Return to Eagle Cove

by M. L. Buchman

  Scrubbing at her face did little to break the mental back loop; she did not want to be thinking about Greg Slater first thing in the morning.

  A quick glance showed Natalya was already up and out. The window was open and the air was warm so Jessica dragged on some shorts, waved at Linda all armed to the teeth to thrash some poor Terminator, and headed downstairs in search of cocoa—with marshmallows, yeah, and Greg Slater could take a flying leap into a lake.

  Aunt Gina had an instant hot water tap, so Jessica went with powdered mix and stumbled out onto the porch clutching onto her mug for dear life.

  Mom was standing at the porch rail looking down at…Greg Slater just climbing the last steps up from the beach.

  Greg stopped and had that same annoying smile that had earned him a plate of hash browns down his pants just yesterday. Short memory if he’d forgotten the dangers. He’d forgotten. His eyes tracked down her body.

  “Sorry, but you can’t blame me for smiling at this. You just can’t, Jessica.”

  She looked down at herself. Her oversized nightshirt was dark blue with a faded pink declaration: I’m a woman. What’s your superpower? And it was just long enough, barely, to completely hide the fact that she was wearing shorts—shorts that didn’t hide all that much more than Greg’s running togs did. He wore lime green Nikes, gym shorts that did reveal a very nicely muscled set of legs, and a t-shirt that said: The rules of the kitchen: 1. The chef is always right. 2. See Rule #1. 3. See Rule #2.

  “Is that so?”

  Greg looked down to see what t-shirt he’d dragged on and then grinned back up at her, “Ab-so-tively!”

  “And…” she loved it when guys just set themselves up for failure, “…since we’re not in a kitchen, does that mean that you’re always wrong?”

  “Jessica!” Mom said it more as a sigh than a reprimand. “I called Greg to come up to talk about the wedding.”

  “You called him?” She sipped her cocoa and the heat tried to kick start her brain. She’d started to wonder if he’d appeared in answer to her dream calling him, but it had been her mother. That was some comfort to her firm belief in how the world worked. Just as strongly as being in Eagle Cove chipped away at that world view.

  Greg went up on his toes and leaned in close to peek into her mug. “Are there marshmallows in there?”

  “Of course!” Then she glanced down, she’d forgotten them in her sleepy state. “Argh!”

  Greg dropped back on his heels just too pleased with himself.

  For being a woman she wasn’t feeling very superpowerful this morning. She wasn’t going to retreat, well not far. She settled onto the porch swing.

  She considered doing the whole making-a-show thing of slowly crossing her legs and…being a complete tease. Her mother had left a rumpled quilt on the swing and Jessica pulled it over her legs as she sat.

  Greg settled at a small table by the rail.

  Mom patted Jessica’s knee through the cover.

  Jessica sipped her cocoa and offered Greg her most pleasant smile as her mother offered coffee and went in to fetch it.

  Now her question had changed to What the Heck, Baxter? She should be teasing him and making him suffer for thinking that a ludicrous high school crush could possibly still mean anything so many years later. But she was touched.

  And she had even less idea what the heck about that, than her career.

  Greg didn’t know which was worse, having Jessica’s long legs out in plain view, or having her wrapped up in the green-and-gold quilt, her sleep-tousled hair the color of the sun, and clutching her mug of cocoa like a life preserver. It was impossible that someone could look so good right after they woke up. It made it far too easy to imagine waking up next to her the morning after; then the one after that and…

  Mrs. Baxter came back out of the door and dumped a handful of tiny marshmallows into Jessica’s mug. She looked up at her mom with the radiant smile of a woman who loved her mom with all of her heart.

  He knew—in that single flash of an instant he knew—that no matter what real-world facade of disaffected urbanite she wore, Jessica Baxter would do anything for her mother. She’d just revealed that the Jessica Baxter he’d fanaticized about all his life was real, not some illusion that he’d been fooling himself with. He might not know her, but he certainly knew what sort of person she was.

  Greg forced himself back to the present as he thanked Mrs. Baxter for the cup of coffee, a nice contrast to the morning’s coolness. Eight days. Yes, he could think of a lot of things to do over the next eight days. It was plenty of time. And if it wasn’t enough, maybe his new restaurant would open in Chicago.

  He looked away from Jessica, because he didn’t want her to see what he was thinking about “their” future—not even a little. It was utterly insane, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, so like a good chef, he’d follow his instincts.

  “We were going to keep it a simple affair,” Mrs. Baxter sat shoulder to shoulder with her daughter, but declined to duck beneath the quilt making Jessica look even more cozy. “But May Conklin at The Brass Plover Pub is incredibly overbooked for any catering next weekend. Frankly she was overbooked for this weekend and was only going to do the wedding as a favor to me. So, I was wondering, Greg. Could you possibly cater the wedding next Saturday?”

  “Sure,” he agreed appreciating the way Jessica’s face was relaxing as she sipped her cocoa and watched the ocean. “I’d be glad— Huh?”

  Jessica smirked without even turning to look at him. She clearly knew what effect she was having on him…and didn’t seem to mind, which gave him a sliver of hope.

  He did his best to force his attention back to Monica.

  “Well, her Scottish pub makes her the biggest restaurateur in town. Cal Jr. at The Blackbird Bakery is handling the cake, but I’m desperate for the food. You’ll take care of that for us?”

  “For how many?” He’d been invited, he was fairly sure of that. Living back in Eagle Cove a calendar had become less and less meaningful. Five days working for the Judge, the rest of his time, social or cooking, was typically fluid on a daily or even hourly basis. “How elaborate? And for how many?”

  Mrs. Baxter looked ever so innocent as she said, “Nothing fancy. It’s an afternoon wedding, so just a friendly sit-down dinner right here.” She waved a hand to indicate the grounds of the old Victorian. The large grassy yard sprawled out to the sea cliff.

  Jessica’s eye roll told him one degree of the trouble he was in.

  “And I think we only invited twenty or thirty.”

  Fewer than he’d fed last night so—

  Jessica practically snorted her cocoa with laughter and gave herself a coughing fit that had her mother suddenly solicitous.

  “How many invitations did you sent out, Mom?”

  She shrugged delicately, she was a softer version of Jessica. Was that time or was Jessica merely a more sharply edged person? Jessica cut a far sharper picture in the world.

  “Thirty.”

  “Anyone turn you down?”

  “Just your aunt, but since Gina is going to be my maid of honor again, I know she’s just teasing.”

  Jessica turned to face him. “That’s thirty families. Plus, knowing Mom, anyone else she happened to be chatting with or sold a house to or…”

  Greg blinked hard. Mrs. Baxter wouldn’t have thought a thing about inviting people. She had an outgoing warmth that made her one of his favorite people in town completely aside from her role as Jessica’s mother.

  “Maybe you should start with an elk,” Jessica teased him.

  “Too bad the gray whales are done migrating,” he shot back. Every spring they shrimped their way up the coast, returning each fall. But this was July and he knew nothing about cooking whale anyway.

  “Or tourists. No one would ever miss a couple of tourists.”

  “And I thought I was the one getting ghoulish,” Greg grimaced.

  “No tourists,” Monica Baxter stated as if it was a rul
e rather than disgust. “They’re the ones who buy weekend residences and hire out my Ralph for day-trip fishing. I refuse to cut into the family businesses for this.”

  Greg laughed as Jessica looked at her mother as if she’d grown a second head. He leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the moment. He knew exactly what she was feeling. It was just three years ago that he’d come home and discovered that his mother and father were not the people he’d thought they were—they were better. He recalled the shock of seeing Judge Slater so shattered by the loss of his artist wife. That’s why he’d stayed in town and his father had appreciated it, not that either would ever say a word on the subject of course. Apparently Jessica had been unaware of her mother’s sense of humor.

  “I’ll do it, Mrs. Baxter. We’ll need a better estimate of how many I’m cooking for, but I’ll come up with a couple of menu ideas for you.”

  “Oh you sweetheart. I always knew you were a good boy,” she leapt to her feet and offered him a hug and a kiss on the forehead. Then she turned to her daughter, “Well, I have a house-showing out at the Carson place in half an hour, so I have to run along. Natalya and Gina went out with Ralph to spend a day together on the water, so you have the run of the place.”

  And in an instant he was alone with Jessica Baxter and a sudden awkward silence descended on the porch.

  Greg nursed his coffee but couldn’t think of a thing to do to break the silence. He’d abandoned her on the beach last night. Yelled at her about him being an idiot. Great. He’d found a way to be insulting to both of them. And if he sat here like a dumb mute much longer, he’d blow any chance of—

  “You were going for a run?”

  He looked up to see Jessica was still gazing out at the ocean. “I was.”

  “Give me a minute,” and she rose to head indoors, leaving him to contemplate her undressed look as she walked away, and the rumpled quilt now abandoned on the porch swing.

  In moments she was back. The shorts were no longer, but they were now visible as the loose nightshirt had been replaced by a form-clinging t-shirt in fire engine red that declared: Journalist! in a headline bold font followed by: Mess with me and I’ll spell your name wrong. The t-shirt wasn’t made out of the thickest material.

  “Go ahead, spell it wrong, please!” Greg teased her. “I’d bet anything that it would be completely worth it.”

  Her laugh was merry as she rested one of those long legs on the porch rail and began stretching out. A last sip of the coffee did nothing to jog his brain to life. He knew how to talk to pretty women, had earned himself a bit of a reputation for how easily he could sweep up a tourist. He just didn’t know what to say to Jessica Baxter and she absolutely knew it. He retreated to the kitchen to rinse out his mug and buy himself a little space.

  By the first hundred yards along the beach they were pushing the pace enough that no spare breath remained for conversation which was fine with Jessica.

  When they reached the docks at the two-mile mark and moved up onto the streets, she picked up the pace another notch. Her long legs could run most guys into the ground, but Greg not only kept up, but began pushing her. Up Beach Way, she saw his shoes and socks still on the porch of The Puffin Diner, looking as if their owner had been teleported out without his footwear.

  What the heck, Slater? Was that really what she’d said about such a fine meal?

  No, that’s what she’d said about a man with a boyhood crush on her. Well, she’d only be here for one week, then she’d be safely gone. They couldn’t cause too much trouble in such a short time.

  They ran out to where the town tapered down into the single road. At the final intersection before it headed up into the Coast Range she turned them onto Gull Way. It looped along the backside of Eagle Cove, making the longest possible running route.

  In high school, it had been a straight 10K: Aunt Gina’s down the beach, through the heart of the town, up and down the short hard hills of Gull Way, cut back along Shearwater Lane and out LBB Lane. She’d usually started the loop at the high school on Shearwater, but had run it from Aunt Gina’s often enough that it was like coming home to run the loop.

  Out on Shearwater, Greg slowed and waved at someone.

  Jessica waved out of habit, but almost stumbled as she took in the image. It was a double-wide manufactured home, just where she’d pictured Greg, Dawn, and a passel of kids. But the home was clearly well tended with a cheery paint job and colorful hollyhocks. In front of a large add-on garage were parked a newer minivan and a beater pickup. But what made her stumble was that Vincent, Dawn, and the twins were all working together in the garage workshop on a beautiful-looking bookcase. Not at all the sort of place she’d pictured them ending up. It looked…cozy.

  She started paying more attention to the town they ran through. Growing up here, it had all turned into the blur of “home.” Being gone, that memory had turned into rundown and sad. There were still those types; “white trash” places piled with mossed-over trailers, salvaged materials that would never be used, and lopsided picnic tables. But there were also the crisp lawns that marked retired military and the toy-strewn yards of new toddlers.

  She almost commented on it to Greg, but then they hit the top of LBB Lane and now he kicked it up a gear.

  Two miles to go, he was clearly trying to run her into the ground. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Not to Jessica Baxter. Especially not on her home turf.

  “Elmer,” she gasped out, finding it easier than she’d like to sound completely winded.

  Greg nodded. That was their finish line.

  Elmer was the massive Douglas fir that ruled over Aunt Gina’s property. It had been there when the house was built and would probably still be there when the Victorian fell down from old age. Elmer was a two-hundred foot-tall old growth, easily seven feet through the trunk.

  She let her stride open up and shifted her focus from the houses onto the end goal, calling up the techniques that had gotten her to the regionals if not all-state.

  Pictured it in her mind’s eye. Not the stretch of road ahead of them or the stiff climb as the road ascended from beach to top of bluff. Not the point where tar shifted to gravel on the final stretch. Jessica firmly planted the image in her head of arriving at Elmer far enough ahead of Greg Slater that there would be no question that she hadn’t only beat him with some final sprint; she’d crushed him.

  Chicago’s biggest hill was the freeway bridge over the river, but she’d balanced out that lack of elevation with longer miles along the lake’s edge which was totally paying off at the moment. Running was one of the few things she’d taken with her when she left Eagle Cove and the chance to run here was such a pleasure that it made her feel like she was flying.

  Greg did his best, he really did, but she could see that he had nothing left to dredge up when she kicked into her final sprint as they passed the Slater’s. She felt a dozen feet tall as she crossed Gina’s lawn in first place.

  She didn’t so much reach Elmer first, but rather ran square into his massive trunk braking with only the last step. Jessica tagged the tree and then splayed herself out against the rough bark so that she didn’t collapse to the ground. Maybe she wasn’t in quite as good practice as she thought. A moment later Greg did the same—he must have found reserves somewhere to finish just a single step behind her. Good thing she’d been trained to never look back. That simple action might have cost her the race.

  Rich pine and dusty bark overwhelmed her own sweat. Salt dripped down to sting her eyes and flavored her lips when she licked them.

  “Wow. Jessica,” Greg gasped out. “But you. Can. Really run!”

  Laughter bubbled up and almost choked her as she still couldn’t get enough air.

  As soon as they could stand without Elmer’s support, they began walking circles around the tree, shaking out legs, and walking it off.

  “C’mon,” Jessica nodded toward the kitchen.

  They staggered up the broad front steps together—knees loose, bump
ing shoulders and laughing as they went. It was a good moment, one Jessica realized that she’d treasure for a long time.

  Greg had a whole lot of thoughts as they leaned back against opposite counters in the Lamont B&B kitchen, guzzling monstrous glasses of orange juice. The kitchen had been utterly modernized, in ways that made it look traditionally old. Black appliances, walnut cupboards with brass handles, and dark granite counters. The hardwood oak floor was finished and sealed. The indirect and discreet lighting was unneeded as the sun was currently streaming in through the eastern windows lighting Jessica’s hair as she leaned by the sink. She was positively a shining beacon offset by the lush warmth of the décor.

  He was no longer thinking of the woman with the amazing body. Well, not only. He was also seeing the woman who never bowed to a challenge but instead grabbed it with both fists and her teeth besides. Someone who understood that there was nothing as funny in this world as people, especially the ones you cared most about. He was telling her about the courtship between Dawn and Vincent with full DVD-extras commentary: Vincent hadn’t stood a chance, but Dawn had made him think that he was the one making all the “right” moves.

  “He only figured out how to court her because she told him when to ask her out for dinner. When the first kiss was okay. Half the time she fed the tips and cues through me without me realizing it either. She led him like a puppy dog each step of the way,” Greg tipped his head side to side like a dog just trying to figure out what was happening to him.

  Jessica’s merriment had her snapping her fingers and slapping her hand against her bare thigh, calling out, “Here, boy. Here, boy.”

  Eight days. Don’t do anything stupid…at least not too stupid, one side of him admonished.

  Forget that! Greg’s other half answered. He had a bad habit of listening to that side and he decided that this time wasn’t going to be an exception.

  He set down his glass, circled three times in place like an excited puppy dog with big galumphing steps, moving closer to Jessica with each turn as she laughed and kept clapping her hand.