Herons Landing

by JoAnn Ross

  Honeymoon Harbor had originally been named Port Vancouver, in honor of Captain George Vancouver, who was the first to sail up the Strait of Juan de Fuca from the Pacific Ocean into Puget Sound. Pages from the captain’s ship logs, housed under glass in the town historical museum, revealed his awe at the towering snowcapped mountains formed by an oceanic uplift forty million years ago, deep green rain forests that come nearly to the water’s edge, crystal rivers, tumbling waterfalls, both sandy and rocky beaches, and sapphire water studded with emerald islands.

  By the late 1800s the town had grown into a well-known, active seaport, banking on a rich future. In the Mannion family’s case, literally banking, given that one of John’s ancestors had established the bank currently run by his father. A bank he was expected to eventually take over, continuing the tradition.

  A building boom had gifted Port Vancouver with an abundance of ornate Victorian homes built by the Harper family, perched atop the bluff overlooking the bay. A town built and populated by dreamers, its port frequented by vessels from faraway places, shipping and timber had initially built the economy. Unfortunately, too much of the bustling port had been constructed on the shifting sands of speculation that it would become a major city, perhaps even become the state capital. Those dreams were dashed when the Northern Pacific railroad, hampered by a depression that had gripped the nation, couldn’t afford to connect the town to the eastern Puget Sound cities of Tacoma and Seattle.

  Despite the boom being over by the late 1890s, with population declining, those dreamers who’d remained were handed a stroke of luck in 1910 when the king and queen of Montacroix, a small, wealthy Mediterranean monarchy, added the town to their honeymoon tour of America. The newlyweds had learned of this lush green region from the king’s friend Theodore Roosevelt, who’d set aside national land for the Mount Olympus National Monument.

  As a way of honoring the royals, and hoping that the national and European press following them across the country might bring more attention to the town, residents voted nearly unanimously to change the name to Honeymoon Harbor. One naysayer, Nathaniel Harper, had refused to go along with the plan, which, as local lore had it, was the beginning of the generations-long Mannion-Harper acrimony. And the reason that Jerome and Harriet Harper had attempted to keep their daughter out of the hands of John Mannion, including convincing her to attend a college across the country. Which had resulted in John’s working two jobs all through UW to afford to fly to Massachusetts to be with her.

  His last trip, before things had blown up, had been shortly before both their graduations. He’d decided that, having reached adulthood, there was no reason to give a damn what anyone thought about their relationship. He loved her. She loved him. Anything else was irrelevant and could be worked out. He’d even come with a ring in a black velvet box.

  The weekend had begun with her meeting him at Boston’s Logan Airport, after which they’d checked into the room he’d booked at the Parker House. The hotel was way over his budget, but he’d saved up for months to make the occasion special. He’d hoped Sarah would be blown away by staying in the same place writers Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Dickens and Mark Twain had hung out. Personally, he’d been more impressed by the fact that Babe Ruth and Ted Williams had also wined and dined at Parker House.

  Having been apart for months, their lovemaking had been hot and fast and involved a lot of ripping off of clothing. The second time had been more leisurely, as they became reacquainted with each other’s erogenous zones. Like the way just her tongue in his navel could have him on the verge of release, and that cord at the back of her left knee, when nipped, could nearly bring her to orgasm.

  They’d left the bed long enough to dress in their best clothes—for her, a pink dress with double skinny straps topped by bows, which she’d told him was a knockoff of a dress Princess Di wore, and for him, an inexpensive navy blue suit with white shirt and red tie—to go downstairs to the dining room. Their dinner had cost nearly as much as the room, but as they’d taken their Boston cream pie, which the menu stated was invented in the hotel’s kitchen, up to their room for a late dessert, John hadn’t given a damn if he ended up maxing out his credit card. Because she was worth every dime.

  Their third round of lovemaking had been the closest thing to heaven John had ever known. Before or since. Nepal was a stunningly beautiful country, and he could understand why so many visitors called it the closest thing to heaven on earth, but they’d never made love with Sarah Harper.

  He should have just proposed then. A fact Mike had rubbed in more than once. But Sarah had a romantic soul. She not only studied and read romance novels for pleasure, she believed in love and the ideal of a happily-ever-after. Which was why he decided popping the question while they were both lying there naked and sweaty wasn’t the grand romantic moment he wanted her to remember.

  So he’d waited until the next day. When he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. Or, as Mike had told him afterward, seriously screwed the pooch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WATCHING THE SCENERY pass by the windows, Sarah decided that she was only cutting off her nose to spite her face by remaining inside just to avoid John. She had every right to watch Honeymoon Harbor come into view as he did.

  She walked past the tables where passengers were reading books, playing cards or putting together a jigsaw puzzle and out the door at the front of the boat. The wind was brisk, as it always was on the water, and lifted her skirt nearly to her waist. At the same time, wouldn’t you know it, he turned around and from that renewed flash in those expressive eyes, she knew he’d caught a glimpse of her thigh-high lace-topped stockings. Not that he hadn’t seen a lot more of her body over the years. But it didn’t exactly set the tone she’d been hoping for.

  “Don’t you dare say a thing,” she warned.

  “About what?”

  “You know.”

  “That your legs are still drop-dead gorgeous, and I’d put them up against Princess Di’s any day? Is that what I’m not supposed to say?”

  Dammit. He would have to bring up that night when, although having been warned redheads should never wear pink, she’d borrowed a dress from a friend that even as a knockoff she never could’ve afforded. Not that she’d minded John looking at her legs that night. Or the way the swish of the nylons when she crossed her legs beneath the snowy white tablecloth had caused his eyes to deepen to cobalt.

  Nor had she objected when, as soon as they’d returned to their room, he’d dumped the Boston cream pie on the table, lifted her up, told her to wrap her legs around his waist and proceeded to carry her to the bed, where they’d spent a very long, luxurious time undressing each other. Enjoying each other. Loving each other.

  It had been the best night of her life. There were times she feared she’d never come close to topping it.

  “No sex talk,” she insisted firmly.

  “Hey.” He lifted his hands. “You’re the one whose mind went to sex. I was just commenting on your legs. Which, yeah, is probably sexist, but hey, I’ve always been a leg man. And you, Sarah Louise Harper, set the standard for limbs.”

  “You’re just easily aroused because you’ve spent two years in a country where women aren’t allowed to show their bodies.”

  Had she actually used the word aroused? Oh, yes, she was definitely brain-dead.

  Fortunately, perhaps deciding that picking up that conversational thread was too easy, or maybe giving her a break, he merely said, “It’s true about the women. They even bathe covered up in a long cloth called a loongi from their breasts to below their knees.”

  Curiosity got the better of her. “I wonder if they keep it on when...never mind.”

  Her travel-numbed mind had gone there again. Right back to sex. And it was all his fault, since ever since that summer she’d turned sixteen, it was almost all she could think about when around him. She supposed she was fortunate h
e’d insisted on waiting until she turned eighteen to go all the way.

  “I don’t know if they wore them 24/7 and wasn’t about to ask,” he said. “The people are more modest than Americans and Europeans. So much so that, as soon as I reached Kathmandu, I bought local clothes. Loose shirts and vests and baggy pants that gathered at the ankles and probably made me look like a giant genie.”

  “Was that required?”

  “No. But it made me feel as if I fit in better, and whenever I went into town, I avoided looking like a ragged tourist. Plus, people often said they appreciated my making the effort. To tell the truth, after a while, I was embarrassed at what some of the Westerners wore. Like they couldn’t read a damn guidebook?”

  Apparently, while he’d been making an impression on the Nepalese, they’d been making one on him.

  “I hadn’t realized that you’d planned to join the Peace Corps.” If she’d known, perhaps she wouldn’t have been expecting a proposal.

  “It had been tossing around in my mind. But I hadn’t made my decision when—”

  “You dumped me.”

  “Wait just a damn minute.” She couldn’t remember ever seeing him angry, but he’d just come close. “Did I screw up? Hell, yes. Could I have stated things better? Again, yes. But I did not dump you.”

  “Funny. That’s not how I remember it.”

  “Another reason we’re going to have to talk about it,” he said. “But it can wait. Because we’re almost ready to dock, and although I don’t want to say this wrong, you really do look dead on your feet. Beautiful, as always. But dead on your feet.”

  Now that she was coming down from her fried food high, she was beginning to crash. And from a quick glimpse in her compact before coming out here, she looked even worse. That he could find her beautiful was impossible.

  “You Irish are good at blarney.”

  “That would be my brother Mike. I’ve always been more plainspoken. Except when I’m not.”

  A gust of salt-tinged wind blew a tangle of curls across her eyes. Before she could brush them away, his hand was on her face again, pushing them back, but not before twining a wayward curl around his finger. “I’ve always loved your hair.”

  And she’d always hated it. Except during those years that he’d shown her, in so many ways, how truly beautiful he’d found it. Along with the rest of her. Which, although she was tall, small-busted, with crazy hair and mud-colored eyes, he’d always made her feel beautiful whenever she was with him.

  “You’re doing it again.” She pushed his hand away, took a band from her wrist and tried, with less than perfect effort, to tie her hair together at the nape of her neck. “The town’s coming into view.” As she drank in the sight, her eyes brimmed with moisture.

  “You’ve missed it.”

  “I have.” More than she’d realized.

  Honeymoon Harbor’s downtown consisted of a commercial district at the waterfront, with the residential neighborhoods up on a bluff. A fire in the 1800s had swept through the lower half, wiping out most of the old wooden buildings that had been rebuilt by a branch of the Harpers who’d become master builders. Her family branch, up until her, had always earned their living on the water.

  Her great-grandfather had risked, and eventually lost, his life in the Bering Sea, leaving behind a widow, her great-grandmother Ida, whom she could barely remember living in her house when she was a little girl. Ida had been left with a toddler daughter she’d tragically lost at eight to the Spanish flu, and a four-year-old son who’d later be killed in the Japanese bombing of Alaska’s Dutch Harbor. Sarah’s grandfather, Jacob, who’d been a mere six months old when Ida had been widowed, would also take to the sea, passing away in his bed beneath Sarah’s parents’ roof at the ripe old age of 103.

  Sarah’s father had improved the family’s lot by not only fishing on others’ boats, but owning a fleet of three fishing boats of his own. While life had gotten considerably better under her father’s stewardship, Jerome and Harriett had wanted more for their only child. Which was why Sarah had always done her best to succeed, to please them in every way. Except for her forbidden, surreptitious love for John Mannion.

  Her first sight of the town was the lighthouse, automated now, but with its light still flashing to warn ships of the rocky shoals left behind when ancient glaciers that had created the Ice Age two million years ago had retreated. The beach itself was a treasure trove of gems and fossils. In the paleontology section of the town’s museum, there were even several mastodon teeth, one which had been found by a Harper cousin near the base of the lighthouse.

  “Heron’s Landing is still standing,” she murmured as the rambling old deserted house came into sight. “It’s a shame no one’s ever restored it.” The house was built by a timber baron and named for the many great blue herons that would roost in nests in the property’s towering Douglas fir trees.

  “Then what haunted house would all us kids sneak into?”

  “I don’t believe it’s haunted.”

  “Neither do I, not really. But when you’re inside, in the dark, and a shutter suddenly slams shut, it’s fun to think so.”

  “Obviously we have different ideas of fun.” Sarah had never broken into the house, but she’d admittedly wanted to after seeing black-and-white photos of it in the town’s historical museum.

  There’d even been a reception there for the king and queen of Montacroix during their royal visit. One of the photos showed a Mannion, who’d been mayor at the time, seated next to the young queen at a table set with what was described as gilt-and-cobalt-rimmed china from England, one of the earliest collections of art deco stemware from France, and as a tribute to America, heavy sterling flatware made by Gorham silver in Rhode Island. The company, the accompanying note stated, had provided flatware for several White House administrations, including Lincoln’s. What stories those walls must have to tell!

  The call for passengers to return to their cars came over the loudspeaker. Five minutes later they were driving off the ferry onto the cobblestoned road that, like many of the town’s buildings, had been made from stones serving as ballast in all the ships that’d stopped at the port in those early days.

  The sky above was growing darker again, the clouds pregnant with more rain. Weather was always an iffy situation in this far northwest corner of the country, even more so in spring, when Mother Nature turned even more capricious.

  The town hadn’t appeared to change during her past year away. The mill was still standing, as was the cannery on the waterfront. Some of the shop windows were boarded up. Ever since losing the railroads, the town had depended on tourism, and apparently hadn’t yet entirely recovered from the early ’80s recession.

  “Dad says things are beginning to pick up again,” John said, as if reading her mind. For two very different people, she’d always found it surprising how often they shared thoughts. And not just sex ones.

  “That’s good to hear.” They passed the bank, one of the few buildings in Honeymoon Harbor that didn’t fit in. With its marble facade and tall round pillars, it could have been found in Greece, home to another Mount Olympus. “I imagine it will be an adjustment, settling down to banking after the past two years.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he said. It would only be later that she’d realize how he’d hedged his response.

  Instead, as the coffee she’d drunk and the fat and carb rush wore off, she leaned back against the headrest and stopped fighting her exhaustion as she allowed her eyes to drift closed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JOHN WOULDN’T DENY that having Sarah in the car with him gave him an additional excuse not to stop in at the bank. Mike had already told their parents that he’d be here by this coming weekend in time for the annual Heritage Days celebration. He didn’t have any choice, because his brother had insisted on a quid pro quo for the favor he’d asked when he�
�d called from the airport.

  “You want me to what?”

  “Play Teddy Roosevelt in Honeymoon Harbor’s historical play,” Mike had said.

  “I’m no actor.”

  “You don’t need to be. It’s only a few lines. When you tell the king and queen about the town and extoll the wonders of the peninsula, so they decide to visit, thus bringing press and prosperity back to the town.”

  “If it’s only a few lines, why can’t someone else, such as, I don’t know, maybe you, do it?”

  “Because I’m painting scenery. Plus, I have my eye on Jamie Carpenter, this year’s director, who needs to find a replacement because the guy who was going to play the role came down with mono. Me handing her you as Roosevelt might win me some points.”

  “Like you’ve ever needed any help with women,” John muttered.

  But he’d agreed. Which meant that he had a total of two days to pull off his plan to win Sarah Harper back. Which, since she’d not only gotten into his rental car with him, but hadn’t pushed him off the ferry into Puget Sound, should be a positive sign, right?

  Fortunately, she’d crashed into sleep, which kept her from noticing that instead of taking the turn onto Deep Water Road, where her family both lived and kept their fishing boats, he took a left, headed out of town.

  He slowed as he passed the brilliant green acres of various species of evergreens planted in straight lines, all in various stages of growth. The farm had been providing Christmas trees for people not just in Washington, but all over the country. When he’d been growing up, rather than cut their own tree, the way so many did, his family would always visit the farm, where Mr. Donohue or one of the temporary workers he’d hired for the season would cut the tree his mother declared to be perfect, wrap it up with heavy twine and attach it to the roof of his father’s car. After which they’d drink the cocoa his mother had brought along in a thermos and sing carols all the way home.