One Summer

by JoAnn Ross

  “Yeah. I started out using film, but digital’s faster when you want to get the photos out of a war zone fast. Besides, there were a lot of guys who liked having copies to send home to families.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Gabe shrugged. Like sweet, nice wasn’t a word he was accustomed to being used to describe him.

  “People, if they think about it at all, believe military photographers exist to take photos of medal ceremonies, or document wars. Which are both part of the job. But I always thought of it as capturing moments in history.”

  “There’s a difference between documenting a war and capturing history?”

  “I never thought about the fact that I was filming battles. What interested me was showing troops coping as best as they can in conditions civilians couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares.”

  “Yet in order to capture those historic moments, you had to take as many risks and suffer the same hardships they experienced.”

  Gabe shrugged. “I was a Marine first. A photographer second. Though,” he admitted, “after Fallujah, I started carrying a helluva lot more rounds of ammunition.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d smiled until she said, “You should do that more often.”

  “What?”

  “Smile. It makes you look . . . well, less threatening.”

  “Are you threatened by me?”

  “No.” She tilted her head and studied him. “Should I be?”

  He gave her a hard, level look. “Probably. An ex told me I was the angriest man she’d ever known. Shortly before she left me.”

  “I’m sorry. But perhaps she needed an excuse to do what she already wanted to do for her own reasons.”

  The walls of the room had begun closing in on him. Gabe felt on the verge of suffocating. “And maybe she was right.” His curt tone declared the topic closed.

  Her hand absently stroked the dog’s head as her verdant green eyes swept over him, making him feel as if he was being examined. Which, of course, he was.

  “And maybe,” she suggested mildly, “you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I realize some people might consider it overly simplistic, but I tend to judge people by the way they treat children and animals.” She glanced down at the dog, who wagged his tail, then back up at him. “You interrupted your plans and intervened to possibly save this little guy’s life today. That is not exactly the behavior of an angry man.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that analysis, Gabe said nothing.

  6

  Reading had brought Adèle Douchett a great deal of pleasure for more than six decades, first in childhood, serving as a magic carpet to carry her away to lands far from her isolated Louisiana bayou home, and later serving as a much-needed bit of brightness during the long, gloomy Oregon coast winters. But she’d been reading the same page now for what seemed like hours, and as soon as she’d finish a line, it would be as if her memory were a soap bubble that would immediately pop. So she’d begin again. And again.

  The sound of the clock on the wall seemed inordinately loud. And slow. Click . . . Click . . . Click . . .

  Finally giving up, she decided to turn to knitting more clothing for Harbor Home, a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. Only to discover that she’d forgotten to buy the yarn she’d been planning to use for a sweater.

  “It’s not as if you don’t have plenty of other yarn,” she muttered as she looked at the baskets overflowing with colorful balls in a rainbow of hues on the shelves her husband had built for her in their bedroom. “Just use something else.”

  The only problem was, she’d had her heart set on “Peace Pink,” a soft pastel shade she thought was not only a soothing color but also appropriate, since the women and children living at Harbor Home had definitely gone there seeking not just safety but peace.

  Unfortunately, her son and her daughter-in-law, with whom she lived, had gone into Tillamook to buy supplies for their bait shop. And her husband was out at sea with their grandson. A group of insurance men from Eugene who’d won a fishing trip in a sales contest had chartered Cole’s boat. Since she knew her Bernard still missed his days as a commercial fisherman, she’d merrily waved him off this morning, promising that she’d stay home while he was gone.

  As much as she loved her family, she was looking forward to a little alone time. She was also getting weary of their hovering over her as if she were an infant. She was seventy-four years old. She might not have traveled the world, as her three grandsons had done while in the military, and perhaps her memory wasn’t as sharp as it had been when she’d been younger, but she wasn’t ready for the old folks’ home, yet.

  She’d been living in Shelter Bay for fifty-four years. Although the town had experienced changes over time, much had stayed the same as it had been when she’d first arrived as a young bride after Hurricane Audrey had devastated the Louisiana bayou and shut down the shrimping business for a time. Figuring that crabbing wouldn’t be all that different, her husband, Bernard, had packed what was left of their belongings in his old Ford pickup, and brought her here to Oregon.

  Adèle had gotten a job working as a companion and housekeeper for Sylvia Blackwell, the widow of a timber baron, who’d opened her eyes to a larger world. Sylvia had not only shared tales of her travels; the wealthy woman had a vast library in the cliff house that she’d encouraged Adèle to use.

  “It’s not as if I just fell off a crab boat,” Adèle reminded herself.

  What she’d done was fall down the stairs at the house her grandson was now living in, hitting her head when she’d reached the bottom. Dr. Conway, who was not only a very bright neurologist but also the mother of the young woman with whom her grandson Sax was obviously in love, had diagnosed her with a form of dementia. That had been the bad news. The good news was that unlike “normal” dementia, she shouldn’t get worse, and might even get better. But any recovery would, Dr. Conway had said, take time.

  Unfortunately, unlike her husband, Adèle had never been known for her patience.

  She looked up at the clock. It wasn’t yet noon. She had plenty of time to walk the few blocks to the Knitting Nook and be back before the rest of the family returned. They’d never even know she left the house.

  And maybe she’d stop at Take the Cake and pick up some of those coconut-lemon cupcakes she’d become so fond of since Cole’s fiancée had brought them home from the wedding-cake tasting.

  “See?” she said to herself. “Your memory can’t be that bad. You remember those.” Of course that might be because they were the best dessert she’d ever tasted. Although the sun was shining through the clouds, it was misting, a light, silvery rain that around these parts was known as “liquid sunshine.” Slipping on a hooded sweater she’d knit in a soft and airy purple fingerling yarn that accented her dark eyes, she fetched her pocketbook and left the house.

  The mist hadn’t kept anyone indoors. This was, after all, the Oregon coast, where rain was to be expected. Tourists crowded the sidewalks, many carrying containers of crab from the takeaway shops, eating ice-cream cones, or digging into white bags of saltwater taffy. Along with its fishing fleet, Shelter Bay survived on tourism, so it was good to see the local shops doing a brisk business.

  The harbor came alive every morning at sunrise, boats chugging out in search of lingcod, rockfish, along with trophy salmon, halibut, tuna, and Dungeness crab during the seasons. And then there were those taking tourists out to visit the pod of whales that lived in the waters just offshore.

  The air was tinged with the scent of salt and faraway places; sea lions lounged on docks, barking to one another; a gull swooped down and grabbed up a crab nearly half his size. Unable to hang on to it, he dropped it onto the rocks, where it was quickly attacked by more opportunistic gulls.

  Having been brought up in the steamy Southern bayou, Adèle had admittedly taken a while to get used to life in the Pacific Northwest, but now, after all these deca
des, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  The Knitting Nook was less than half a mile away. She’d been there so many times, she could probably make the walk in her sleep. She strolled along Harbor Boulevard, turned right on Sea Stack Road, left on Parkside Drive, and up the hill, where the bronze statue of a young woman looking out to sea, waiting for her fisherman husband’s return, was the centerpiece of an emerald green expanse of grass. The gardens were in full bloom, the glossy-leafed azaleas boasting a dazzling display of red, pink, yellow, and orange bushes that reminded her of a summer sunset over the ocean.

  A group of children were scrambling over a crayon-colored jungle gym while their mothers, clad in hooded rain parkas, sat chatting on a fir green bench. One of the mothers, a stroller by her side, saw Adèle and waved. Although Adèle didn’t recognize her, she smiled and waved back.

  Then, continued on her quest.

  For . . . what?

  She froze in her tracks.

  It’s not that difficult. She took a deep breath that was meant to soothe and clear her mind. It didn’t. Just think back to what you were doing when you decided to leave the house.

  Her mind, which was beginning to panic, was blank.

  Surely she couldn’t have been gone for very long. Shelter Bay wasn’t that large. And she’d walked over every inch of it during her time living here. So if she knew where she was headed, she’d know why she’d gone out.

  But even if she knew what she’d left the house to get, it wouldn’t help her. Because as she looked around in a slow circle, taking in the tidy row of shops and houses with their colorful wind socks blowing in the sea breeze, the gleaming white pillar of a lighthouse flashing its light, as it did every day and night, the iron bridge over the bay, connecting the town to the coast, she had absolutely no idea where she was.

  Calm down.

  The trick, she’d learned, was not to get flustered. Which was difficult to do with her heart racing and her blood pounding in her ears.

  She took another deep breath. Then another. In. The sound of the foghorn from the Shelter Bay lighthouse tolled its warning. Out.

  Again. In. Out.

  Her legs had turned wobbly. Afraid they’d crumble beneath her, she began half walking, half stumbling along, convinced that if she just kept moving forward, something, someone, would look familiar and her world would be back in its usual calm place.

  The clouds covered the sun and although it was June, the temperature began to drop. One thing about this part of the country—if you didn’t like the weather, all you had to do was wait ten minutes and it would change.

  See. Adèle experienced a glimmer of optimism. You remember that old saying. So, surely she’d figured out where she was. And how to get home again. Because whatever she’d gone out for no longer seemed all that important.

  She sank down on a blue bench and clasped her hands tightly together. Despite the chill, beads of sweat formed on her forehead and at the nape of her neck. If she hadn’t already passed through the change, she’d think she was having a hot flash.

  Gulls trailed a blue fishing boat, their strident squalls sounding unnaturally loud. The iron bay bridge began to tilt as her head spun.

  Afraid she was going to create a scene by passing out, she closed her eyes. Felt the pain as her fingernails dug into the backs of her hands, even as she welcomed it because it was a tattered link with reality.

  “Mrs. Douchett?”

  The soft voice made her jump. Her eyes flew open. Startled, she looked up and saw a lovely young woman standing in front of the bench. Her hair was pulled back in a tail beneath a red baseball cap and her eyes were filled with concern.

  “I’m sorry.” Adèle wiped her damp brow and tried to place a name to the somewhat familiar face. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “I’m Charity Tiernan,” the woman said.

  Prayers of faith, hope, and charity were a standard childhood morning routine when Adèle was growing up. And didn’t 1 Corinthians 13:13 read, “And now there remain faith, hope, and charity, these three: but the greatest of these is charity”?

  If she could remember all that, why did she have no idea who this person was?

  Dr. Tiernan,” the woman clarified gently. “I’m a veterinarian.”

  Relief flooded over her as recognition dawned. “You’re the one Maureen and Lucien got their new dog from.” Her son and her daughter-in-law had adopted their coonhound, Laffitte, from the veterinarian’s no-kill shelter after their previous hound had died.

  “That would be me.”

  “You also put their other Laffitte to sleep.”

  “Again, me.” Her gentle eyes turned a little sad at that, reminding Adèle that her son and daughter-in-law had told her the veterinarian had made the emotionally painful process soothing and even dignified. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. “Do you need help?”

  It was hard to admit failings to anyone. Let alone a person she barely knew. But Adèle felt safe with Charity Tiernan. Also, she had no idea how long she’d been gone. She certainly didn’t want Bernard to return home and discover her missing. Wouldn’t that upset everyone?

  “I’m afraid I’m lost,” she said. She drew in a deep breath and decided to go for it. “And a little confused.”

  Usually people got a serious, worried look on their faces whenever she’d reluctantly admit to that. But the vet surprised her by laughing.

  “Aren’t we all from time to time?”

  The young woman shifted the bag she was carrying in her right hand to her left. The bag was white, with the name Tidal Wave Books printed over a big blue wave.

  “Were you here to buy a book?” Charity Tiernan asked.

  Adèle thought about that. She’d bought a great many books at the store over the years. But . . .

  “I don’t think so.” She felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t remember.”

  She liked that the veterinarian didn’t fuss over her, but merely said matter-of-factly, “I’d never remember a thing if I didn’t make lists. Then I usually forget and leave the list at home, which isn’t all that much help. So, since my shopping is done, and whatever you were out to get probably isn’t all that important anyway, what would you say to stopping by Take the Cake on the way home for some coffee and—”

  “I was going to have a cupcake.” The memory hit like a bolt of lightning from the lowering sky. “Lemon coconut.”

  “One of my favorite kinds, although lately I’ve gotten hooked on the tropical island. It’s like a Hawaii vacation in a cake.”

  After flashing her a dazzling smile that warmed even as it reassured, Charity Tiernan took out her cell phone, scrolled through her list, and said, “I’ll call the Douchetts and tell them we’re having a girls’ day out and you’ll be home in a while.”

  Adèle nearly wept with relief. “Thank you.”

  The phone call was brief, to the point, and mentioned no facts about how the veterinarian had found her in an embarrassing state of confusion. As the young woman gently braced her arm, Adèle remembered that Take the Cake was on Harborview, just three blocks from Lucien and Maureen’s bait shop.

  While the veterinarian chattered merrily about the weather and the book she’d bought—a photo book by that Marine who’d been taking pictures at Adèle’s grandson’s wedding—Adèle thought that once again Corinthians had gotten it right—the greatest of these was Charity.

  Her eldest grandson was now happily married. Sax, her middle one, after giving his mother more than a few gray hairs over the years, was engaged. Which left the youngest, J.T., who was currently serving in Afghanistan. But even Marines couldn’t fight all the time. Maybe she should suggest her daughter-in-law invite Dr. Charity Tiernan to J.T.’s welcome-home party.

  The matchmaking fantasy had Adèle smiling as they walked together down the hill toward the bay.

  7

  The military, which couldn’t exist without acronyms, had one that Gabe thought fit this dam
n dog situation perfectly: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. What the Fuck.

  After separating from the Marines, he’d taken off without any plans in mind other than to wander the country he’d been away from for seemingly forever and take his photos as they occurred to him. The plan was to have no plans.

  Which was why the dangerously appealing Dr. Charity Tiernan didn’t fit into the scheme. She was, he determined, the empress of planning. How else could she have gotten through veterinary school and managed to run both a clinic and a shelter? And wasn’t she already planning to hook him up for life with that mutt?

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  Gabe didn’t have room in his life for any damn dog. And especially not for any vet, even if she did smell like temptation and have him thinking things he had no business thinking.

  Gabe had trudged through the hellhole of Iraq, across the mountains of Afghanistan in both blizzards and sandstorms that had pitted his night-vision goggles. He’d sweated in jungles and fought night hand-to-hand combat in countries most Americans would never have heard of, let alone been able to find on a map.

  He’d had bad guys trying to kill him more times than he could count. And, in turn, though his job was technically to take photos, there’d been firefights when he’d killed more than he wanted to think about counting. Admittedly, he’d always felt himself invincible when viewing the most deadly firefight through the lens of his Nikon. But never, in all his years, had he run across anyone who represented more danger than Shelter Bay’s vet.

  She had him remembering a time when he’d believed anything was possible. When he’d thought that sometimes, for a very chosen few, life really could have a happily forever-after ending, like those TV movie matinees his mother used to watch every afternoon.

  There’d been something between Dr. Charity Tiernan and him. More than a spark. Something deeper. Something that, if he had any sense, would have him running for the hills.