Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  “Sure, we know every last thing about everybody else. It seems intrusive, and it feels that way at times. But it’s also like a kind of big security blanket. To think that a whole town can know every last thing about you, and you’re still welcome, still valued, still loved. No matter what.” She grinned. “Beats even a dog for unconditional love. And you don’t have to walk it twice a day.”

  Alex laughed at her analogy, even as Delia’s words made her think. “I guess so. Thanks for sharing with me, anyway. That might not be a big deal to you, but for me . . . it is.”

  “I can’t claim to know what it’s like, living out there with no security net like you do. Maybe the thrill of it and the uncertainty is as addictive to you as the steady foundation and security of community is necessary for me. I expect I’ll figure it out when you share some stories about your adventures. We’re all curious, by the way. So start talkin’ already.” Delia smiled. “Who knows, you might surprise yourself and end up with a few more friends. To answer your other question—there have been a few men in my life since Henry, but none I’d marry. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”

  “Did you want it to be?”

  “Well, I married Henry, didn’t I? But after Granny was gone and I had this place, it was like . . . I got to take care of everyone here. Feed them, listen to their stories. I had my family. Never really could see bringing kids into the picture, so I didn’t need to disappoint yet another husband in that area.” Delia’s grin turned a bit devilish. “Not that men aren’t good for a few other things. But when I want other needs taken care of, well, that’s what summer tourists are for. They’re here, they’re fun, then they’re gone before they can talk.”

  Alex laughed at that. “Smart. No muss, no fuss.”

  Delia laughed, too. “Well, I’m not saying that for the right man I wouldn’t have minded getting a bit mussed and fussed over, but . . .” She lifted a shoulder.

  “You talk like you’re one foot in the grave. You don’t even qualify for a midlife crisis yet. So, you never know. Could still happen.”

  “I was forty-two last month, but some days it feels like double that. I’m not saying never, but if it did happen? Well, let’s just say it will be a bigger shock to me than anyone else, and that’s saying quite a bit.”

  “You know what they say, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. So . . . you just never know.”

  “No, I guess you don’t. I mean, who expected you? But I’m glad you’re here. And clearly so is our very fine and very eligible police chief.” Delia wiggled her eyebrows. “Now there’s a man it would be a shame to waste. How he’s kept his bachelor membership card this long, I’ll never know. But if he’s set his sights on you, well . . . that’s a life plan I’d say is worth considering, you know?”

  Before Alex could even decide how to respond to that, Delia went on. “Okay, now I really have to get down there and prep for lunch rush. Meatloaf sandwiches on the menu today from last night’s dinner special. Better today, if you ask me. Come down later and we’ll talk turkey. And dressing.”

  Alex grinned, thinking it was a good thing she wanted to go along with that plan, since most likely Delia would just wear her down anyway. “Okay. I have appointments, but I’ll be back before dinnertime.”

  Alex shivered a little as the cool air whipped in when Delia let herself out. Even after the door closed, she remained where she stood, thinking what the hell just happened?

  It was . . . well . . . she didn’t quite know what it was, or what she thought about it, but she was smiling, and her brain didn’t feel as jumbled as it had when she’d left Pelican Point that morning, or maybe it was just jumbled in a new way. Whatever it was, she’d have to think about it later. The hardware store would already be open and she needed to talk to Owen.

  About the lighthouse. Oh boy.

  She grabbed her clipboard from the couch and fished out her truck keys, Delia’s summation echoing through her mind the whole time. You don’t look ready. She let herself out and used her new key to lock the door to her newest temporary home. “Yeah, well, this is apparently as ready as it gets,” she said under her breath as she trotted down the back steps.

  She hoped Owen’s enthusiasm would add some of the calm she’d sought as she’d stared out over the harbor, or at the very least make her feel more confident about the next step she was about to take. If everyone did indeed know about her dad, maybe she wouldn’t have to explain to Owen why she was going to be a wee bit shaky about the whole thing. Or a lot shaky.

  Five minutes later, she was standing on the sidewalk in front of Hartley’s Hardware, peering through the window of the locked front door. There was no note taped to it, and the sign clearly said he opened at nine. It was half past already.

  She drummed her fingers on the back of her clipboard, then looked down, made a face at herself, and lowered the damn thing to her side. “How else do you carry a clipboard if not up against your body?”

  Irritated more with herself than Owen’s unexpected absence, she turned and looked down Harbor Street. Maybe he’d stopped by one of the other shops that lined the narrow road, which angled downhill to the water and wrapped around the harbor, hence the name. Her luck, he was probably back at Delia’s having breakfast.

  A brisk wind chose that moment to swirl down the skinny brick sidewalk, catching the papers on her clipboard. No longer shielded by her body, they were snatched right off and sent tumbling through the air like so many autumn leaves off a tree.

  “See?” she grumbled, jumping around like a crazy person, trying to snag the sheets before they got completely away from her. She stepped on several and managed to grab a few from the air. Trapping them against her chest with the empty clipboard, she chased after several more, got two, but the last one taunted her halfway up a short side street, which angled uphill at a steep rise. When she finally managed to trap the last sheet under her boot, she snatched it, only to look up and see she was standing across the road from that cool antiques store she’d noticed on her first drive into town. It was kind of hard to miss.

  “Mossy Cup Antiques,” she read off the beautifully hand-carved sign hanging from the gingerbread trim that ran along the top of the wraparound porch. Her gaze shifted upward and she framed her forehead with her hand so she could lean back and take in the entirety of the huge, majestic oak . . . which appeared to grow right up through the center of the boxy, quaint-looking shop. From the moment she’d first laid eyes on it, she had been completely charmed by the very idea of the place, and had intended to double back, check it out more closely. Then the tire blew out and she had that whole unfortunate fainting incident—which had led to her meeting Logan and getting all caught up in . . . well . . . everything . . . and she’d never made it back.

  “No time like the present.” She grinned again as she caught sight of the whimsical brass croquet mallet that formed the door handle. “And further down the rabbit hole you go, Alice,” she murmured as she opened the door and let herself in. A waterfall chime echoed as the door closed behind her, not loud or brassy, but musical and delicate.

  The beautifully restored antique pieces, each one more unique than the last, would normally have been more than enough to snag her complete attention, but she was immediately drawn to the tree instead. Its bark was deeply grooved and knotted, the trunk thick and wide, and real, she realized, running her hand over the rough surface. Maybe it was the whimsy of the Alice in Wonderland door handles, but she could easily picture a little door and windows set in the massive trunk. Those little cookie-baking elves came to mind.

  She stepped back so she could take it all in, imagining three or four people with arms outspread having a hard time encircling the base of the oak. It was all trunk halfway up to the apex of the open, wood-beam-supported roof, but up there it branched out with thick, sturdy limbs that extended upward through the roof via their own, specially created slots. The main thrust of the tree grew through the largest hole in the ce
nter of the roof, joining the other limbs to spread out in the umbrella of branches she’d seen from the sidewalk. She imagined in the spring and summer, when the branches were thick with leaves, they’d form something of a protective cap over the shop.

  And in the shop, for that matter. She wondered how often the owner had to rake the leaves up in the fall, inside her own shop. Alex glanced at the restored pieces of hand-crafted art and wondered how that might affect them, too.

  She looked up again. From inside, the apex of the roof was too high up and too obscured by the tree itself for her to see how the windows and main central hole had been crafted so as to keep out the weather and any critters who’d like to make the tree into a home. It made her itch to get up on the roof and check it out for herself.

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  Alex turned to find a tall, severe-looking older woman standing several yards behind her. She appeared to be in her eighties, though it was kind of hard to tell. Her gray hair was pulled back in a smooth, tight bun. She wore a floral dress buttoned up to the neck, then a surprisingly charming, gaily designed shop apron over it. On closer inspection, it was actually a stitched scene from The Velveteen Rabbit. The whimsy of it seemed at odds with the stern expression and tone.

  Alex looked around, but when she saw there wasn’t anyone else in the shop, she realized the woman had been speaking to her. “I’m sorry?”

  “You should be. I’d have thought you’d have made time before now.”

  Alex blinked, and thought maybe her Alice in Wonderland prediction had been more prescient than she’d anticipated. “I—uh, I’m Alex. Alexandra MacFarland,” she said, wondering if the woman might have her confused with someone else.

  The older woman huffed. “I might be old, but I’m not senile. I know who you are.”

  Alex finally managed to gather at least some of her wits back around her. “Well then, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “If you’d come in when you first got here, we could have taken care of that bit of business, now couldn’t we?”

  Okay, she had fallen down the rabbit hole. There was no other explanation for this Jabberwockyesque conversation.

  “I did see your shop when I drove into town and it’s been on my to-do list. I’m sorry I haven’t made it in until now.” She glanced back at the tree. “It’s truly magnificent.” She glanced back to the woman in the apron. “I’m guessing you’re the owner?”

  “Eula March. You can call me Eula. And that I am. Shop has been in my family longer than the Cove has had its name. The tree is a mossy cup oak. Hence the name.”

  Alex smiled, charmed despite the lack of anything that could come close to being described as such in the owner’s demeanor. She looked at the oak tree again. “It’s . . . fantastic. And fantastical.” She pressed her palm against the bark again, purely because it seemed to call to her to do so. Then, realizing that might be frowned upon—she hadn’t yet looked for a sign indicating she shouldn’t—she pulled her hand away.

  “If it calls you to touch it, then do as it asks.”

  Alex glanced at Eula. “I don’t know why, but you’re right, it does seem to do that. Maybe it’s the idea of how long it’s stood here, how many stories it could tell. I can almost envision a band of faeries and nymphs and other fantastical beings living in its branches and under its roots.” She let out a short laugh, feeling her cheeks warm. Despite the whimsy of the name and the very idea of the tree being there in the first place, the current March proprietor didn’t strike Alex as being a remotely whimsical sort.

  A look in Eula’s direction showed the woman was quietly studying her, and yet she said nothing.

  Alex turned away from the tree, but continued to feel it at her back, like a sentinel of sorts, a friendly one. It was . . . comforting . . . in the same way lighthouses used to make her feel.

  She turned her attention to the finished pieces that were for sale. “These are remarkable,” she said, completely sincere. “Each piece is unique.” She stepped over to a gorgeous sideboard with a glossy surface and intricately hand-carved panels on the cabinet doors. She bent down and studied the detail, marveled over the lovingly preserved and beautifully hand polished work that made the grain in the rich cherrywood glow with warmth.

  From there, feeling the effects of Eula’s focused, silent attention and the warm, protective sensation that she assumed came from being in the shadow of the tree, she moved on to a dainty, padded footstool with a beautifully detailed peacock embroidered into the fabric stretched over the pillowy top. “Do you do all the restoration work yourself?” she asked, truly curious, but also wanting—needing—to break the growing silence.

  “These could be reproductions.”

  Alex straightened and looked at Eula. “But they’re not. I know my work is on buildings and lighthouses, not furnishings, but I understand craftsmanship, and these pieces weren’t made in some factory.”

  “Could be I find them already restored.”

  Alex frowned. Why was the woman being so perverse?

  “Could be”—Alex nodded toward the shop apron—“except it looks like you’ve got a little linseed stain there on the front pocket, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s four-aught steel wool peeking out from the top of the other one.” She met the woman’s steely gaze. “Besides, where’s the joy in selling pieces after somebody else gets to do all the fun parts first?” It was a total guess, but as Eula didn’t remotely strike her as a natural born saleswoman, Alex assumed the old woman didn’t get her pleasure from the sale-making part of the process. Although, for all Alex knew, it was possible Eula hated everything having to do with the business and resented being stuck with it.

  Eula studied her for another moment, and, not entirely sure why, Alex met her gaze and held it. Then the old woman abruptly nodded and turned away. “You’ll do.”

  “Do . . . for what?”

  “Like I said. It’s about time.” Eula headed to the back of the shop and with that, it appeared their conversation was over. She disappeared through a half-open, sliding panel door in the rear corner.

  Alex didn’t even pause. She followed right behind her, knowing she should have turned and walked out. “What did you mean?”

  She immediately lost track of the conversation, because she was too busy staring, slack-jawed, at the workshop spread out before her. There were three rows of long wood tables, framed with a scattering of short benches, stools, and other wood boxes on either side.

  The walls were filled with custom shelves and tiny drawers, most filled with tools, furniture parts, supplies, and other odds and ends. She assumed the drawers held hardware and things like that. The tables were covered with a variety of different antique pieces in various stages of restoration. None of which, in itself, was particularly odd or surprising.

  She was standing there with her mouth hanging open because the size of the room was easily three times the square footage that could possibly fit within the four walls of the whole shop. If there had been some kind of addition off the back of the shop, she’d have seen it from the street.

  “Unless you plan to help here, I’ve got work to do.”

  Alex pulled it together enough to close her mouth and look at Eula stationed on the far side of the table farthest from the panel door. She was using the steel wool from her apron pocket to work on a set of what looked like old brass doorknobs.

  “I—it looks interesting,” Alex said politely, though she realized she was being quite honest. “Is that why you thought I was here? That I needed a job? I—thank you, if that’s the case, but I’m sorry. I already have a job. Two, in fact. This all looks amazing, though, and I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”

  “Then find a piece that calls to you and get to it.”

  Alex was surprised by just how much the offer actually called to her. In fact, had it been any other time, and any other owner, she’d have likely stepped in and taken a closer look at the work. She was trul
y curious about what methods Eula used to achieve the results she got. “I-I wish I could.”

  Though she couldn’t say she was equally enthusiastic about the idea of spending any length of time holed up with Eula, she was actually sincere. “I have to meet with Owen. Then get back out to the Point. I’m going to restore the lighthouse. Along with the keeper’s cottage and the main house.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Eula looked up at her. “And yet, for someone so clear on her purpose, you’re at a crossroad, Alexandra. And not a small one. A crossroad implies there are multiple choices to be made—meaning there are other paths you could take from that intersection.” Eula’s gaze traveled the room, then landed on Alex. Actually, it felt more like it pierced her. “My question is, how can you know what other paths there might be, if you don’t open your eyes, look around you, and find out what they are?”

  “I-I don’t know.” First Delia with her find-a-friend instruction manual on how to improve her personal life, and now Eula pointing out she might want to put a little more thought into her professional one. It was all just . . . too much. Too much jumble, too much confusion, too . . . well . . . just too much.

  Jabberwocky, indeed.

  “As much as I appreciate the offer and the insight, I really need to get back to the work I’ve already signed on to do. Thank you, though.”

  “Have you ever considered what it is about your work that draws you?”

  “Making something whole,” Alex answered automatically, even though she knew she really should be going. But something about Eula compelled her to respond as if she was being challenged in some way. “I like bringing it back to life.”

  “Ever considered what else might give you that same feeling of accomplishment?”

  “You mean . . . like restoring old houses? I’ve done plenty of cottages, but it’s not—”

  “Of course it’s not. Anybody can put shakes on the side of a house.”