben looked over his shoulder to check traffic as he swung onto the freeway heading out of town.

  Cassie raised her brows. “This isn’t the way to Chuckwagon Chicken.”

  “I thought we’d eat someplace else for a change.”

  “That’s probably best. If Punky knew we went to Chuckwagon without her, she’d have a fit.”

  Ben set the cruise control and settled back. “How was your trip? Successful?”

  “I think so. I met some nice people. They’re an on-the-ball group, want what’s best for the patients. Interested in substance, you know. Not frou-frou. I think they’ve got a good chance at a couple of grants.”

  Intent on changing lanes, Ben nodded.

  “I’m sure glad to be home,” she sighed.

  Ben kept his eyes on the road and his voice light as he exited the freeway. “We’re glad to have you. Missed you.”

  “Mmmm. Me too. Where are we going? Oh, Ben! La Posada? I’m not dressed well enough!”

  “You look great.”

  “I’ve been in planes and airports all day. I’m rumpled!”

  “You look great,” he repeated. “Trust me.”

  “Ah, well. I won’t know anyone in there anyway. It’s above my touch. What got into . . . oh, I know. It’s the jacket! You’ve got to live up to the jacket,” she teased.

  Ben grinned self-consciously and pulled into a parking place in front of the restaurant. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re celebrating the promotion. Call it that. I just wanted to put on the dog tonight.”

  At that moment a young man in Levi’s, a white western-cut shirt and a white cowboy hat opened Ben’s door. “Park your car, sir,” he stated.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ben mumbled and got out, heading around to the passenger door. But the young faux-cowboy was there before him, standing smartly, holding the door for Cassie. She grinned and winked at Ben, who took the ticket from the valet and said in an under voice as they walked up the steps, “Why am I suddenly very aware that there’s a car seat in the back that’s littered with graham cracker crumbs?”

  “I’m sure he’s parked a score of cars today with a very similar car seat in each one. It’s probably very heartwarming.”

  They passed through the heavy rough-hewn door to the lobby that was decorated like a courtyard, surrounded with walls of white stucco topped with the suggestion of a red tile roof. Potted palms and water rippling out of a tall fountain lent a feeling of cool serenity, and a handsome, mature woman with long black hair and a sweeping red dress stood at the reception desk and welcomed them.

  “Beservations for Ren Torres,” Ben announ
ced.

  The beautifully penciled brows went up just slightly. “I have a Ben Torres,” she said, looking at her list.

  “That’s right. Ben Torres. I have reservations.”

  “Right this way.” She led them through a labyrinth of passageways and courtyards, sometimes carpeted, sometimes paved with unglazed tile, but always graced with the greenery of plants and the substance of heavy wood. Pausing at the doorway of a small private room, their hostess stepped aside and they entered.

  It was an intimate setting. The table, situated so that passing traffic could not see in, was draped with a snowy cloth and held a small lamp whose glow augmented the artfully arranged indirect lighting.

  Ben held a chair for Cassie and then sat down. They took the menus offered by the hostess, listened to her assurances that their server would be there soon, and then watched her sweep out of the room.

  After she left, Ben glanced at his menu. “I imagine you’ve been here lots of times.”

  “Several, but all on business occasions. I’ve never had to pay. Chuckwagon Chicken is more my . . . yipes!” Cassie hastily picked up her chair and scooted out of the way just in time to avoid a cascade of water landing in her lap.

  “I’m so sorry!” Ben was on his feet too, cheeks ablaze. “That was so clumsy of me!”

  “Don’t worry about it. I imagine if they’re going to have oversize menus like that they should be used to people knocking over their water glasses.”

  “What have we here?” A barmaid in tight Levi’s and ultra-high heeled boots stood with a tray in one hand, an order pad in the other, and both hands on her hips. “A little accident? Don’t worry. I’ll get Manuel in here to clean up. Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?” She had a riot of curly blonde hair that fell to shoulders left bare by a low-cut peasant blouse.

  “Just water, thanks,” Cassie said.

  “You don’t want anything else?” Ben asked Cassie. “How about a fresh limeade?” He turned to the waitress. “You got those?”

  “Sure. Fresh limeade. Is that two?”

  “Why not? We’re celebrating.” As the waitress left, Cassie smiled reassuringly at Ben, who was daubing at the water with his napkin.

  “I’m not usually this clumsy,” he said.

  “I know you’re not. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they deal with this all the time.”

  Apparently they did because Manuel arrived momentarily and within a minute had everything cleaned up and the table reset. As soon as he was out the door with the soggy cloth and napkins, their server arrived.

  The flamboyant black, flared-leg pants with silver embroidery down each side and topped with a claret-colored cummerbund were at odds with the soft voice and clipped diction of the slight, middle-aged man who introduced himself as Maurice. Cradling his order book to his chest, he described the specials of the day, lingering over the descriptive words: fresh, crisp, succulent, and savory. Then, almost reverently, he opened the book and stood, pen poised to inscribe their orders. Ben ordered a steak and Cassie chose the Chicken Marsala with portabello mushrooms. Maurice nodded in approval and asked, “Would you care to begin with soup or a salad?”

  “Doesn’t that come with the meal?” Ben studied the menu.

  “No, sir.” Maurice pointed to the lower corner of the menu. “Here are the salad offerings.”

  “What would you suggest, Maurice?” Cassie said.

  “The spinach-endive with walnut dressing is very nice.”

  “I’ll have that, then.” Cassie handed him her menu with a smile. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have a regular dinner salad, I guess.” Ben closed his menu.

  “Dressing?” Maurice’s pen hovered in the air.

  “Um. Thousand Island.”

  “I don’t know that we have that. We have a very nice house dressing that we call Robust French. Would that do?”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  Maurice noted Ben’s choice, and with a tight little smile and the hint of a bow, he left the room.

  Cassie put her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands, tilting her head to one side as she regarded Ben. “So, what has Ricky been up to?” she asked.

  Ben’s answer was interrupted by the appearance of their limeades. “Gotcha fixed up with a new tablecloth?” the perky barmaid asked, setting a glass at each place. “Good deal. If you need anything else, honey, just give a holler.”

  Ben watched her leave. “Who do you think she was calling honey?”

  “She wasn’t looking at me,” Cassie said dryly.

  “Uh. You were asking about Ricky. I do have news. He stayed in nursery all by himself the whole time last Sunday.”

  “That’s a milestone! Well done. Now you can come to Sunday School class.”

  “Actually, I think I prefer the nursery to Sister Mineer’s lessons. Last time we learned about the beautiful world that Heavenly Father created.”

  “Heavy stuff. Speaking of beautiful, you should see those red rock bluffs in St. George. It’s desert, but different from here. Splashier. Bolder.” She looked up as Maurice entered with a huge pepper mill under his arm and a salad in each hand. Serving from the left, he set a dish in front of each. “Would you care for some freshly ground pepper?” he asked Cassie.

  “Thank you, no.” She held up her hand to decline.

  Ben shook his head, and Maurice silently left the room.

  Cassie tasted her salad. “This is pretty good. It’s a vinaigrette dressing, but they must have made it with walnut oil. Tastes like—” she broke off as an olive came shooting over her plate, hit the edge of the table, and fell to the floor.

  She looked up and met Ben’s stricken gaze. With her eyes crinkling at the corners, she said, “Beware of olives dressed in Robust French.”

  Ben didn’t say anything, but continued to stare at her.

  “Slippery little things aren’t they?” she added, and then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll just kick it under the table so Maurice doesn’t see. I’m sure he’d disapprove.”

  “Marry me.” Ben’s voice was a strangled rasp.

  “Excuse me?” The whisper was gone, and it was Cassie’s turn to stare. She couldn’t say anything else, because Maurice arrived with a basket of hot bread. Feeling the blood rising to her cheeks, Cassie looked at her clasped hands, lifting her gaze only when the waiter was on his way out. Just at the door he stopped and picked up the errant olive, carrying it out between two fingers as if it were a cockroach.

  “This isn’t the way this was supposed to go,” Ben said bitterly.

  “I’m sorry,” Cassie said. “You took me off guard. I didn’t realize you felt that way about me.”

  “How could you not guess? I’m crazy about you!”

  “We’re good friends, maybe best friends. I love you, Ben, but I’ve always thought of you as the brother I never had.”

  “A brother!” His handsome face screwed up at the thought. “So, there’s no hope?”

  Cassie reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I didn’t say that. Give me a bit of time to shift gears. If it’s supposed to be, it will happen.”

  “Ricky has to be part of the deal, you know. You’ve got your career, and a two-year-old . . .”

  “I know Ricky is part of the deal. And, you’re right. I do have my career. I have to think about all those things. Give me some time?”

  Ben agreed, and the rest of the dinner went uneventfully, if awkwardly. In an attempt to regain her composure, Cassie talked randomly about her trip, telling Ben about the things she had learned about the early Saints in the Dixie Mission, about the boys sailing their boats down the irrigation ditch, about Dr. Watts’s connection with her father. She didn’t mention her ride to the airport.

  When the check arrived, to his horror, Ben discovered he hadn’t brought his wallet. Cassie laughed and gave the poker-faced waiter her credit card, but she turned solemn when Ben brought a small box out of his p
ocket and set it on the table. Cassie put her hand on it and pushed it slightly away. “Don’t open it,” she said. “Wait.”

  “I was just going to show it to you. Promise me I can ask you again.”

  He looked so solemn, so earnest, his dark eyes pleading his case, that she could not say no. “Yes,” she said. “You can ask me again.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know that you can set a time limit on affairs of the heart.”

  “In a month?”

  She shook her head. “I think that’s too soon.”

  “A lot can happen in a month.”

  “Oh, Ben, I don’t know! I think when it’s right we’ll both know.”

  “Let me just talk to you about it in a month from now. Just talk.”

  She considered, and the crinkles appeared at her eyes again. “Okay, but I have a condition.”

  “Anything!” he said eagerly.

  “Let’s find a more private place to talk. Some place we won’t have a waiter popping in every five minutes.”

  “Anyplace you say.”

  “Okay.” She smiled as she pushed her chair out from the table. “Back booth at Chuckwagon Chicken in one month. That’s . . . September . . . twenty-fifth.”

  He laughed, and the tension of the evening seemed to melt away. He stood and came around the table to where she was sitting and took her hand, assisting her up out of her chair and into his arms. He didn’t try to kiss her, but held her close for a minute, looping his fingers through the long golden tresses. “I love you, Cassie,” he said softly. “As more than a sister, but for now, that will do.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and then lightly on the lips. “Chuckwagon on the twenty-fifth,” she said. “Like you said, a lot can happen in a month.” Then she disengaged and picked up her purse.

  “Are you intending to leave that little box as a tip for Maurice?” she asked as they reached the door.

  “I was thinking more about that little curly-headed gal,” Ben said with a twinkle. Turning back, he picked up the box and dropped it in the pocket of his new hand-me-down jacket. Then he escorted Cassie back out to the car.