“But you just came home and stopped,” Jessica didn’t want to stop. She loved the writing and the connection with readers. She just wanted to be paid for it.
Marjorie Winslow shrugged and set out plates and a bottle of wine with glasses as Jessica set out napkins and silverware to carry out to the back garden.
“Why?”
“Oh, I did another few years. But by that point I was a ‘civilian veteran,’ if you will. There are things that a twenty-six year old girl born in Portland, Oregon was never supposed to see. I suppose that now it would be diagnosed as PTSD, but all I know was that Chicago—the same Chicago that I had no problem reporting about during the ’68 Democratic Convention as a freshman-year student project—felt more and more oppressive until I felt I was being squeezed to death.”
Jessica wasn’t feeling squeezed. She was feeling…she didn’t know what. Her job was to elicit and capture the feelings and experiences of others and interpret that for her readers. She’d done such a thorough job of taking Jessica Baxter out of the equation that even when she did want to know herself, she couldn’t find a ready answer.
“My family used to come here for summer vacations,” Marjorie continued as if Jessica’s psyche wasn’t busying thrashing her like one of Dad’s landed but not-yet-dead fish. “I knew I needed to escape the city, for at least a few weeks. I came here and met Harvey Winslow, local boy retired from the Navy. He was good for me and I for him. We did not talk much, but we understood that talking did not heal things that love and time in a small town could. I never did go back to Chicago; had a friend forward my things.”
Jessica slid the two pieces of baked chicken onto the plates as Marjorie added a side of roasted Brussels sprouts. Wild rice completed the dishes and they carried them out back.
It was only then that Jessica realized she’d never been here, never even been in this house before. She was sure of it because there was no possible way to forget the garden.
If Jessica had been asked to speculate beforehand—a practice she’d honed as a journalist so that she was prepared for most eventualities—she’d have expected an orderly vegetable patch, or perhaps a neatly ordered rose garden. Instead, it was an English garden wild in its lushness and lack of conformity. There were trellised roses—though how Marjorie managed that in the harsh coastal climate was hard to imagine. But there were also flowering vines, foxglove past their peak and dahlias just entering theirs, rhododendrons and dozen others. She could see where spring plantings of daffodil, iris, and tulip had died back and where sunflowers were turning to the sun.
“Oh. Oh...wow.”
Marjorie smiled and led her to a small redwood picnic table where they sat. Jessica kept staring about her in wonder.
“I’m in Fairyland.”
Marjorie looked about, a calm smile making her look far younger. “This is where I come to play. I missed the lushness of Vietnam’s flora, but I also did not want a constant reminder of those times by using tropical plants, even if any would have grown here. This was my compromise and my joy.”
Jessica’s joy was a fifteen-year-old VW Beetle, battered by its life in Chicago, and one-half of a two bedroom apartment. She’d once had a Ficus plant named Atticus, but it died when she’d forgotten to water it between successive four-week assignments back when she could still afford to have no roommate.
“So, Jessica,” Marjorie’s tone shifted enough for Jessica to regress right past the twelve-year-old Eagle Cove version of herself into the seven-year-old second-grader sitting at her little desk—her gangly frame already too long to fit properly.
It was that tone that Mrs. Winslow had always used when Jessica wasn’t performing up to her potential. Or more typically was busy distracting Natya or Becky because she’d already learned the lesson herself.
“We have heard everything from your mother’s shortcomings—which she knows full well and does not need her daughter reminding her about.”
Jessica had already caught herself on that and stopped doing it.
“—To the limitations of Eagle Cove, which those of us who live here know far better than you.”
Jessica needed to stop doing that.
“Have you noticed all of the ‘For Sale’ signs? Or the ‘Vacancy’ sign on the Sleepy Owl even though it is July?”
She had, but not enough for the implications to really sink in. Some investigative journalist she had become.
“We are too small and remote. People do not even consider visiting here. Cannon Beach, Lincoln City, and Newport are all right on Highway 101 with major feeds over the Coast Range. We are an obscure little town.”
Jessica didn’t like that at all. The town had always made her a little crazy, but this trip had surprised her at how much she missed it. She certainly didn’t want to see it die off like so many of the old lumber towns along the coast.
“But that is all irrelevant to my primary inquiry. Why have you not once mentioned a single thing about your career?”
She’d been trying desperately to avoid that, but should have known that Marjorie Winslow was a journalist first before she was a teacher. Jessica sawed off a bite of chicken, which was moist and tender so it took no time at all to cut. She stared at a particularly robust sunflower which was peeking over Marjorie’s head.
She gave in.
Jessica laid it all out. The successes and the long slide toward impending failure and eventual doom that she hadn’t noticed until…well…
“I don’t think I understood just how bad it was until I returned to Eagle Cove. Seeing all of these people who I love so much and having no fatted calf to show for my victories. Instead I’m a battered soldier returned upon her Roman shield, except there was no glorious combat to make it an honor.”
“Combat is never glorious.”
Jessica sighed. She couldn’t even get away with a weak metaphor. What was her world coming to?
“But I take your point. Though why you felt that those who love you would think less of you for all of this is beyond me.”
“Failure breeds contempt—”
“Is a cliché that is beneath you, Jessica.”
Metaphors weak. Clichés failed. What next? Basic grammar? She sawed off another piece of chicken that was tender enough she could have cut it with the edge of her fork. Soon her plate was filled with tiny bits of cut-up chicken, like food prepped to feed a toddler. She dropped her knife and fork on the plate with a clatter as a lost cause.
Lost cause.
She’d say it aloud, but she feared that even analogy was slipping out of her grasp.
“Well, it sounds as if we have a project on our hands this week.”
Jessica looked up from her plate to inspect Marjorie Winslow and the sunflower nodding agreement over her head. “We? You can’t tell Mom. She has enough going on.”
Marjorie dipped her head in consent, “You mother was never the most focused of women.”
Jessica poked at her chicken, then managed to eat a Brussels sprout, roasted until it was crunchy-leafed and sweet. “Greg offered to help.”
Marjorie looked at her speculatively, “That boy?”
“Yes,” Jessica noted the sudden glint in Marjorie’s eyes and sighed. “Yes, that boy.”
“Man has more sense than I granted him if he managed to unearth before I did what you were hiding so carefully.”
“Well,” Jessica took confidence from Marjorie’s softening expression, “I have spent a lot of time with him these last few days.”
“I might have noticed.”
“It’s almost a pity that I’m leaving in just five days.”
“Hmmm,” Marjorie Winslow made it a thoughtful sound before returning to her meal.
Greg had kept an eye out on Mrs. Winslow’s house through dinner. He’d thought he was being subtle until Dawn rolled her eyes at him. He shrugged back. How was he supposed to not be distracted by thoughts of Jessica when she was so nearby? Vincent was oblivious of course.
As the evening progre
ssed toward dark and the lights remained off in the house across the street, he finally gave up; he must have missed Jessica’s departure.
He was busy losing at some new board game that the twins were ruling through a combination of lucky dice rolls and twin-telepathy—they’d clearly chosen the shared goal of cutting Greg down to size—when Dawn nudged his arm. A light had come on deep in the Winslow residence. Even as he watched, the living room blinked to life and the two women were revealed walking toward the front door: the dauntingly solid Mrs. Winslow and the slender streak of light and air that was Jessica.
If he said goodnight, he didn’t recall. He didn’t even remember how he came to be waiting at the end of the driveway as Jessica emerged onto the front stoop then turned back to hug Mrs. Winslow. He hadn’t known that the old battle-axe was capable of affection, but she held Jessica closely for a much longer moment than mere politeness or even friendship would imply.
Then she looked at him over Jessica’s shoulder, because of course the old bat could see in the dark. Her gaze was just as daunting as it had been in second grade. And he still couldn’t read what he had done to earn it.
Jessica was most of the way to him before she picked him out of the shadows. She didn’t speak or seem surprised. Instead, she walked into his arms, rested her head on his shoulder, and held on tightly. Resting his cheek on her hair, he cradled her and tried to figure out just quite how he’d gotten to heaven.
Back in her doorway, Mrs. Winslow watched them closely for a long moment before closing the door and shutting off the light.
Greg decided that he must be losing his mind because for half a second it looked as if she smiled at him. Not possible.
Now they were shrouded in darkness by the shadows of the late evening and the soft glow of lights from Vincent’s windows. Others were awake along Shearwater Lane, but trees separated most properties.
Then the strangest thing happened, Jessica Baxter began to cry. It was soft but there were some things that were difficult to miss with her body pressed hard against his through a thin blouse and slacks. The ripples of gasping breaths down her back, and the warm tears dampening his neck and shirt collar were another sure giveaway. She was the strongest woman he knew, with the possible exception of Mrs. Winslow. Even Dawn had her weak moments.
That Jessica Baxter was crying against him was both startling and oddly enticing. She trusted him enough to cry on his shoulder and it made him feel very strong to be the one she’d chosen to lean upon.
Over the years he’d slowly developed a recipe for dealing with weeping women. In hindsight, it was a little startling how many of them had sought him out when they were sad, but he was thankful for the practice now. He’d learned that trying to stop them only led to harder weeping or, more typically, anger. Instead, he applied a soothing hand slowly rubbed up and down her spine. He had tried the application of a wide variety of meaningless murmurs over the years and had settled on, “Easy now. Easy.” And like a good risotto, he just kept his hand moving slowly.
He hoped whatever was making her cry wasn’t him. Well, probably not as she’d come to him in order to have her cry.
When she calmed, he gently asked his question, “Is it anything I can help with?” It always earned him a headshake, but it often led to an answer as well. It had even worked on Dawn on the few occasions when she was too frustrated with Vincent to speak to him without bitter words she could never take back.
Jessica, true to form, didn’t follow the patterns of other women.
“I thought that you were already working on how to help,” her voice was a little rough, but less so than he’d expected.
Help? Help with what? All he could think about was how amazing she felt in his arms and how much he wanted to drag her down on the nearest bit of lawn to…
Oh.
Her career. In tatters. Was that why she’d been in Mrs. Winslow’s house? He vaguely remembered that the woman had been a reporter of some sort before coming to Eagle Cove. Something she and Jessica would have in common. Perhaps that had stirred up things.
“I did give it some thought,” and had gotten nowhere. But rubbing the tip of his nose through her fine soft hair, he had an idea now.
“Anything useful?” Her voice came out somewhere between a desperate plea and begging as she remained snuggled against him.
“Maybe,” he rolled it around on his tongue and liked the way the idea tasted. “Yes, I think so.” He breathed her in deeply. There would be some very definite benefits, for both of them.
She waited with held breath, he could feel her diaphragm stop moving.
“You know that I have the money now to open a restaurant.”
Jessica nodded uncertainly, then pulled back enough to squint at him in the darkness, only the slightest bit of light from Vincent and Dawn’s front window revealing her waiting look.
“I’m thinking that I should open it in Chicago. We can share living expenses and you could help out in the restaurant between jobs. We could—”
One moment she was calmly curled in his arms.
The next moment she was struggling to free herself, shoving hard against his chest to get away.
Greg let her go and took a step back…but there was—nothing there.
He tumbled backward into the roadside ditch. Thankfully it hadn’t rained for several days so it was dry and the thick grasses at the bottom cushioned his fall, mostly.
“You are not moving to Chicago because of me,” Jessica stood at the edge of the ditch, fists on her hips. He was sure that she was glaring down at him.
“Why not?” He leveraged himself up until he was only sitting in the ditch rather than lying in it.
“First, because I won’t be a kept woman.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant, but she continued before he could begin to explain.
“What we have is great—okay maybe better than that—but I’m not shacking up with you here or in Chicago. I thought I’d made it clear that there’s no long-term for this girl.”
Greg had enjoyed enough short-term flings to know that what was between he and Jessica had nothing to do with those. However, he again recalled Becky’s admonition that Jessica would be looking to get away. He decided that pointing out that there was something major between them wouldn’t be the best next move.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. This is a very cozy ditch. I highly recommend it if you are ever out looking for one to sit in.”
“Sorry,” she moved forward, then stepped back, unsure how to help him up. “I needed a little space, but not that much.”
“Sure you don’t want to join me?” He assumed not and, clambering to his feet, climbed back up until he was level with her. He shuffled a few respectful steps farther from the ditch.
“Is moving to Chicago to replace my disaster of a career the best idea you’ve got?” She moved around him, brushing off bits of leaves and dirt.
“So far,” he stopped her with a hand and carefully pulled her back into his arms.
She brushed at his chest, but allowed herself to be embraced.
“I’ll keep working on it.” Then, after placing one foot back to brace himself against another shove, he leaned in to whisper, “but long term still sounds like a grand idea to me.”
She growled, but didn’t complain or try to get away, when he kissed her.
Chapter 9
(Wednesday)
“What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Why ask me?” Natalya protested. “You’re the one getting all of the delicious attention.”
Perhaps Jessica should have kept more of the details to herself, despite Natya’s hectoring. But the morning run through the forest with her cousin was beautiful and the “attention” last night with Greg had been delicious. Literally.
She and Greg had been walking home together from Marjorie’s when the cool sea fog had slipped ashore. She’d forgotten that the coast was like that. During the summer a few blocks inland could be t
en or twenty degrees warmer than the beach itself; at times the line of demarcation was a mere fifty steps wide. Last night it had caught up with them when they turned onto Beach Way. At her shiver, Greg had guided her into the restaurant to grab a couple of jackets. But since they were there…
It had started innocently enough; he’d made her braised pears with a cinnamon-honey glaze and a tiny scoop of impossibly lush vanilla ice cream. A dribble of glaze on her chin had led to a very flavorful kiss which in turn had led to… She’d guessed and been proven right about chefs and kitchens, but chefs and commercial kitchens were a new combination for her and took the experience to a whole other level again. Once he’d peeled off Vincent’s “World’s Okayest Carpenter” t-shirt—his own clothes were apparently still in Dawn’s dryer—Jessica had been as eager as he was to see what trouble they could get into. Her naked chef had quite the imagination and her body was pleasantly loose in so many interesting ways. Some had involved chocolate, others honey, and some just a raw heat that neither of them could seem to sate.
She’d declined spending the night with him; she had too much to think about and he did have a five a.m. start to his day with the Judge. Though they had parted on very good terms. Instead of thinking anything, she’d plummeted into a deeply languorous sleep—until Natalya had smacked her awake with a pillow again to go for a run.
“You’re not helping,” she told Natalya as they both jumped over a thin alder that had fallen across the road. She didn’t need a reminder of last night; she needed a solution to, well, everything.
“Wasn’t trying to,” Natalya admitted happily. This time they were up into the forest and running on logging roads. The night’s fog had clung to the beach, but up here in the hills it was significantly warmer despite the trees’ shade. The spruce and scrub oak were thick with birds. Stellar jays, so majestic with the black face and crown and bright blue body, dominated. Flickers rattled their beaks against old trees sending echoes through the forest. A red-tailed hawk swooped down through the branches, inspected them a moment, then soared back aloft through a tiny gap in the trees.
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