Herons Landing

by JoAnn Ross

  “Unlike me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  “No. And I wasn’t being judgmental or negative. You’re my little sister. Wanting to protect you comes with the job description.”

  She flashed him her brightest, most phony smile. One she’d perfected over the years to use with obnoxious guests. “I’m so flattered that you consider me a job.”

  He laughed. “Brat.”

  “Bossy big brother. Instead of insulting your customers, why don’t you make yourself useful by mixing me up a margarita?”

  “Top-shelf?”

  “Sure. Why not.” She was, after all, celebrating. And besides, she was going to insist she and Seth go Dutch and she could definitely afford it.

  “You got it,” he said, preparing it with real limes, not a mix, which didn’t surprise her since he’d never settle for second best.

  Feeling more upbeat than she had in a long time, she was skimming over the menu when her phone chimed. The screen read Harper Construction.

  “Hi.” Did she sound breathless? Yeah. She most definitely did. “Just a second. I dropped some stuff when I went digging for my phone in my purse.” And didn’t that lame lie cause her brother to cock a knowing brow? She rummaged around in her bag for a moment, hopefully making enough noise that he’d believe her. “I have a head start on you. Quinn’s mixing me up a margarita as we speak.”

  “That’s what I’m calling about.” Seth paused, and she could sense the words she didn’t want to hear coming at her, like the slow-motion bullet Keanu Reeves dodged in The Matrix. “Something’s come up. I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She was not going to ask what. “No problem. I have things to catch up with anyway. Like working on this online program to come up with a logo and do website stuff.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea anyway. Not like a date or anything.” This time Quinn rolled his eyes. Which, Brianna thought, was awfully juvenile for a man who’d once been featured on the cover of Seattle Metropolitan magazine as one of the top West Coast fast-track litigators. “I’ve got to go shopping tomorrow. For some clothes for Kelly and Mai’s bachelorette party. My Vegas bikini just isn’t going to cut it on the Pacific Coast.”

  She waited for him to laugh at the idea of anyone wearing a bikini on a coast that could require a parka this time of year. But there was only a deep, dark hole of silence.

  “Anyway, I’m obviously keeping you from something. So, how about we meet tomorrow. Around two? Or I could just email you the fixtures and stuff Mom and I found. Including the stove.”

  “Sounds good.” He sounded distracted. “Let’s meet at the house.”

  “I’d like that. I want to measure for furniture anyway. I’m not going to get a lot, but I’m not wild about the idea of sleeping on the floor, either. Mom suggested Treasures.”

  “Zoe got stuff there,” he said. “She called it going on an attic safari since the stock’s always changing.”

  Okay. She’d gotten the message, loud and clear. It was definitely not a date when a guy made a point of bringing up his deceased wife right after you’d mentioned buying a bed.

  “Mom said pretty much the same thing. I’ll check it out before I meet Kylee and Mai for lunch, in case I find anything I might want to figure out how to use in the space.”

  “Okay.” He’d gone beyond distracted to wanting to escape this conversation. Which made two of them. “I’ve got an appointment in the morning and don’t know how long that’ll take.”

  “Okay, then.” She took a long swallow of the drink Quinn had put down in front of her. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Two p.m. At the house. Bye.” She escaped, just barely, having him hang up on her, by pushing End Call first.

  “Still on for dinner?” Quinn asked.

  She glanced around, looking for someone, anything she knew. She’d never liked eating alone in a restaurant. Eating alone after being stood up would be even worse. Worse yet would be running away like he’d broken her heart or something.

  “Sure.” She skimmed through the menu. “I’ll have the Dungeness crab and shrimp mac and cheese.” She was tempted to order another margarita, maybe one of those bathtub-size ones she’d just seen one of the servers deliver to a table of young women who reminded her of how she, Kylee and Zoe had been when they’d been younger.

  All three were laughing and working their way through a platter of grilled clam chips, pretending not to notice the trio of hot guys who’d just strutted in wearing tight navy blue Honeymoon Harbor Fire Department T-shirts.

  “Carb loading,” he said. “You’re either about to run a marathon or in need of comfort food.”

  “You do know that you’re not the only restaurant in town,” she said. “I could go down the street and get a big bowl of carbonara from Luca’s.”

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “One crab and shrimp mac and cheese coming up. You good on the drink?”

  Wine would be better with the mac and cheese. But reminding herself that she had a long drive back to the farm, she opted against additional alcohol, ordered soda water with lemon, took the folder from her tote and began leafing through it. As she sent Seth the photos from her phone, the beautiful stand-alone slipper tub, sinks, cabinets and quartz countertops she and her mother had chosen with such care didn’t give her nearly as much pleasure as they had just a few hours ago.

  * * *

  “WELL, YOU SURE as hell screwed the pooch on that one,” Seth muttered as he stared down at his phone, wishing he could take the damn call back. But then what? Then he’d be out on Mannion’s patio, breathing in the citrusy scent of her hair over the salt breeze, trying not to notice her legs. And all the other parts he had no business even looking at, let alone thinking about. He’d never kissed her. Except for that long-ago Christmas break back when he was twelve, he’d never even pondered the idea.

  Correction. Except for that suspended moment at Herons Landing when kissing cousins were mentioned. He hadn’t been the only one hit by a bolt of lust. He’d seen the lightning hit those big blue eyes. He didn’t care what they called it, having a sunset waterfront dinner with her in that summery dress wasn’t a business meal. It was a guy/woman thing. A first date. Which he hadn’t had since his parents had driven Zoe and him to the Olympic Theater to see The Princess Diaries.

  The movie about a geeky teenage girl who suddenly discovered she was heir to a European throne wouldn’t have been his first choice. If he was going to be honest, and he was smart enough not to be, it would have been his last. But no way was he going to turn down a chance to spend two hours sitting in the dark beside her, getting a forbidden thrill that one time their hands had brushed while diving into the popcorn barrel at the same time.

  So, rather than revert back to the almost-thirteen-year-old he’d once been, he’d chickened out, making up an excuse so lame Bandit wouldn’t have bought it. And now he couldn’t even get his burger, because what if 1) Brianna had stayed there for dinner, or 2) Quinn knew why she’d been there in the first place and that he’d stood her up? Neither scenario was appealing, and even worse was the thought that her brother might cut him off entirely for hurting his little sister’s feelings.

  Which was why he’d called into Luca’s for a loaded pizza, which had caused Bandit to whine all the way home, letting him know that there was a piece of pepperoni with his name on it. A piece? He’d considered himself lucky when he got home without the mutt scarfing down the entire thing, box and all. And now here he was, drinking a Captain Jack’s Ale while having a dinner date with his dog and trying not to think about Brianna Mannion. Or tomorrow morning, when he’d agreed to go over to Zoe’s parents’ house and go through her stuff.

  And yeah. Wasn’t that going to be a fun time?

 
; CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE STEWED CLAM was located just across the town line and had always reminded Caroline of the darker side of Bedford Falls from It’s a Wonderful Life, which it would have become if Clarence the angel hadn’t been there to stop George Bailey from committing suicide.

  The few times Caroline crossed the line was to get her hair done at Gloria Wells’s salon. Gloria, who’d been doing her hair since she’d first come to town, had originally lived in a singlewide trailer. She was dirt poor, due to her husband getting in frequent trouble with the law, and rumors had floated around Honeymoon Harbor that Gloria was a prostitute. Which both Caroline and Sarah Mannion had never believed for a minute. The reason for men showing up at all times of the day and night was that Gloria was barely supporting herself, her daughter, Jolene, and her ne’er-do-well spouse by cutting hair cheaper than anyone else on the peninsula.

  Caroline and Sarah hadn’t gotten their hair done at Gloria’s just because of the low price. Or because they’d wanted to show solidarity with another woman who hadn’t been as fortunate as they’d been. But also because she was kind and as talented as any stylist Caroline had gone to when she’d been growing up in the South, where hair was a big deal, as anyone who watched SEC football would realize. Having become an environmentalist on her trip across the country years ago, she didn’t even want to think about how much Aqua Net she and her girlfriends had sprayed into the environment.

  Unfortunately, Gloria also possessed a lot of stubborn and a strong streak of pride, and except for the food stamps to feed her daughter, wouldn’t take charity from anyone. Clothes were bought at the Goodwill in town, and although both women had offered her loans, or even to invest in her business, she’d turned them down flat, not trusting her husband not to mess things up and cause them to lose their money.

  Jolene, who’d swept up the hair, had dropped out of school at sixteen, gone to cosmetology school, then bought an old clunker and taken off down I-5 to Los Angeles, where, after a series of fortunate circumstances Gloria was always proud of sharing, she’d gotten a job working in the movies. Which had allowed her to send her mother enough money for a manufactured home, where Gloria had set herself up an actual, licensed salon in one of the bedrooms. The business had taken off, and now, with a small business loan and undoubtedly another investment from her daughter, she’d recently hired Seth to remodel the old, abandoned lighthouse keeper’s house into what would become a salon and day spa.

  As furious as she was at her husband, Caroline smiled as she passed Gloria’s current salon with its Thairapy sign in the front window and a tidy front porch where customers could wait their turn outside during nice weather. Even now a mother, a daughter and an elderly man were sitting on rocking chairs. The mother and man were talking, while the little girl’s head was buried in a book that was undoubtedly taking her to faraway places that would seem so much more exciting than Honeymoon Harbor.

  Another ten minutes past that bit of cheerfulness, she’d reached the bar, which, going back to the Bedford Falls/Pottersville analogy, reminded her of Martini’s, after the cheerful bar in the movie had turned into a sleazy dive run by a nasty and insulting bartender. The Stewed Clam was one of those places that didn’t even need a top shelf, because the clientele mainly came there to drink cheaply and get drunk quickly. Which explained the rule posted next to the door and above the bar that more than a single drink required a designated driver. It might be a dive, but the owner, a former alcoholic himself, was smart enough not to get slammed with accessory to any DWI accidents that might occur.

  Compared to the darkness outside, the light, when she opened the door, caused several men to shout out a complaint and shield their eyes. She scanned the room, didn’t see Ben at any of the tables and decided he must be in one of the back rooms.

  Playing poker for money was illegal outside the casinos or licensed poker rooms, which the Stewed Clam wasn’t, but the local law had always turned a blind eye to the poker games everyone knew went on in the back room, since the pots never got over twenty dollars, if that.

  Heads swiveled, following her as she crossed a floor that was covered with peanut shells and probably hadn’t been washed since the Clinton administration. The wood-paneled walls were darkened by decades of smoke from before Washington State added bars and restaurants to their Clean Indoor Air Act.

  In no mood for chitchat, she abandoned her Southern manners and simply asked the bartender, “Ben Harper?”

  No more verbal than she, he merely continued to dry a smudged glass and nodded his head toward a door at the end of the bar.

  Wishing she could hear what Sarah would have to say about all the fish and animal heads hanging on the paneled walls, she scanned the room that held five round tables and, wouldn’t you know it, her husband would be at the far one? Unlike in the main part of the tavern, no one paid the least bit of attention as she walked over the ugliest brown-and-orange tweed carpeting she’d ever seen. To high rollers in Vegas, the stakes might be penny ante, but apparently here the game was serious business.

  Ben had his back to her, but when his longtime friend Jake Logan saw her coming, he said something that had her husband turning around.

  She held up a hand before he could say a word. “I didn’t come here to talk. Since your phone isn’t taking texts, I just wanted to give you this.”

  She handed him an envelope. You might be able to take the woman out of the South, but you couldn’t entirely take the South out of the woman. Eschewing email for notes handwritten on embossed stationery with matching envelopes for social or important correspondence was one of those things Caroline Harper had never given up.

  “I’d suggest you take it seriously,” she added. Then, her business concluded, she turned to leave, hearing Ken Peters, a grizzled old retired fisherman, mutter to Ben, “I sure as hell wish you’d apologize for whatever you did. Because we do miss that woman’s sandwiches.”

  That almost had Caroline smiling as she walked out of the room and out of the bar. Whether she walked out of her marriage was now up to her husband.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SETH LET HIMSELF into the Robinsons’ house with the key Helen had given him the night of their dinner. She’d told him that Zoe’s trunk was upstairs in the attic, waiting for him. As he climbed the stairs, he felt like a man making that last climb up to a gallows platform. He hadn’t even opened the box the military had sent him. It crossed his mind that he could just take the entire chest and hide it away somewhere in the garage. How would his in-laws ever know if he never looked inside? It wasn’t as if Zoe’s parents were going to quiz him on the contents. At least, Dave wouldn’t. But Helen? Just maybe.

  Okay...probably. There might be more tears. He doubted she’d ever stop talking about the daughter she’d lost too soon and too cruelly. He had a feeling Helen’s brother and sister-in-law were in for some very long road trips as they all took off traveling together.

  Despite his mother-in-law’s rosy scenario of the mother and daughter relationship, the truth was that it had always been tempestuous. During Zoe’s youth, there’d been a lot of shouting and door slamming. As she’d grown into a woman, the slamming had mostly ceased, but there had been arguments over things both large and small. Despite Helen and Zoe’s various tempests, Seth had never doubted for a moment that they loved each other. The Greeks, he’d determined, lived large, embracing life with enthusiasm. Zoe had been the same way. Despite being an all-American girl, she was proud of her heritage, taking on every challenge presented to her as if she were following instructions sent down from Mount Olympus from Zeus himself.

  Most of what was in the trunk was stuff he’d expected. Like yearbooks from middle school, high school and college. Although she’d framed her college diploma, she’d left her high school one behind. He supposed in her mind, there was no point in keeping it since she’d already moved on. There was also a handwritten copy of her
valedictory speech. She hadn’t let him read it before she’d given it, but he could see how hard she’d worked on getting every word right by all the red-lined cross-outs.

  There were the inevitable prom photos. He still remembered when she’d walked into the living room in a strapless, floor-length gown of some floaty material she told him, as she’d twirled, was chiffon. The daffodil color showed off her olive complexion, and she looked exactly like a princess even before she’d put on that tiara when she’d been queen of the prom. He’d looked like a geek in the royal-blue tux, yellow vest and yellow bow tie. Although she hadn’t let him see the dress beforehand, she had told him the color and instructed him that he was supposed to match.

  His dad, he remembered, told him he looked like a girly boy. His mom, on the other hand, had told him he looked handsome and got a little teary as she’d straightened his tie, which was one of those snap-on things because no way was he going to learn to tie a bow tie for just one night.

  He found a collection of diaries and told himself that he shouldn’t look through them, but unable to resist, he picked up the first one, and leafing through it, found the movie ticket stub to My Big Fat Greek Wedding. While romantic comedies definitely weren’t his thing, he’d figured he could see Terminator 3, which was playing in the theater next door, with Burke Mannion while she was at cheerleader practice.

  She’d talked nearly all the way through, pointing out over-the-top stereotypes. Later, over shakes—vanilla for him, chocolate for her—at the Big Dipper, she’d turned serious, explaining that, like the bride in the movie, although she was born in Oregon and was a red, white and blue American, she’d never be able to completely abandon her family and Greek heritage. Fortunately, loving her as he did, Seth had no problem with that idea and was more than willing to do his best to fit in.

  He picked up another diary decorated with stickers of Greece and titled My Best Ever Summer Adventure. It was, he realized, the summer of her sixteenth birthday, when her mother had sent her away to camp in Greece. As she’d explained at the time, everyone in her family had gone to Ionian Village to learn about their faith and Hellenic culture. And to meet and interact with other people just like them.