All That You Are

by Stef Ann Holm

  He leaned closer. His eyes bored into hers, his firm mouth in a set line. Hair fell over his forehead in a thick shock and she fought the urge to smooth it back. She could smell the ocean air on his skin, feel the heat coming from his gaze. If she took one single step backward, he’d know he got to her, so she remained where she was and didn’t flinch.

  His next comment rose the gooseflesh on her arms. “I sure don’t know what to make of you, yet. But I will.”

  Straightening to his full and intimidating height, he rubbed his fingers on the underside of his chin as if feeling the stubble while in thought. Then in a voice exaggerated in parody, he said, “Hey, Mark, thanks for the fish. No problem, sweetart.”

  Before she could reply, he turned and left the room.

  Presley came up beside her, leaning onto her shoulder. “Who was that guy? Honey-honey, he’s so sinfully good-looking he should be illegal.”

  Dana quietly drew shallow breaths into her lungs, forcing a calmness to take over the disarray to her wits. “Mark Moretti.”

  “WAITING FOR DE TOW TRUCK, it vex me, ’cause I’m missing my fav’rite show—America’s Idol. I say to myself, if I ketch ’im who parked here, I whoop his bum.”

  The man sitting next to Mark at the bar could have fit sideways in a gym locker. He had some muscle on him, but he was as lean as a gazelle. His head was shaved to a shiny brown glean, his smile white like a piece of chalk. A short-sleeved shirt and tie hung loosely against his chest.

  Mark overheard the man talking while he waited to be served. It had taken a heap of sweet talk to convince Dana to let them stay and have a drink while they were waiting to hear from the impound guy.

  Jeff had called and, in fact, had made an about-face outside, diligently trying to get the man on the phone. It seemed the city of Ketchikan used more than one impounding service, and the guy who’d towed the pickup wasn’t around.

  Earl Spivey’s recording claimed he’d be back Monday, but Jeff wasn’t to be deterred and had already left six messages. He wanted that truck now because he hadn’t been able to find his wallet. When they arrived at Red Creek Lodge and Jeff went to get his credit card, his wallet hadn’t been in his back pocket. A call to Sam Hyatt and it hadn’t been left in the airplane, so Jeff was convinced it must have fallen from his pocket on the truck’s front seat.

  “Card, I can’t see you whoppin’ anyone’s butt,” responded a guy with thick hands. His beefy size had Mark thinking he could have worked in a meatpacking plant, hefting carcasses.

  “You’ve never seen me vexed, Bear,” the Jamaican replied. “I could show you crazy.”

  Mark’s gaze traveled to Dana’s movements behind the bar. He liked how she moved. Never wasted a step. Efficient. Fast. It was a shame she didn’t slow down. A person could miss a lot when they never stopped to enjoy what was right around them.

  With that, Mark grinned. And just then she turned. Seeing him smiling at her made her frown. “So why is it we have this opposite thing going on here, Dana? I smile, you frown. I want to stay, you tell me to go. I say yes, you say no. Seems to me you make things too difficult. Might want to change your answer next time from what you’re really thinking, and then we’ll be on the same side of the bed.”

  She drew up to him, the bar separating them, and set down two cold brews. “I’m thinking that you better drink fast and go to bed with someone else tonight, cowboy.”

  Chuckling, Mark folded his arms over his chest. “She does have a sense of humor.”

  Apparently only hearing that last part of their exchange, the Jamaican added a comment. “Dis gal, she is de best.”

  “Thanks, Cardelle,” she replied in a flattered voice.

  Thanks. And spoken just as easy as that. But not one gracias for him. And he’d brought her a cooler of halibut—and chucked all the salmon into Jeff’s so he could fill the stupid ice chest to the top.

  Cardelle recognized Mark with a polite nod. “Jewels of de Nile offers discounts to Carnival cruisers.”

  “Jews of Denial—that some kind of Holocaust museum?”

  “Jew-ry,” he enunciated. “For de Carnival cruisers.”

  Dawning hit Mark. “I’m not on any fiesta ship.” He took a cold drink of beer. “I’m here for the fishing.”

  As he spoke, Mark heard a sound that he hadn’t anticipated.

  Dana softly laughed.

  An instinctive response gripped Mark—he wanted to fit his mouth over hers and kiss her quiet. Since that wasn’t an option, his gaze slowly fell to the expanse of her neck, then lower to her breasts. “Are you laughing because I’m here fishing or because I fished for you?”

  “Neither.” She’d sobered the moment his eyes landed on her in a suggestive way. A pullover sweater with a high scoop neck and jeans might have been plain enough for the average woman, but she wasn’t average. Anything she wore would attract a man. “I thought it was funny Cardelle assumed you were a tourist on a cruise. Then again, I guess you cruise for women so there’s some truth to it.”

  “I don’t need to cruise for women, sweetart. They drive right into my lane.” He popped a few cashews into his mouth, chewing a moment. “And that’s not my cooler, by the way. When you unload it, let me know and I’ll come back and get it.”

  She sobered, her gorgeous face taking on a stubborn strength. “I can unload it in a sec. You won’t have to come back.”

  “I’m in town for the summer, sunshine,” he informed with a satisfied grin. “I’ll be back.”

  Jeff nudged his way toward the bar and dropped onto the seat next to Mark’s. His face red, he reported, “Still no answer. What kind of city is this that you get your truck towed and nobody’s on a switchboard to answer your call? I’d even take a routing to India if that meant I could talk to a live person to get some answers.”

  Cardelle tilted his head, staring at Jeff. Creases at the corners of his dark-as-coal eyes, he gave a questioning stare. “What dat that you say?”

  Taking a miscue, Jeff blurted, “You know someone at Spivey’s impound? I need to get my pickup truck back. Some bozo had it towed from the lot right outside.”

  Puffing his narrow chest, Cardelle’s eyes closed halfway. His stubby lashes framed an irate gaze. “I be dat bozo.”

  “What the—?” Jeff jumped off his bar stool. “Why in the hell did you do that? You’ve caused me a lot of grief, bro.”

  With an intense glare, he replied, “I’m not your brother, mon.” Sliding off his chair, the Jamaican stood poised like a praying mantis ready to fight. “Your stupid parking blocked my Buick and I missed my fav’rite TV show.”

  “I didn’t park stupid. That piece of crap you call a car was over the line.”

  “Dat is was not, mon!”

  A fist was raised for a swing, but the guy behind the bar came around to stand between the two men. Mark had heard Dana call him Leo.

  “Walt!” Leo called, and the bruiser appeared out of nowhere, bearing down on the scene like a raging bull barreling into a mob.

  “Break it up, girls!” Walt’s wall of muscle was no match for Jeff, and he just about hefted him over his shoulder to knock him back on his feet about a yard away from Cardelle.

  Dana appeared, her long hair falling over her shoulders as she squared them, looking first at Jeff, then at Mark. She hadn’t been at the bar when the truck bozo discussion had occurred, but he could bet she’d make a snap judgment.

  Not disappointing him, she gave Jeff a stern glare. “Get out.”

  “Hey, lady—I’m not even drunk. I didn’t do anything! This joker—” he motioned to Cardelle with his head since his arms were pinned by Walt “—had my pickup towed, and for no good reason.”

  Cardelle, who’d been refraining from a bodily attack, dove onto the bar and snatched a tall green aerosol can. With the agility of a featherweight, he began spraying the stuff at Jeff.

  The meatpacker intervened by saying, “Card, settle down and fork over the dang Off!.”

  Within a matte
r of seconds, the whole thing was over, both of the men grumbling their grievances to anyone who’d listen.

  Mark’s gaze met Dana’s, and he could tell she was amping up to throw them both out. Again.

  With his best you-gotta-love-me smile, he gave a humorous shrug. “Nobody spilled anything this time. Let’s call it good and forget the whole thing.”

  With a velvety-smooth tone that sounded like the finest musical note, sweet and low, she uttered, “Let’s not.”

  And then all it took was a glance to Walt and Leo, and Jeff and Mark found themselves standing on the dock, looking at the closed door to the Blue Note bar.

  The night’s ocean dampness fell over them like a wet blanket. Their gear had been stowed at Fish Tail Air when they’d come back to the dock to figure out what had happened to the pickup. Now dark and motionless inside, the floatplane building had been locked up. They would have to retrieve their stuff tomorrow.

  “This sucks.” Jeff hunkered down near a faucet and turned on a stream of water. The hose that the water came from lay in a green coil. He washed off his face, blinking back the droplets that collected on his lashes. “That guy just about made me blind with that mace he sprayed on me.”

  “It was mosquito repellent.” Mark leaned against the building and retrieved his cell phone from his belt clip.

  “Who are you calling?” Twisting the faucet off, Jeff flicked water from his hands and rose to his feet. “The cops? Good idea. I’m going to press charges.”

  “A cab.” Punching 411, Mark held the phone to his ear. As the phone rang on the other end, he asked, “What did you do before you were a computer geek?”

  “I worked at Best Buy in the electronics department. Why?”

  “Just wondering how you developed such a way with people.”

  With a deadpan expression, Jeff supplied, “Extensive training.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A MAGPIE FLEW overhead, its repetitive screech distracting Suni. Tilting her head, she searched for the black-and-white bird to see where it landed. She’d never been fond of magpies.

  It perched in the majestic hemlock, crying and carrying on as if she would listen. She preferred songbirds, their notes soothing.

  As Suni continued to tend her hillside garden, reflections of her past came to her. Most times when she tilled the soil, pulled weeds and deadheaded her flowers, she let her mind wander to beautiful things.

  And her mother embodied one of those beautiful things.

  As a young lady living in Chinatown, Suni’s mother had been blessed with a gift for painting delicate watercolors; she also served on several committees in the community. She met and fell deeply in love with a diplomatic social worker, a man whose heritage was half Caucasian and half Chinese. Her parents, immigrants from Mainland China, hadn’t approved of his mixed race.

  But her mom married him anyway.

  From that union, a daughter had been born. Jane Sun Li. In the Chinese culture, her name would have been written Li Jane, but her parents took pride in the fact their daughter was American—like them. They’d taken their oath of citizenship, and proudly honored the United States flag.

  When Jane had been a little girl, she loved her glorious name, grateful her parents had given her a popular choice. Ridiculous as it seemed, she’d fantasized she’d marry someone named Dick.

  As she matured into her teens, she began to feel more of a pull toward her Chinese heritage. While her dad had been half white, Jane hadn’t thought of herself as anything but Chinese. A desire to be less like everyone else came about the same time she entered her senior year of high school. Janes and Barbaras were a dime a dozen. Nobody was Sun.

  So she began to ask everyone to call her Suni. Suni sounded cool—like the girl Windy in the hit song by The Association. She’d seen the group perform on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.

  Suni had grown up in San Francisco during a time of free love, peace demonstrations and pot smoking. Speaking out and testing the establishment went against her family’s cultural beliefs. The only way she displayed her ideas was through her typewriter. She loved to write and had worked on the fourth-period newspaper staff as an op/ed advisor. Within the pages of the newspaper, she found a limitless way to express herself.

  She’d also loved wearing her white vinyl go-go boots, corduroy maxiskirts, and had permed her hair to emulate Janis Joplin’s look.

  As years passed, she forgot about the perm, and let her hair go to its natural straightness. She gave up the blue eye shadow, frosted Lip Smackers, and ended up being rather subdued in comparison.

  But she continued with her writing. She enjoyed that aspect of her life, and felt she had a real talent for it. She tried writing plays and dramas, but nothing ever jibed. Until she wrote a piece about taking an extended camping trip to Half Moon Bay in a 1969 Volkswagen van with three friends. The words fell into perfect poetry and she’d sold it to a travel magazine.

  She’d found her niche.

  Suni packed a suitcase, and dropped out of college to start on a road adventure that ultimately led her to the true love of her life. She wrote travel articles, filled with slices of American pop culture, and sold them to syndicated presses, making a living for herself—much to her parents’ disappointment. They’d wanted their only child to remain with them, and model herself into their expectations.

  Having written about the quirky denizens of the West Coast and Pacific Northwest, Suni opted to venture farther north. She arrived in Alaska in 1973, taking her time soaking in the beauty. Articles seemed to flow from her fingertips, personal and thoughtful like life’s scrapbook.

  The people she wrote about were real, they had drive and determination. There was a scrubbiness, a pistol-charged energy about their communities.

  Hearing about one such man who knew everyone and who had the uncanny ability to make anyone smile, Suni stepped into the Blue Note bar to talk to Oscar Jackson, formerly of Louisiana. And from that day forward, she knew she’d found her man.

  Her wedding license hadn’t been scripted to Dick and Jane, but rather Oscar and Suni. Two people who loved, who laughed, who were best friends and soul mates.

  The magpie’s caw intruded once more, disturbing the atmosphere. She looked around at the trees, the moss, the rocks. Her free spirit dominated the space. In her garden she had no cares, she embraced the earthy breeze on her face, and she was able to go forward without her beloved Oscar.

  And her baby boy…Terrance.

  She had Danalee. And her grandson, Terran. A grandmother’s love and joy, that little boy Terran! Suni couldn’t imagine life without him and recalled the tiny bundle she’d held in her arms when he’d been born.

  Dana and Terran were all the family Suni had left. Her parents had been gone for years, and her darling husband and son had been gone for going on six years now.

  Suni used a hand claw to fluff the earth around the sprouts of ferns that she hadn’t planted by seed, but had grown by the hand of tranquillity. The garden comprised most of the hillside. She’d been working it for years, adding more to it all the time. Each year, the expanse came alive with vibrancy during the short summer months. Suni loved it out here. She had a bench Oscar had built for her and paths in flat stone that led in all directions. The house sat on five acres of unfenced forest. Her garden took up the south side of the property, the whispers from the pines calling to her as she worked.

  Over the years, her collection of Chinese statuary had increased. Pavers led to secret nooks where waist-high pagodas, fu dogs, temple lions, arching dragons and many Buddha were sentinels over the vast landscape.

  The wind chimes hanging from the pagoda arch stirred to life. Metal tubes created beautiful notes, but the melody belonged to an old spoon, coins, tie clip—which had only been worn a handful of times—a car key and a man’s plain wedding ring.

  Suni paused, shaded her gaze and watched the pieces sparkle in the sun. They moved on the breeze’s whisper.

  “Thank you for comi
ng to me, love. My mind is serene,” she said to his spirit.

  She smiled, a calming peace soothing her broken heart. The chimes had hung for many years before Oscar’s passing. He’d given them to her as a special birthday gift. But she had created the other chime: the spoon—his favorite to eat ice cream. Dangling coins with tiny holes to string them—the money he’d had in his pocket the day he’d died. The dreaded tie clip—something he only wore when pressed. An extra car key—to his ’84 Mercedes-Benz which she had sold long ago. And the ring he wore on his finger for every day of their married life. These things were the heart of the wind chime.

  They were Oscar.

  True tranquillity was found in activity, in the midst of sense objects.

  Gardening was her tranquillity. The chimes were her sense objects. And when Oscar walked in his return to earth, the things that were his moved with his presence.

  She felt him come home on the wind. Happiness filled her being and she knew that he was waiting for her to join him.

  Sometimes she wished she could leave right now. But that wasn’t what Oscar wanted. He needed her to be here for Dana. And for Terran.

  But the times when the chimes danced, and captured Suni’s soul, it was like dancing with Oscar. A slow dance that she loved.

  “Mom,” Dana called from the side porch of the house. “We’re going to town for dinner. Wash your hands and come with us.”

  Suni got to her feet, her knee joints slightly aching from time spent on bent legs. She used a foam pad to kneel on, but she wasn’t getting any younger. Sixty next year.

  Calling out, Suni asked, “Where are you going?”

  Dana’s hands rested on the railing, her body standing in a rare slice of Ketchikan sunshine. The smile she offered warmed Suni to the very core. “Where do you think?”

  Her stomach growling over the answer, Suni replied, “I’ll get ready.”

  Thirty minutes later, on a late Sunday afternoon, Suni, Dana and Terran sat together in a black booth at Chop Suey. The cushion needed new springs, or something to give it some lift, but none of them cared. A Chinese-American restaurant located on the far end of Front Street, the place filled a culinary gap in Ketchikan.