Absence of Grace

by Ann Warner

  Her thoughts tumbled uselessly for a moment before she was able to string words together, thanking the child but turning him down. He gave her a disappointed look. She angled away from him, biting her lip to keep from giving in and saying, on second thought, hot chocolate sounded perfect.

  And if it had been only the child, she could have managed it, but she wasn’t yet ready for the other. More questions and chat from the father, that ordinary back and forth lobbing of words. Something she seemed to have lost the knack for.

  The two left, and in their wake grief ballooned in Clen’s chest. She gripped the railing and bit down on a sob. What had she been thinking, returning here? On the basis of what? Those few days all those years ago when she’d managed for a brief time to believe happiness was possible? Although even then, she’d suspected happiness was a figment of fairy tales and the best one could expect from life was contentment, something she no longer expected to find.

  She stared at the calm waters they were passing through. Only the muted vibration from the engines and an occasional screech of a gull disturbed the stillness.

  Quiet.

  That was the real reason she’d chosen Alaska when she left the abbey.

  For the remainder of the trip, Clen avoided the boy and his father—not difficult to do given the size of the ferry. When they docked, she watched from the upper deck as the two went ashore and were greeted by a woman who loaded their duffels into a small car. Only then did she collect her own luggage and disembark.

  John Jeffers, the owner of Bear Lodge, was easy to spot, although it helped that he was leaning against the side of a van decorated with a picture of a bear and the lodge’s name. She walked toward him, past the hopeful kids who met every ferry with TV trays and cardboard boxes piled with the deep red garnets they’d dug up from a nearby garnet reef. She’d bought Paul a particularly fine specimen to use as a paperweight.

  “Mr. Jeffers?”

  “Please, call me Clen.”

  “And I prefer John. You call me mister, makes me feel old. I might be getting there, but I surely don’t want to be reminded of the fact.” Teeth flashed amid the bush of a short brown beard. He eyed her two suitcases. “That all you brought?”

  “Figured I could leave the dress-for-success stuff behind,” and what a relief that had been.

  “Hey, you got that right. Still, seems like most women can’t pass up a chance to cart around a bit of everything.” He grinned and swung her luggage into the back of the van, then opened the door for her before getting in himself and starting the engine. A relief he didn’t remember her—not that she expected him to—thus sparing her any discussion of her previous visit or questions about her companion on that visit.

  Driving away from the ferry dock, John pointed out the sights and she attempted to match this Wrangell with the one in her memory.

  “We’ve got a bit south of three thousand people on the island. Means we’re big enough you can mostly avoid those you don’t like, but small enough you better watch what you say in public.” He glanced at her and she managed a smile. “May be hard to believe today, but this was the busiest place in Alaska back during the gold rush. Downtown there burned in the fifties. When we rebuilt, we made sure there were spaces between all the buildings, and it seems to be working.”

  Next, he pointed toward the harbor. “That’s Shakes Island and the building on it is a traditional Tlingit tribal house.”

  The road curved past the small island and on toward the marina with its tangle of masts, antennas, and gear. Bear Lodge, a gray clapboard building of indeterminate pedigree, sprawled on a piece of flat ground abutting the marina, and it looked exactly as she remembered.

  John pulled up near the back door where two wooden barrels containing red geraniums flanked the porch and provided a tiny patch of splendor. A husky lying on the porch raised its head to examine Clen. Delighted, she knelt and extended knuckles for a sniff. Once she knew there would be no child, she suggested a dog, but Paul rebuffed that as well. “Too much trouble,” he’d said.

  “His name is Kody,” John said. “He was one hell of a sled dog in his day. Weren’t you, boy?” He set the suitcases down and gave the dog’s head a brisk rub. “Now, all he does is sleep and eat.”

  Inside, John led the way through the dining area with its open kitchen and long communal tables and turned into a narrow hall. At the end of the hall he opened a door and stood aside. “I hope this is okay?”

  She stepped past him and took in a quick, relieved breath. The room was bright and airy with walls painted a soft green. A window framed with gauzy curtains spanned most of one wall, and a small side window was open, letting in a fresh, clean smell—a mix of wet earth and spruce with a faint undertone of sea.

  “It’s more than okay.”

  “Glad to hear it.” John set her suitcases by the door and backed from the room. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Whenever you’re ready, give us a holler. Marian will want to go over everything with you.”

  Clen sank into the easy chair feeling a welcome release of tension. She’d put a brave face on it, but she’d been nervous—no, make that terrified—at leaving Resurrection Abbey and coming to Alaska.

  After a time she stood and began to unpack, putting clothes, books, and painting and drawing materials into their proper places, not yet thinking about the rest—the fact that in a day or so she would begin her tenure as Bear Lodge’s summer cook.

  She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath of earth and sea-scented air. It wasn’t going to be easy, but this room, the Jeffers, and Wrangell itself...maybe everything would be all right.

  Chapter Ten

  The scuttlebutt about the Jeffers’ new cook took all of fifteen minutes to make the rounds that spring, the fourth since Gerrum had moved to Wrangell. The information included the particulars that instead of the usual male cooking school graduate, the Jeffers had hired a woman. And while the woman was no spring chicken and a bit too tall to make most men comfortable, she was still worth looking at. Not to mention, her cooking wasn’t half bad. Since this constituted high praise, Gerrum finally went to the lodge for dinner to see for himself.

  John Jeffers was setting salads on the counter. “Gerrum, about time you came in.”

  “Heard you have a good cook this year.”

  “Yeah. You want to meet her? Hey, Clen, come on over here. Say hello to Gerrum Kirsey.”

  The woman was standing at the stove, with her back to them. The scuttlebutt certainly got the tall part right, and the straight posture indicated she was someone who, as a child, either didn’t give a damn she’d towered over the boys or whose mother had been relentless on the subject.

  “Sorry. Can’t leave this gravy on its own quite yet.” The voice was a good one, low-pitched and firm.

  “Hell, let me stir that.” John walked over and took the spoon away from her. “Shake hands with Gerrum. Lady’s name is Clen McClendon, Ger.”

  With obvious reluctance, she stepped toward him and extended a hand. “Gerrum?”

  “Like Jeremy without the y and spelled with a G,” he said. “A result of some really bad penmanship. I was supposed to be Gerald.” Usually that line got a smile. Not this time.

  Despite her solemnity, she had a good face, one free of artifice. Clearly, Avon calling got no answer there. Not that it was needed. And the lack of feminine fussing extended to her hair which was almost as short as his. as well as her clothing: jeans, a tailored shirt, and a chef’s jacket. The only complexity in her appearance was the expression on her face. An odd mix of wariness and determination along with a faint, mysterious hint of what appeared to be desperation.

  After the briefest of greetings, she retrieved her hand and turned back to the stove. John handed over the spoon and raised his eyebrows at Gerrum, communicating as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud, Women. Who can figure?

  Gerrum turned to check who else was at dinner. The Jeffers limited the number to fifteen and the lodge’s guests took precedenc
e over Wrangell residents, but this early in the season it was easy for locals to get a reservation.

  Tonight, there were five tourists sitting together at one of the communal tables while four Wrangell fishermen, all of whom greeted Gerrum with varying degrees of enthusiasm, sat at a second table. Sitting by herself at the third table was Hailey Connelly, another woman who wasn’t easy to figure.

  Most of Wrangell’s bachelors had quickly decided the previous summer it was wise to give her a wide berth.

  “Hey, I didn’t realize you were back.” He took the seat across from her, surprised at the burst of pleasure he felt on seeing her.

  “Then it’s a major gossip breakdown. I could have sworn Maude saw me arrive. She isn’t sick, is she?”

  Maude, who had a café on the main street, considered herself Wrangell’s one-stop shopping mecca for coffee and gossip. Precious little that happened in Wrangell escaped her attention.

  “I had a trip today. Likely made it difficult for her to track me down.”

  Hailey nodded toward the kitchen. “So, what do you think of our new addition?”

  “I hear she’s not accepting invitations up the Stikine.”

  “Oh, I expect Marian took care of warning her about that first thing. We women watch out for each other.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  Hailey shrugged. “I think she’d prefer the kitchen to be behind a closed door.”

  Gerrum glanced over at John’s cook. It was his theory that most people who ended up in Alaska were running from something, regardless of what they had to say about the matter. And he’d be willing to bet his next royalty check John’s cook wasn’t here following her dreams. He’d also be willing to listen to her real reasons for coming to Wrangell, if she ever wanted to talk.

  At the moment, however, the conversational ball was being kept in play by Rog Remington, five feet nothing and sixty if he was a day. “Well, we know she can cook but can she dance?” Rog raised his voice, directing the comment at Clen who was standing at the stove, dishing food onto a plate.

  Her back stiffened slightly in response.

  “How about it, Miz McClendon?” Rog persisted. “Bet you do a mean two-step.”

  Clen turned and carried the plate over to the counter and gave Rog a look that would have shut down a lesser man. “I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me?”

  Rog was undeterred. “Two-step, waltz, tango.” He lifted his arms. “You know, dance?”

  Clen focused on the plate as she set it down. “Rumba, mamba. I can probably name a few others, if you give me a minute.”

  “To heck with naming the dadburn things. Do you know how to do them?”

  “Sorry. I don’t dance.” With that she turned decisively back to the stove. It was a bravura performance, and Rog and his cronies exchanged chuckles. Clen rubbed at her forehead as if it hurt.

  When Rog opened his mouth, prepared to make even more of an idiot of himself, Gerrum spoke quickly. “Ran into Swerdlap today. Said he expected there to be an opening the next day or so.”

  “Better be,” Rog said. “Goddam chickenshit rangers. By the time they decide we can drop a hook, the kings’ll all be upriver.”

  “My, aren’t we the gallant one,” Hailey murmured, as Rog’s rant about Alaskan fishing regulations continued.

  Clen delivered two more plates to the counter, giving Gerrum a quick nod of gratitude. Or that was his interpretation. “Just helping out,” he told Hailey, his gaze still on Clen. “Until she gets all the assholes properly categorized.”

  “Trust me, that’s a woman who can spot an asshole at fifty paces.”

  “Doesn’t mean she might not appreciate a helping hand.”

  Hailey raised her eyebrows with delicate precision. “Just so that’s all you’re offering.”

  The proprietary tone unsettled him. He enjoyed talking to Hailey whenever they happened to meet. Uncertain he wanted more than that, he ignored the nuances lurking in her comment and made a mundane inquiry about her winter.

  “It was good. There’s always lots to do in Seattle, and I found several new artists whose work I’m adding to the gallery this year. How about you? Overheard any good conversations lately?”

  “Nope. Not a single rainy-day dull gem, but I did finish another novel this winter. Now I’m waiting to see what my editor thinks of it.”

  “I hope she likes it. I’m definitely ready for another Gabe Skyler adventure.”

  “You read my book?”

  “I’ll have you know I was first in line at the bookstore the day it came out. I expect you to sign my copy.”

  “Be happy to.” Although, he did dodge her invitation to come back to her place to do just that as they finished dinner, not a response he could readily explain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clen’s first days in Wrangell were filled with talk. There were the Jeffers. John and Marian were hospitable people, and they wanted to make sure she was settling in and learning her way around. That meant whenever they encountered her, they stopped to chat.

  And they weren’t the only ones. Clen was watching a pair of bald eagles flying around the back of the grocery store, when the butcher came out. “Getting acquainted with Ike and Tina are you?” he asked.

  “Ike and Tina?”

  “Those two.” He nodded toward the eagles. “They help me get rid of scraps. Say, ain’t I seen you around? Yeah. I know. You’re the new cook at the lodge, ain’t you?”

  She admitted she was and was relieved when the eagles swooped in and distracted him, allowing her to escape. Everybody in town seemed to know who she was. As she checked the produce section in the grocery store, the manager came over and introduced himself. A woman planting petunias gave her a tour of the salmon cannery tucked into what would otherwise be the house’s garage. And an elderly man pottering among the roses surrounding the tiny Catholic church introduced himself and invited her to Mass.

  But it wasn’t the butcher, the produce manager, or the priest who made her feel so beleaguered she considered never leaving her room except when absolutely necessary. No, that honor went to the single men who assumed she’d come to Wrangell looking for a man.

  She’d laughed when Marian said the odds of a woman finding a man in Alaska were good, but the goods were mostly odd. Now, having discovered the truth of that statement, she was no longer smiling. One by one, the odd goods had stopped her on the street or come to the lodge with offers to show her around. In three days, she’d met six men, all of whom suggested a trip to the Stikine hot springs that Marian had warned her about.

  At the sound of the back door opening, she looked up from the onions and carrots she was chopping for that night’s dinner to see the visitor was yet another fisherman wearing the Wrangell uniform of work boots, flannel shirt, and jeans.

  “How’d you do, Miss.” The man’s head jerked a bit as he glanced around. “Thought I’d be neighborly, welcome you, like. Elmer Cantrell?”

  He was the most unprepossessing of the men who’d so far approached her, and if he wasn’t sure of his name, how did he expect her to be? She nodded without speaking and continued to chop.

  “You had a chance to see some of our sights yet?”

  She shook her head, her eyes on her chopping. “I’ve been really busy.”

  “You can’t work all the time. You name the day, I’ll be happy to show you round. Maybe take us a trip to see them Stikine hot springs. You heard about them?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” Six times and counting. And the thought of going there with this latest entry to the dating game—this Elmer Cantrell?—made her feel queasy. His hair was greasy, his clothes not quite clean, and something distinctly unpleasant lurked in those muddy eyes.

  “I’m afraid I get seasick on anything smaller than a ferry.” She transferred the carrots and onions into a large roasting pan and walked over to get the meat out of the refrigerator. “That’s why I make it a rule to avoid small boats.”

  He shif
ted from foot to foot, apparently trying to decide whether she was having him on. She ignored him, rubbing salt and spices into the meat before adding it to the roasting pan along with a half bottle of red wine. After more indecisive shuffling, Cantrell finally took his leave, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She hoped she wouldn’t see him again.

  The friendly chattiness of the Wrangell residents was a striking change from the serene silence of the nuns at Resurrection, but it was the hearty teasing of the men that was an escalation she was ill-prepared to deal with.

  She went to bed every night exhausted.

  The only local man who’d received the imprimatur of a personal introduction from John Jeffers was the one with the odd name. Gerrum Kirsey. He had the dark coloring, stocky build, and slightly exotic appearance she had learned to associate with Native blood, but when he spoke, his accent held none of the local flavor.