by Nicole Ellis
Stay-at-home moms? Was I being grouped in with the Queen Bees? I suddenly felt queasy and ducked my head down to kiss Ella’s head where she snuggled against my chest in her baby carrier.
Brenda noticed my unease and her face reddened. “Uh, you know what I mean. You’re so busy with the baby and helping out your in-laws. Some of those moms don’t have anything better to do than make craft projects off of Pinterest and get in everyone else’s business.” She allowed her girls to pull her into the school.
“I’ll see you soon,” she called over her shoulder.
After we secured Goldie’s leash, Mikey, Ella, and I entered the school as well. Mikey ran off to his classroom while I signed him in using the most complicated computer sign-in system known to man.
Nancy Davenport saw me signing Mikey in and jetted over to me, a determined gleam in her eyes.
“Jill,” she said. “I’m so glad to have caught up with you. You always bring Mikey in and rush out of here. I wanted to have a talk with you about parent expectations for the Busy Bees Preschool. You know how important it is for parents to be involved with their children’s education. If you could sign up to volunteer for something, that would be great. We especially need parents to volunteer for the All School Spring Clean Up next week.”
Shoot. How was I going to get out of this one? A pumpkin-orange colored flyer on the bulletin board above the counter caught my eye. “Fifth Annual Busy Bees Preschool Auction – Auction Committee Members Needed.” Another fundraiser? I remembered the promise I’d made to myself last night and smiled sweetly at Nancy.
“Thanks for the reminder. I’d planned on signing up for the auction committee today,” I said. Nancy glared at me suspiciously but turned around and entered the nearest classroom.
I grabbed a flower-topped pen from the counter and reluctantly signed my name at the top of the auction committee sign-up sheet. That ought to take care of my good mommy commitment to the preschool for the immediate future. How bad could being on the auction committee really be? Before kids, I’d excelled in my marketing and sales career on a national level. Securing donations and organizing a preschool auction would be a piece of cake in comparison.
“You actually think being on the auction committee will be a cakewalk?” Desi’s warm brown eyes filled with mirth and her mass of tightly coiled curls shook gently above her bare shoulders.
“Being an auction chair last year was one of the worst experiences of my life. I’d rather go through childbirth again than organize a preschool auction for Nancy Davenport. Then again, I guess I don’t really get a choice in that matter.” She laughed and lovingly smoothed her blue and green tie-dyed dress over her large belly.
“The auction committee can’t be that bad, right?” I eyed the baked goods case on the counter. The BeansTalk Café offered a wide selection of treats, and I was sorely tempted to buy one. I regretted not stealing a brownie out of the box prior to giving them to Mr. Westen. The salted caramels, blueberry muffins, cranberry-orange scones, and chocolate chip cookies seemed to call out my name. My stomach growled noisily. I hadn’t had time to do more this morning than down a wake-up cup of coffee.
How had Desi managed to get Anthony to school and be at the store already? I blamed it on having two kids. Who was I kidding? Desi was Wonder Woman. When my new niece or nephew arrived, she would soon have the baby on a proper nap schedule that neatly coincided with busy times at the café.
“I mean, it’s a preschool, not a national political fundraiser.” My voice weakened as her smirk widened.
“Ha.” She laughed again. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Hey, how did my big brother like those brownies I left for him?”
“Oh. About those.” I squirmed a little. “He never had an opportunity to eat any of them.”
“You ate all the brownies? Did Mikey at least get one?” She smiled at me, her eyebrows raised in mock concern. “You may need to enroll in Chocoholics Anonymous, Jill.”
“No, no, I didn’t eat all of them. I’m not that bad! I know I ate three at your last barbecue, but I didn’t eat a whole box in one day.” Ella seemed to have gained twenty pounds since I put the baby carrier on this morning. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and finally leaned against the counter to take some of the pressure off my back.
“Hey, you’re talking to a woman who’s thirty weeks pregnant. No judgment. So what did happen to the brownies?”
I sighed and stood back up fully. She wasn’t going to be pleased about where the brownies had gone. “I gave them to Samuel Westen.” I crossed my arms in front of my face in self-defense and stepped back.
Her jaw dropped. “You gave them to that jerk?”
“I had to.”
“Ok, this ought to be good. At least it had better be. What a waste of my yummy brownies.” She lifted two glass plates off the shelf and placed a brownie on each. “Coffee?” She motioned with the coffee pot at the mishmash of colorful coffee cups in various sizes.
“Yes, please make mine caffeinated.” I continued my story, “Anyway, Mikey pushed Ella’s stroller into Mr. Westen’s flower bed, and he freaked out and had the nerve to yell at Mikey.” Every time I told this story, I grew angrier at his treatment of my son.
“Adam and I need to make nice with him because we want him to sign off on a fence between our properties, so I brought over your brownies as a peace offering. He was getting ready to go on a fishing trip, so I thought he’d enjoy them.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. He took them from me and slammed the door in my face.”
She snorted and said, “Yep, sounds like the same Samuel Westen we all know and hate.”
The café was empty, so we grabbed our morning snack and walked up the ramp to the back of the room. A half-level up from the rest of the café, the play nook boasted tables overlooking the Ericksville Lighthouse grounds. Outside, on the adjoining deck, Goldie lay with his head on his paws, his eyes following the few people on the beach below.
Desi had constructed a kids play area in the upper area of the café, complete with a train table, toy kitchen, Legos, Barbie doll playhouse, and a treasure chest full of miscellaneous toys. Living in the rainy Pacific Northwest, it was the perfect place to have a cup of coffee while your children played safely indoors. Ella squirmed in her carrier, and I set her down in an Exersaucer. She babbled at us and spun around happily.
“So how did the town council meeting go?” I had heard from Beth that the sale had been approved, but I hadn’t had a chance before now to get the details from Desi. I sat down in an overstuffed leather arm chair and dug into my brownie. Yum, chocolate-y goodness. Now I really regretted giving the others to Mr. Westen.
“Not well,” Desi said, sipping her coffee. “Turns out Westen has a developer lined up to buy the site for another one of those big condo developments.” She set the coffee cup down.
“Can you imagine it? A big condo here, right next to the historic lighthouse? Over the last three years, I’ve put everything Tomàs and I have into the business. All that time and money. We were on track to make a decent profit this year.” Her hands flew rapidly in small gestures with every word as she grew more indignant. “Not that any of it matters now—my lease runs out next month. I went to his house yesterday to see if he’d reconsider, but he wouldn’t even talk to me.”
Desi winced and held her stomach with both hands.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, icy dread churning in my stomach. “Is it the baby?”
“Just a little Braxton Hicks contraction. I’ve been having them all morning. It’ll pass—stop being such a worrywart.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I worry about you. With your history, you need to put your legs up and relax, not be on your feet all day. When I come back this afternoon to train on the cash register, I’m going to make you take a break.”
“You sound just like Tomàs.” Desi removed her hands from her belly to take another sip of coffee. “I made it to thirty-seven weeks
with Anthony, and my doctor said everything is going great with this pregnancy—my blood pressure is just fine so far. There’s no reason to think it will happen again.” Her face darkened, and I could tell she was thinking about the little girl she had lost.
“So what did Mr. Westen say? Will the sale happen immediately, or do you have time to make alternate plans?” I hoped a change of subject would distract her from her thoughts.
“He’s in talks with the developer. It looks like I’m going to lose the place at the end of my lease. I can’t afford to buy the building—not if I’m competing with a developer.”
“Isn’t this a historic site?” I looked around. The BeansTalk building had been built next door to the historic lighthouse in the early 1900s to house the lighthouse keeper and their family. I couldn’t imagine it being replaced with modern steel and glass condos looming high over the lighthouse grounds.
“Nope, it hasn’t previously been designated as such—that’s a perk of being on the town council. Westen’s managed to use his position to block the historic designation every time it’s come up. And now he’s going to cash in. I’m going to create a petition for people to sign to make it a historic preservation site, but who knows if that will work.”
“I’m so sorry, Desi. I know how much the BeansTalk means to you. Maybe you could move it to a new location?”
She sighed. “It wouldn’t be the same. There aren’t any other waterfront locations available and so much of my business comes from the ferry traffic. I’m afraid I’ll have to shut down the café. Business has been booming lately, and I had planned to tell my parents soon I’d be leaving my job at the Boathouse to work here full-time. So much for that dream.”
Jingle, jingle. The bells on the front door chimed, signifying Desi had a customer.
“I’ve got to go.” She nodded at the customer waiting in front of the espresso counter. “I need every sale I can get.” She pushed herself up from the wooden chair, rubbed her back, and trod slowly down the ramp, her hand tracing the wrought-iron railing. I drained my cup, tidied up our dishes, and sat back for a minute in my chair.
Outside, seagulls strutted their stuff on the lighthouse grounds, and waves lapped at the pebbled beach. Inside, artwork for sale by local artists lined the walls of the main café space. In the children’s play area, Desi had painted a bright mural of vines and sky, a scene straight out of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Local writing and moms groups met weekly at the BeansTalk and students studied there, fueled by caffeine and sugar. The community needed the café, and its demise would leave a void in the tapestry of small-town life.
My stomach twisted into a series of knots at the thought of a developer getting their hands on this property. Small mom-and-pop businesses like the BeansTalk were part of what made Ericksville a family-friendly and cozy place to live. We needed to support local businesses and not allow a corrupt town council to line their own pockets with money from developers. In the past, I’d harbored a strong dislike for Mr. Westen. Now I wanted to kill him.
Desi was deep in conversation with a woman whose tailored blouse and pencil skirt were a telltale sign she was on a break from her office job. After I cleaned off our table, I waved goodbye and left the café. Before we set off for the beach, Goldie and I stopped off at the Elmer’s Sea of Fish walk-up window. I hadn’t wanted to disturb Desi while she was with a customer, but I desperately needed a shot of something after hearing about Mr. Westen ruining Desi’s livelihood. I would have preferred it to be a shot of tequila, but considering it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet, I settled for a double-shot latte. While I waited, the lunch crowd began to arrive, calling out their fried fish orders at the first window and paying at the next window. A woman who must have been a tourist made the mistake of standing in the pay line before ordering and threw a fit when she was instructed to go stand in the other line first. I tried to hide a smile as I walked past her. I’d made the same mistake the first time Adam had taken me to Elmer’s. I sipped my coffee and tried to relax as I walked past the marina to get to the beach entrance.
7
Once there, Goldie tugged at the leash insistently. I held Ella off to the side and swigged the last bit of coffee before throwing the cup in a trash can. The best part of living in Ericksville was the proximity to Puget Sound. The dog lived for the days I let him run on the beach—with an extendable leash of course. A nice long walk with sand under my feet and the sound of waves lapping peacefully at the shore was exactly what I needed to clear my head. Even Ella cooperated by taking her morning nap in her front carrier.
We strolled away from the ferry dock and the beachgoers who had come out in droves on the beautiful spring morning. Goldie pulled me toward a flock of seagulls, his golden ears flapping, and exuberantly scattered the birds. Behind us, the ferry’s horn bellowed and the boat chugged away from the dock. The wind had picked up a little, and whitecaps floated on the waves. In the water, sailboats picked up speed, their brightly colored sails fluttering in the wind. A jogger I’d never seen before passed me going the opposite direction and said “Hello” under his breath. I smiled back and returned the greeting as he breezed by. This was small-town living.
Goldie and I continued on down the beach, past the No Trespassing sign at the end of the public beach. Mr. Westen’s house sat on the hillside above the beach, and he owned the adjoining land all the way down to the low-tide mark. His car hadn’t been in the driveway when we’d walked past this morning, so I assumed he’d left on his fishing trip and wouldn’t be around to complain about any trespassers. Gazing up into the trees, I caught a glimpse of our gray-blue Craftsman-style house peeking out from behind his house.
I sat on a log facing the water, and Goldie nosed around at a piece of dried seaweed glued to a piece of driftwood by sand and saltwater. I slipped my shoes and socks off and pushed my feet into the sand. Under a damp top layer, the sand remained dry and sifted gently between my toes. I breathed deeply of the air—salty, with a hint of creosote from the ferry landing pilings. In the distance, children laughed on the playground. As if by magic, the stress and anger I’d experienced earlier melted away.
Sometimes I felt like pieces of the woman I had been before having kids slipped away from me, year by year. I’d given up my career and independence when Mikey was born. But was being “just” Ella and Mikey’s mommy such a bad thing?
I glanced down at the still sleeping Ella and was grateful to have had the moments I’d experienced with her and her older brother. Still, it felt like a large part of me was missing.
It wouldn’t hurt to find out if there was a place for me in the working world. Desi had her café, and Brenda had her real-estate business. They both managed to balance their home life and work responsibilities. It could be done. But at what cost? And what would the kids’ lives be like if both Adam and I had busy careers?
I checked my watch. Almost eleven. If I called now, I might be able to return Gena’s call and catch her at work, or leave a message for her to call me back. Before I could chicken out, I clicked on Gena’s phone number and hit Send. After three rings, I expected my call to go to voicemail, but to my surprise, Gena’s no-nonsense voice came over the line.
“Hello, Gena speaking.”
“Hi, Gena, it’s Jill Andrews.”
“Oh, hi, Jill, I’m so glad you called back.” Gena relaxed and her voice bubbled out of the phone. In the background, I heard the sound of a pen tapping rhythmically against her desk and the chatter of muffled voices. “I had cocktails with a friend earlier this week, and she mentioned that Palmer and Diggs is searching for a marketing manager. It sounded right up your alley, so I told her all about you. She’s eager to meet you.”
“Oh.” I was quiet for a moment. “That sounds… great.”
“You don’t sound as enthusiastic as I’d have thought,” Gena said. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. That sounds like a fantastic opportunity. I would love to speak with her to find out i
f I’m a good fit for the position.” It didn’t hurt to check things out and I didn’t want to burn any bridges with Gena before assessing the job. I rested my hand on Ella’s sleeping form and smoothed the covering over her bare head to block the breeze off the water. “Full disclosure, though, I haven’t completely decided if I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Well, just give her a call to find out and go from there. Now where did I put her phone number?”
I heard rustling and I imagined Gena rummaging around for a business card in the giant leather suitcase she called a handbag.
Goldie barked sharply three times from behind me and tugged at the leash.
“Cut it out,” I whispered loudly to the dog. I pushed myself up from the beach log to avoid having Goldie pull Ella and I backwards.
“What’s going on?” Gena asked.
Before I could answer her, Goldie tore the leash out of my hand and galloped across the railroad tracks to the base of the hillside. I struggled to force my feet into my Nikes but gave up and chased barefoot after him. On the far side of the tracks, he nudged at a piece of red and green cloth sticking up over the side of a tree that had fallen off the eroding cliff. At first glance, it looked like a Christmas decoration.
I ran over to him as fast as I could with bare feet and noticed the plaid flannel cloth hung on something. A second glance told me that something was a human arm. And attached to the arm was a very dead body.
“Gena, I’ve got to go.” I hung up the phone before she could answer.
8
I yanked Goldie away by his collar as I blindly retreated backward, not pausing until I had passed the railroad tracks. My heart raced. Was that who I thought it was?