Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  I knew all about Moonstone and Peregrine from talking with Blythe on the phone over the last six months. My sister had fallen as hard for Idaho and Blue Mountain as she had for Kevan. She’d told me every detail of her experiences, including her budding friendship with Moonstone, a self-proclaimed psychic with unfortunate hair choices who owned the one and only bed and breakfast in Peregrine.

  The bed and breakfast was in a converted Victorian home in the middle of town; we found it with no trouble. There was only a scattering of other businesses, including the bar and grill where Blythe had met Kevan, a hardware store, a library, and a grocery store. I knew from Blythe’s description that Kevan and his brothers’ houses, all built on a massive piece of property, were further up the highway to the north. I’d get Sam settled in first before I asked Henry to take me out to see them. I needed a chance to tell Blythe that we had two extra guests for dinner tomorrow.

  Henry grabbed the bags from the back of the car while Sweetheart took a bathroom break. Then, walking in a line like school children, my crew of distorted Oz characters traipsed up the stairs and into the lobby. Muted light from old-fashioned table lamps, the smell of cinnamon, and a roaring wood fire in the hearth greeted us. A woman with eighties-style large, flaming orange hair and a bosom the size of a small country sat at the desk, typing into a computer. Moonstone. Blythe had described her perfectly.

  “Welcome, weary travellers.” She leapt to her feet, almost shouting, with her hand over her heart. “Oh thank the goddesses of the universe. I had a terrible feeling you might run into trouble, but I’m glad my psychic powers seem to have taken a vacation for the holiday. That happens sometimes. Strangest thing.” She came around the desk and drew me into a tight hug, filling my nose with a strong aroma of patchouli. She smelled like my mother. Was this really Blythe’s friend? “Bliss, I’m so happy to meet you. Blythe talks about you so much I feel like I know you.” She drew back slightly, taking me in. “You’re as pretty as she said you were.” Making a clicking sound with her tongue she rested her long, purple nails lightly on my face for a split second. “Has something happened? There’s a shift in you. I can feel it.”

  I smiled, feeling uneasy. “I fell a couple of days ago. Doc told me to take it easy.”

  Nodding as if she already knew this information, she let her hands fall to her sides. “That’s it. Something’s changed in you. For the better, I must say.” She turned, then, to my companions. “Gentlemen, welcome to my humble inn.”

  Henry said something polite and stiff, holding out his hand for her to shake. Sam, conversely, seemed either shy or suddenly tired, because he refused to make eye contact, staring at the floor with Sweetheart at his feet.

  Moonstone gestured toward a sitting area we could see through the door. “Are you hungry? I have a fresh batch of snickerdoodle cookies waiting for you in the kitchen. Made them myself.”

  “We should probably get checked in,” I said. “I want to go out and see my sister and the girls in a few minutes. Henry’s going to take me.”

  “Of course. Those girls of hers are the sweetest. And so pretty. Like their mother and aunt.”

  “Thank you, Moonstone.” Really, trying to say her name with a straight face was an exercise in great restraint. “I can’t wait to see them.”

  Moonstone went behind the desk and punched something into the computer. “You want to be there in time for the proposal.”

  “Yes, we do. Plus, I have a little gift I brought Blythe from the lingerie department at Nordstrom.”

  Moonstone winked at me. “Right on. Kevan will enjoy your gift, I’m sure.”

  I glanced at Henry. He was examining his nails, as if he hadn’t heard me. This greatly amused me and made me want to torture him further, but I didn’t have time because just then we heard footsteps coming down the stairs. I looked up to see a woman with white hair expertly cut into a short style that framed her face. I guessed her to be in her late fifties. With her fingertips brushing the rail, she descended as if on air, wearing a light blue sweater dress and low-heeled calfskin boots. She held a book in her hand and when she saw us standing in the lobby, she stopped three steps from the bottom, taking us in.

  “Mrs. Pennington, is everything all right?” asked Moonstone.

  “Oh, yes, just fine. I wanted a cup of tea is all.” Mrs. Pennington was fair-skinned and had dark blue eyes above high cheekbones. She didn’t seem to be trying to look younger by dressing a certain way or not, I thought. A woman comfortable in her own skin.

  “I’ll make it for you, Mrs. Pennington. And I made cookies, too. Snickerdoodles.” Moonstone gestured toward the sitting room.

  “Snickerdoodles are my absolute favorite, Moonstone. How did you know?”

  “I know things,” said Moonstone, like a shy little girl might speak to her favorite teacher after receiving a compliment.

  Mrs. Pennington smiled at me as she came all the way down the stairs and into the lobby. “But don’t make a fuss over me. I can see you have other guests here. I can make a cup on my own just fine.” She had arrived next to me by now. I caught a whiff of her fragrance, something spicy. Gucci, if I wasn’t mistaken. “My mother was British, and she taught me to expect tea at four in the afternoon.”

  She was lovely, I thought, trying not to stare. No makeover required.

  “I’m Bliss Heywood.” I held out my hand.

  “Lauren Pennington. So pleased to meet you.” She took my hand in both of hers, not the handshake of a man but of an elegant lady, with perfectly manicured round, short pink nails. She’s exquisite, I thought. Even her hands were warm. Why hadn’t I had a mother like this woman? Maybe then I wouldn’t have turned out so mean and pointy.

  And her voice? It was soft and sophisticated, aspirating her t’s and long vowels positioned in the front of her mouth like a television broadcaster or an actress. Was she an actress? Would Henry notice her voice like I had? He’d be able to tell me if he thought she was a trained actress. I looked over at Henry. His eyes were glued to this lovely Lauren Pennington until he saw me watching him, at which time he quickly moved his gaze to a painting of the ocean on the wall. To my utter amusement he seemed to take sudden and great interest in this piece of mediocre art, leaning in as if to examine the brush strokes. The unflappable Henry taken down in an instant by the transcendent Lauren Pennington? Life was certainly full of surprises.

  Moonstone, catching my eye, winked at me. “Mrs. Pennington, this is Henry and Sam and his pooch, Sweetheart.” Sam shuffled backwards, toward the fire. Mrs. Pennington seemed to understand right away that Sam was different and made no move toward him, saying instead, “Hi Sam.” Sweetheart, conversely, had risen to her feet and wagged her tail, looking completely as if she were smiling at Mrs. Pennington, like they were old friends. Mrs. Pennington leaned down and stroked Sweetheart’s ears. “Oh, what a beautiful dog. I love it when they smile like this.”

  “I was just thinking the exact same thing,” I said. Mrs. Pennington and I had a lot in common, I thought. We both love dogs and dressing well. We’re practically the same person.

  Henry came forward, holding out his hand. Without an introduction of any kind and in a very informal American-type way, I might add, he blurted out, “I’m British and quite fond of tea.”

  It took everything in me not to burst out laughing. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one instantly in love with Mrs. Pennington.

  Another woman was coming down the stairs carrying a portable masseuse table. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet and was terribly underweight. Jutting collarbones and the loose skin on her gaunt face made her appear older than she really was, as instinct told me she was around my age. She wore a long-sleeved sweater that did nothing to hide how skinny her arms were or that the distance between her shoulder blades seemed no larger than Clementine’s. The table must be light, I thought, as this frail thing didn’t look strong enough to stand up
right in an ocean breeze. She needed a hamburger with extra mayonnaise, pronto.

  Moonstone greeted her and then introduced her to the rest of us as Ida Smart, local masseuse. Ida nodded in our direction with a wan smile and then scuttled out of the room carrying her table like a hermit crab with a new shell. “She’s the shy kind,” whispered Moonstone, after she was gone. “But a wonderful masseuse if any of you want me to arrange a session for you. She’ll come here.”

  “I had one yesterday,” said Mrs. Pennington. “It was divine. I know you wouldn’t think so, but her hands are quite strong.”

  Moonstone agreed with Mrs. Pennington’s assessment, as she pulled keys from hooks behind her desk. Real keys, I thought, instead of the plastic cards all the hotels used now. Had our trip to Oz carried us back in time?

  Sam had settled into the chair by the sofa, his face directed toward the fire. I moved over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “How you doing, Sam?”

  Moonstone came from behind the desk to stand by his chair. “He’s tired and wants to rest in his room. Isn’t that right?” She directed the question at Sam.

  He nodded, yes. How had she known that? Was mind reading a part of her psychic abilities? I suppose it could be true. The stories Blythe had told me about Moonstone’s abilities were a little spooky and, honestly, fascinating.

  As if she heard my thoughts, she turned to me. “We don’t always need words to communicate.” She pointed toward the stairs. “Come along, Sam. I have a very nice room all ready for you.”

  He got to his feet and patted the side of his thigh for Sweetheart to follow. The three of them headed up the stairs, with Moonstone chattering away about the various antiques on display. Blythe had warned me about the clutter, saying there wasn’t a space unfilled in Moonstone’s place of business. From where I stood in the lobby I spotted an antique typewriter, stacks of books with dusty, tattered covers, Depression-era glass of various sizes and shapes, and one of those old wash basins and pitchers.

  When they were out of sight, I turned toward Mrs. Pennington. “You know, I don’t have to rush off. Let’s have tea and some of those cookies before we head out. What do you say, Henry?”

  “Yes. Sure. Quite all right. Yes.” Henry shoved his hands into his pants pockets and resumed his careful observation of the painting.

  “Won’t you join us, Mrs. Pennington?”

  “I’d like nothing better,” she said.

  One thing was clear. Henry and I were smitten and we needed to get to know Mrs. Pennington a little better. But, clearly, he was hopeless. He needed my help. I would be Henry’s wingman, or in my case, his winggirl, whether he wanted me or not. Lucky Henry. Once I have an idea, I’m like a dog with his favorite toy. Nothing will keep me from it.

  Chapter 8

  “SO WHAT BRINGS YOU to Peregrine, Mrs. Pennington?” I nibbled on the edges of a cookie, trying to figure out how to subtly explain that Henry and I were not some kind of Harrison Ford-Calista Flockhart romance, in case she’d gotten the wrong impression.

  She sipped her tea daintily, like a character from an old movie, before answering. “I don’t know, really. I’ve been travelling the last several months in my car, just wandering until I find a place I’d like to stop for a day or two. I was in Sun Valley for several days, and of course it’s wonderful, but this last week, because of the holiday, it became a bit congested for my taste. I had no place to be for Thanksgiving, and all the crowds there somehow made me feel lonelier. So I drove a while and found myself here.”

  “Travelling with no destination? Sounds great to me,” I said. No other place to go? What did she mean? Surely she had a family. Why didn’t she have a job? Travelling alone? Why was this? I had to practically sew my mouth together to keep from prying into her in full force. Bull in a china shop. Once during an argument Blythe had accused me of acting this way. Go easy, I cautioned myself. Nice and polite. Gentle, like Mrs. Pennington. Before anything slipped out, I stuffed the rest of the cookie in my mouth. That should shut me up for a moment, I thought hopefully.

  Mrs. Pennington reached for a cookie and brought it to her nose, taking a quick sniff before breaking it in half and setting in on the saucer without taking a bite. “I shouldn’t start with a bite, or one cookie will turn into five.” She lowered her voice, glancing toward the lobby. “But Moonstone is quite adamant about trying the cookies. I only arrived here yesterday, and so far there have been three varieties.”

  Mrs. Pennington was a cookie sniffer, not a cookie eater. This was an interesting fact that hinted at a disciplined and moderate personality. Both perfect qualities for Henry. I glanced at Henry to see if he’d noticed her obvious self-discipline and ladylike behavior, which he would no doubt approve of, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on in that crazy English head, for now he was staring into his teacup like he had the painting in the lobby. His behavior could easily be translated as boredom. But I knew better. His neck was flushed red just above the collar of his white button-down shirt. His clothes were all wrong. The black suit and white shirt screamed driver or host at an expensive restaurant. Why had he insisted on wearing his work uniform, for lack of a better term? I made a mental note to talk to him again about dressing like a normal person for the rest of the weekend. He might be more willing to listen if he wanted to impress Mrs. Pennington.

  We didn’t want Mrs. Pennington to see him as a driver. She must know about his long career as an actor, a stage actor no less. He’d played King Lear and Hamlet, for pity’s sake. He was the real thing, which was impressive and must be conveyed. How could I work it into the conversation, I wondered. She must understand he was an actor—intelligent and cultured, not to mention a successful business owner. But back to his flushed neck. I’d never seen that, even as flustered as I’d made him yesterday with my whole “Save Sam” campaign. If we kept on like this, she would never get to see Henry’s true personality. What did winggirls do in situations like these?

  Right then it came to me. She must come to Thanksgiving dinner. Henry and Mrs. Pennington must have a chance to know one another, and what better way than over one of Blythe’s meals in Kevan’s beautiful home? It was the perfect setting for love, obviously, given that Blythe and Kevan had fallen in love in three days right in that very house. Yes, I thought, warming to the idea. The two of them seated next to one another, eating turkey and sipping white wine. With the assistance of tryptophan and effects of alcohol, there would surely be a love connection. My mind fast-forwarded to this time next year. Their initial courtship would lead to a small, intimate wedding right here at the Peregrine Bed and Breakfast. And then a life together, replete with teatime at four and walks on the beach and holding hands on the couch while watching miniseries on BBC. I don’t know where I got the beach image, but surely Mrs. Pennington was a walk-on-the-beach type of woman. I bet she even had one of those feminine sun hats, given how pretty her skin was.

  Yes, I saw it as clearly as the tips of my black boots. This could turn into something—a something that would mean an end to Thanksgivings alone for both of them.

  “What brings you two here?” Mrs. Pennington adjusted the bottom of her dress.

  I explained about Blythe and my head injury. “Henry was kind enough to drive me out here from Portland so I wouldn’t miss the engagement and Thanksgiving.”

  Henry pulled on the collar of his shirt like he was warm. “I often drive Miss Heywood to business functions and the like. I couldn’t let her miss such an important event. As it turns out, I had no place to be for Thanksgiving either. Since my wife died, my son has little interest in spending holidays with me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Pennington smiled at him gently. “No one has any use for us at our age, I suppose.”

  He smiled back. “I suppose not.”

  I kept my excitement to myself, but this was playing out before my eyes just as I’d hoped. These two were meant
for one another.

  “Do you have children, Mrs. Pennington?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not. My late husband and I wanted them very much but we weren’t able to conceive. He was opposed to adoption, so we had to be happy without.”

  Late husband. She was a widow. Henry a widower. Perfect. I had to restrain my hands from clapping in glee by clasping them together.

  “May I ask how long your wife’s been gone, Henry?” she asked.

  “Five years now. You?”

  “Just over six years. The first two were the hardest. After a while you adjust. I retired last year and have been travelling, as I mentioned. It was something we’d planned to do together, but then he was diagnosed with lung cancer, even though he’d never smoked a day in his life. I lost him after only six months.”

  “That’s terrible,” I murmured.

  “It was a shock.” She set her teacup into its saucer. “We’d been together since we were twenty years old. My foot still reaches for him in the middle of the night. Isn’t that silly?”

  “Not at all,” said Henry. “I’m still surprised to wake in the morning and find her side of the bed empty.”

  They’d forgotten I was even in the room. Not that I minded.

  “I understand completely.” Mrs. Pennington turned to me, her brows furrowed. “Who’s the other gentleman with you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.

  “She won’t want to believe you,” said Henry.

  “Ah, well, now I’m intrigued,” said Mrs. Pennington.