by Karis Walsh
“Remember the house I designed last year for the Pine Meadows development? We could build one like it, but with modifications so it’d be perfect for us.” Ken started walking again, her hands in her pockets. She had been out to her acre earlier, jabbing stakes into the ground and joining them with string to demarcate the outline of a two-story home, based on one of her most popular floor plans. Ken had seen the house completed in several developments, and it wasn’t exactly what she would have designed for her space, but she knew Ginny loved it. Ken rambled on, attempting to use words to create a vision of wood and skylights, stone paths and granite countertops, in Ginny’s imagination. There’d be a weight room and gourmet kitchen for Ken. An airy sewing room for Ginny, and a huge deck where she could entertain by the light of tiki lamps. It should be perfect. Maybe, if Ken could make the fantasy seem solid and real, she’d be able to convince Ginny to stay.
“It sounds great, Ken,” Ginny said when Ken ran out of words to say. Ginny gestured around them. “But why out here? If you want to live outside the city, there are plenty of developments in Auburn or Renton. We could build our dream home and still be close enough to enjoy Seattle and see our friends.”
Ken held the door to the marina’s restaurant open for Ginny and led her past the Please seat yourself sign and onto the slatted wood patio. She knew all the suburban developments around Seattle. She had designed homes for many of them—although, driving down streets lined with beige and pastel houses, even she had a hard time distinguishing her own work from any other architect’s. The imaginary home Ken had been describing seemed more substantial to her than anything she had seen or touched.
“Do you want to at least visit the property before you decide?” Ken asked after they had scanned the menus in silence and placed their orders. She had read online reviews and menus from most of Sequim’s restaurants, researching thoroughly before she invited Ginny to lunch and to see her property. The marina had seemed perfect, with its bright white-and-blue paint creating sharp lines and clear distinctions. Nothing blurred or iffy. The menu of seasonal and fresh seafood and produce was suited to Ken’s taste, and expensive enough to prove it was on par with some of Seattle’s top restaurants. But Ken could read Ginny’s expression well enough to understand that outlining the house and choosing the restaurant had been fruitless endeavors.
“Maybe another day. This is a lot of news to process, and I need some time.”
Time. Ken realized Ginny had already made up her mind. Ken had needed a nanosecond to feel a connection to this place. Ginny had needed the same amount to decide she wouldn’t be staying here. She managed to smile and thank the waiter when he brought her drink, as if her world wasn’t spinning horribly off its axis. Property she couldn’t afford, a job she didn’t want, and a relationship about to slip out of her grasp. Gravity had gone haywire, flinging the wrong things into her life and pulling the right ones away.
Ken toyed with the delicate stem of her wineglass between sips of the chilled Willamette Valley Pinot Grigio. “Two ferries,” Ginny repeated. She picked the blue plastic skewer out of her martini glass and ate one of the olives. “And that just gets me to Mukilteo. From there, I’d still have a long commute into the city.”
Ken closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun. Even as her mind raced, her body melted in the soft heat. The hint of salt in the air and the rhythmic splash of water against the wooden dock filled her ears and nose. Her outward senses were languid and relaxed, but inside—so deep no one would be able to detect it—she was frayed and edgy. Were they really going to break up over ferry rides? Granted, she had gotten accustomed to rolling out of bed twenty minutes before she had to be at work, taking a hasty shower, and speed walking the three blocks between her apartment and her firm’s downtown Seattle office, but a place of her own was worth the extra time on the sea and the road. Besides, Ken loved the ferry rides. The sounds of calling gulls and splashing wake, the smells of diesel and fish, the taste of the ocean wind. There had been times over the past month when long ferry lines and delayed passages had left her feeling as exasperated as Ginny sounded. But then she had stood on her chunk of land, staring across the Strait of Juan de Fuca toward the San Juan Islands and Canada, as the natural beauty of the area settled her mind and soul. At those times, she knew she was willing to make whatever sacrifice necessary to be able to live on the Olympic Peninsula. Even if Ginny, and Ken’s dream of a settled partnership with a suitable woman, were part of the price.
Ken opened her eyes and sat up when the waiter brought their food. The mussels in the small cast-iron skillet he placed in front of her were still steaming in their thyme- and garlic-infused broth. Ken inhaled and caught a hint of floral notes. Lavender. Interesting. She scooped a mussel out of its shell and ate it while Ginny cut her rib eye into precise, tiny bits, as if she were performing intricate surgery.
“I thought your plan was to buy a condo in my building,” Ginny said, not looking up from her plate.
“I thought so, too,” Ken said. She and Ginny had agreed that living close to each other was good, but living in the same apartment would be challenging. Ginny’s building had seemed like an appropriate choice, fitting in perfectly with the type of places their friends had. But, like the Corvette, the acre of land brushed by ocean winds had made Ken forget her carefully formulated plans. “But I fell in love with the property.”
Ginny took a bite of her steak and chewed it thoroughly before speaking again. “Why don’t we build a little cottage there? It can be a vacation home. You can move in with me.”
Ken knew the offer had been a difficult one for Ginny to make. Allowing Ken into her private space on a permanent basis, accepting that their finances would be tied up in a property and house she really didn’t want—these hadn’t been part of Ginny’s life plan any more than buying the land had been part of Ken’s. She chewed another tender mussel and swallowed, feeling the salty sweetness of the fresh shellfish ground her in this place. She belonged here and Ginny didn’t. Simple as that.
“I want to live here full-time,” she said, reaching out to cover Ginny’s hand with her own. “This new job is going to be stressful, and I’ll need a place to get away. And until I’m certain I’ll be at Impetus longer than my two-month probationary period, I’ll need to save as much money as I can. My lease is up in Seattle, and I’ll be moving into an apartment here in Sequim. It’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper than living in the city.”
“So, that’s it? I thought we wanted the same things.”
Ken had, as well. She knew she wanted a woman like Ginny. She had already dated a string of them, confident in the general type but never finding the specific person she needed. And she wanted the life they had been building together. Her job, the condo she’d chosen, her friends—although, in truth, all their friends had originally been Ginny’s. Ken had been working toward a settled and acceptable and inconspicuous life. Why did she insist on messing up every opportunity? She had been the one to buy the property, setting in motion the events that simultaneously drove Ginny away while pushing Ken into the Impetus firm. She couldn’t blame fates or spirits when she had been the one to sign her name on the papers.
“I thought so, too,” she repeated, but most of her thoughts were centered on the strange lack of feeling she had. She had just broken up with a sexy, intelligent, fun woman, but she felt more emotional about the exceptional plate of food in front of her than about the loss of her relationship. She wouldn’t miss Ginny herself as much as she’d mourn the loss of security and legitimacy their relationship gave her. She was safe with someone like Ginny. Safe and accepted and part of society—not on the dangerous fringe.
Was she somehow incapable of feeling anything real for another woman? What was wrong with her? She continued to find the seemingly perfect woman, but constantly failed in her attempt to fall in love. To be fair, Ginny, calmly eating the rest of her steak and potatoes, seemed as little affected by the breakup as Ken was. Maybe there hadn’t been
enough emotion in the mix to cause either one of them much distress. She should be happy to have accomplished the split with minimal fuss and despair, and not paradoxically feel at a loss because she didn’t feel a sense of loss.
The waiter brought their desserts. Ken cracked open the hard shell of her crème brûlée and ate a spoonful, letting the creamy sweetness coat her tongue. She and Ginny talked easily once decisions had been made and choices were clear. They would be civil through the rest of lunch, and then Ken would drive Ginny back to the ferry landing—not because Ginny wanted Ken to take care of her, but simply because Ken needed a ride back to her car. Ken had been attracted to Ginny because she didn’t expect chivalry or protection, so she should be relieved now as they calmly parted ways. Ken would go on, putting her search for the ideal woman on hold until she could afford to get out of Impetus and back to a stable and less showy firm. In the meantime, she’d keep company with the sea, staying safe by remaining alone.
*
Ken maneuvered as carefully as she could down the road leading to her property, avoiding the deeper potholes by driving instead through the thick grass lining the private lane. “I’m sure they’ll eventually pave the road,” she promised her car with a little pat on its dashboard, although she knew eventually was a long way in the future, if ever. “There are only a few houses out here now, but maybe once the rest of the lots are sold…”
Ken’s voice trailed off. She parked on the side of the road, next to a for sale sign with a bright red Sold sticker cutting across it like a bloody gash. She got out of her car and let the now-familiar sense of peace steal over her. The land had caused her nothing but trouble, and still she couldn’t help but love it.
Most of the one-acre property was a grassy meadow, dotted with dandelions and stiff lupine. Angular fir trees bordered the property, with salal and Oregon grape clustered around the base of their trunks. Ken saw the blemishes Ginny would no doubt have noticed—the unsightly and trash-littered scar where the previous owner’s double-wide had rested until Ken had it removed, the invasive scotch broom sneaking onto the eastern edge of the lawn—but she also saw the grandeur of the spot. The energy of wind and wave as the Pacific Ocean pushed eagerly through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, calming only as it passed her house and entered Puget Sound. The hazy lumps of land that, on a clearer day, would be recognizable as Vancouver Island and the San Juans. Migrating whales and shipping traffic heading toward Seattle would parade by this place, and only a short hike down the bluff would land her on the rocky beach.
Ken walked along the path she had cut through the thick grass. Last weekend she had rented a truck and a lawn mower and had neatly trimmed the site she had picked for Ginny’s house. Today she had measured and outlined the home she had wanted to build. She stepped over the yellow twine and stood inside what would have been the spacious living room. The image of the beige two-story was already beginning to fade from her mind. Ken turned in a circle, trying to picture the walls she had been able to see this morning, but all she saw now were the trees and grass around her. Ginny’s presence was fading from this place as well.
Because she had envisioned Ginny inside the house the whole time. Ken had been able to imagine living in this place, walking along the bluff or the shore below, sitting on the lawn or under the stubby trees. But every time she had fantasized about living here with Ginny, she had been unable to visualize her outside the comfortable but boring two-story house.
Ken walked over the piece of twine marking the back wall of the house and headed toward the ocean. She came to the edge of the clearing, waded through the uncut grass, and nearly stepped on a large bird before it exploded in a flurry of feathers. She staggered back a step and saw a flash of white and brown as the bird struggled to fly away from her with one wing. The other dragged uselessly behind as it hopped through the thick grass. Ken backed away quietly. She had spent enough time hiking and exploring trails to know she should leave any wildlife alone and untouched if she came across a bird or animal, but this one looked seriously injured. She couldn’t leave it there alone, where it would be easy prey for any passing dog or coyote.
She turned and jogged to her car. Was it an eagle? It didn’t look big enough, but maybe it was young. She rummaged through her trunk and pulled out a clean towel she carried to wipe down her car. She dumped sketch pads and pencils out of a cardboard box, and slowly walked back to the home site. She had no idea how she was going to get the bird into the box without either damaging it or getting her eyeballs clawed out. She set the box down and approached the flapping bird with the towel in her outstretched hands like a matador. Didn’t parrots think it was bedtime if someone draped a blanket over their cage? She wasn’t convinced the frightened bird would meekly fall asleep in her arms because she threw a towel over its head, but she had to try.
And try again. By the time she finally managed to drape the towel over the bird, she was sweating and cursing and ready to lie down and catch her breath. But she quickly picked up the heaving ball of feathers before it could break out of its terry cloth prison, cradling its good wing against her body. The bird was heavier than she had expected, and she tried to hold it with one arm and support its wounded wing with her other as she carried it across the field and deposited it in the box as gently as she could. With a muttered sorry, she pushed its head down an inch and closed the box.
She opened the passenger-side door and put the box on the floor, setting a flat rock on top to keep the bird from pushing out. She stared at the box. Now what? She had been so intent on capturing the bird, but she hadn’t given any thought to where she would take it. To the local small animal vet? Her apartment? She pulled out her phone and typed in Olympic Peninsula, wild bird rescue.
Chapter Two
Bailey Chase changed outfits for the second time that morning while she mentally reviewed her lengthy to-do list. She pulled a soft, ancient football jersey over her head as she counted the injured wings and talons and beaks she had treated so far today. Once she was satisfied she hadn’t forgotten any of her patients, she walked back to her kitchen to prepare lunch for herself and her charges. A large redtail watched Bailey warily as she passed her cage in the living room. Bailey had removed several BBs from her wing and body, but the bird was healing nicely. She was stoic and resigned to sharing Bailey’s home, although she managed to take a sharp bite every time Bailey let her attention slip for even a moment. The hawk would be able to go into the flight cage soon, opening up much-needed space in the interim cage.
Stacks of paperwork covered the kitchen table, reminding Bailey of the less-urgent but just as demanding chores on her list. She had been about to lose the land she leased for her sanctuary last year, but an injured eagle—and the woman who had found him on her property—had come into her life and rescued her for a change. Vonda Selbert had been so moved by the eagle’s recovery and eventual release that she had bought the sanctuary land and had arranged for Bailey’s rehab center to become a field study location for Washington State University’s veterinary school. To be fair, the release of the eagle had been impressive as hell. He had been around four years old when he was injured and had arrived in transition, still sporting a mottled brown-and-white head, several brown tail feathers, and a grayish bill. By the time Bailey released him near the Selbert’s waterfront home, he was in full adult plumage. The sight of the massive bird, with his bright yellow bill and sharply delineated white head and tail, launching off the ground had made even Bailey cry. Of course, she always cried at a release. But the eagle’s had been truly spectacular. Vonda wasn’t about to forget the experience. The arrangement had seemed like a dream come true to Bailey until the reality came crashing down onto her kitchen table. Massive amounts of paperwork, not to mention the interns and students who would be invading her privacy. Bailey’s enthusiasm for the project had waned, but she had no choice but to push forward. She could afford to move to a smaller piece of land, but she would have to downsize. With the university’s support, she�
��d be able to rescue far more birds than she could alone. End of story.
But she didn’t have to face the extra work today, when she had been up for over twenty-four hours. Bailey turned her back on the table and took a bag of crickets and a box of sesame chicken out of her freezer. She put the plastic tray of chicken in the microwave and shut the door, opening it once again to make sure she had put her lunch in the oven and not her birds’. She wasn’t about to make that mistake again. While she was setting the timer, the buzzer for her front gate sounded.
Bailey hurried into the living room, past the ruffled and annoyed-looking hawk, and pressed the button to open the gate. She stepped onto the front porch and waved in relief as Sue Adams, one of her closest friends and a fellow rehabber, parked her large white Buick and jumped out.
“Come here, honey. You look like you need a hug,” Sue said as she bounded up the steps. She looked as exhausted as Bailey felt, but she always seemed to have energy in reserve.
“It’s good to see you,” Bailey said. She didn’t particularly need a hug. She needed a bath, she needed some food, and she needed a hefty dose of caffeine, but she stepped forward and let Sue squeeze her tightly. She didn’t move away until Sue did, guessing that Sue was actually the one who needed human contact. Bailey could easily go days with only the brush of feathers against her skin. “You look…tired.”
Sue laughed. “That’s a nice way of saying I look like hell, isn’t it? Jim told me not to sit and rest anywhere near a cemetery because the caretakers might think I’d escaped and try to put me back in the ground.”
Bailey smiled, but Sue’s husband’s playful warning wasn’t far from the truth. Sue’s face was unnaturally pale, and dark circles framed her eyes like smoky makeup. Her hair, cut in a simple wash-and-wear bob, was sticking up in front as if she’d been running her hands through it in weary exasperation. Bailey reached out and smoothed Sue’s bangs. “Come in and rest for a while,” she said. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee strong enough to rouse the dead.”