It was his mother’s ring.
He stood and walked around the table. For the first time since her funeral, Greg hugged his father and just held on as the Judge patted him on the back.
Chapter 12
(and one week more)
Jessica’s VW Beetle made it over Maxine Pass without too many complaints. It had been a hard three-day drive from Chicago, crossing the endless expanse of the Great Plains, through the heart of the Colorado, Wyoming and Utah Rockies before turning northwest into Oregon. But she could practically coast from here.
The car felt as if it knew the way. Somewhere in the last two weeks since Mom’s wedding the control of her future had slipped out of her hands—or at least any future she had recognized.
She’d slept for most of the flight back from Portland to Chicago, only remembering Marjorie Winslow’s envelope an hour before landing at O’Hare. There were only a half dozen pages; the first page was a hand-written letter on lined yellow paper:
My dearest Jessica,
I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter. You have achieved so much. And you did it while staying true to your heart and your ideals. That is a truly rare achievement.
The market has changed out from beneath you, now it is time for you to be brave and change with it.
Know that whatever you decide after reading the enclosed, you could never disappoint me.
I love you very much.
Marjorie
Jessica had cried for a second time in as many decades, right there in seat 24E.
What she felt as she read through the rest of the envelope’s contents was neither sadness nor joy—it was wonder.
The Coast Range stream that had run beside her mother’s car just three weeks ago, once again raced her down through the trees. The Doobie Brothers song that she and Greg had danced to played over the car’s stereo.
The contents of the envelope revealed why Marjorie Winslow had rushed away from the Friday knitting group. She’d approached the town’s merchants. They had all, each and every one, chipped in to finance a contract. Mom’s Eaglet Real Estate had been first on the list and her father’s Eaglet Fishing and Charter had been next. It wasn’t much, at least not in the first year—though there was a very respectable bonus structure if her efforts were successful.
It was a contract for Jessica. The merchants of Eagle Cove wanted her to entice tourists to their town.
The final sheet had been one of Marjorie’s sheets of yellow paper. Unlike the friendly letter, it was concise and to the point. So concise that there were only two words inscribed on the entire page:
Think festivals!
It had been a vote of absolute confidence that with that two-word hint she would know what to do.
And she did.
Every skill she had learned as a freelance journalist responsible for making her own career translated perfectly into marketing a town like Eagle Cove.
“Puffin Days” was the first festival—a starter test case for her future concepts. It was also the best she could do on two weeks’ notice. If all of her efforts had worked, it should be in full swing by now.
Nerves shivered up her body. In another dozen miles she’d know. And if it did, Puffin Days would become the recurring anchor point of the summer season. In her file, resting on the Beetle’s passenger seat, were sketches for fall, winter, and spring events.
She slipped into town and couldn’t find parking anywhere—the place was packed. Her nerves kept climbing. Not even the salty sea and the mossy forest could calm her.
Jessica found a space out by Marjorie’s house and left the car. It was enough of a signal for her friend to know that she’d made it into town. It was packed with all of her worldly belongings—everything that hadn’t fit in the tiny car, she’d sold or given away. Not quite “the clothes on her back,” but close. She should knock and say hello, but she couldn’t be delayed.
She walked into town, tracing the path toward The Puffin that a very different woman had walked a mere two-and-a-half weeks ago holding hands with Greg Slater after knocking him into a dry ditch. Exactly as planned, it was just at the start of the Saturday dinner service. Her mother and father had made a reservation for three without explaining why to Greg.
So many things now made sense that never had before.
She didn’t feel twelve at all.
Jessica felt like a grown woman.
And there were choices that a grown woman could make. As much as she loved her mother, Jessica knew that she was different. Once she’d made her choice it would be forever.
It was finally as clear as the summer sky just turning orange above the crowded and busy streets of Eagle Cove. As clear as the bright sound of the bell on the back of The Puffin’s door.
Tonight, either she or Greg was going to go down on bended knee.
And tomorrow the rest of their lives would begin.
Together.
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Recipe for Eagle Cove (excerpt)
An air of delighted mischief pervaded the room as Becky and Natalya changed out of their bridesmaids dresses. Jessica Baxter had always sworn she would never marry. Instead she was the first of the three friends to go down…and they were going to make her pay for being so fortunate.
Becky peered out the second-story window; it was easy to pick Jessica out of the crowd which spread across the B&B’s broad lawn. The stately Victorian stood well back from the high bluff above the rolling Pacific. The bride was long, blond, sleek, and gorgeous in a simple white lace gown. The Sunday afternoon sun of the warm September day—because of course it wouldn’t dare rain on Jessica’s wedding—sparkled off her as if she was half elf and half fairy. Both of which Becky had always suspected to be true.
And Becky couldn’t begrudge one of her best friends getting Greg Slater because the two were so perfect together. But she could be envious. And the only proper way to deal with envy was merry revenge.
She couldn’t suppress her giggle as they were changing. Natalya flashed a grin back at her; Jessica’s first cousin was like the anti-Jessica. The two of them were both tall and slim, but Natalya was dusky-skinned, brunette, and had all of the curves that Jessica had whined about not having since forever. It had been Natalya’s idea for them to change into little black dresses for the wedding reception, as if they were mourning Jessica’s demise. Pure pixie, always a tricky lot, Natya was the strategist of their childhood trio.
Becky had fashioned matching corsages for them out of black tissue paper. Those dozen years of schooling had finally paid off, even if it was just in crafts projects from the first grade. She preferred the down and dirty school of hard knocks that had spanned the last fourteen years since graduating from Puffin High.
She turned back to the room and saw that she had another problem. Natalya in a little black dress was going to gobsmack every man around and Becky didn’t think that was much more fair than Jessica looking so ridiculously happy.
Becky checked herself in the mirror, not that it did her much good. Natalya lived three hours away in Portland, so she was staying in the Writer’s Room of her mother’s Victorian B&B. It was an airy, lofty-ceilinged room typical of the old architecture. This room was filled with books, images of writers, and the décor was pure Jane Austen-era Georgian. That meant that the mirror had a massively ornate, gold-painted frame. Yet despite its imposing presence, it was actually small, round, and set far too high for Becky’s five-four. That her two best friends since kindergarten were both five-ten was just another injustice. What she’d lacked in stature she’d made up for in curves, “lush Italianate curves” her similarly-shaped mother had always said—which made perfect sense with their pioneer-stock, Gold-Rush era, boringly Anglo-Saxon heritage. Not!
She was… Becky had never been able to pin down what she was. Imp? Garden gnome? The right metaphor always eluded her. She sighed, standing on tiptoe didn’t help either.
Unable to see her refle
ction much below the generous cleavage that even the most conservative little black dress gave a woman of her shape—and this dress was not meant to be conservative—she turned for help.
“Your mom’s stupid mirrors. Help me, Natya!” It was an old problem that didn’t need explaining.
Natalya whirled a finger and Becky did a turn on the ornate Persian rug that looked as if it had been snatched out of the Hogwarts Gryffindor Common Room, making the bedroom warm and cozy. J. K. Rowling watched Becky from her portrait over Natalya’s shoulder. Emily Dickinson considered one profile and Jane Austen the other. Maya Angelou may have been inspecting her shoes. She’d pulled on her bright red cowboy boots with the pretty black stitching. The low heel was good because of dancing on the lawn. Besides, Becky held a firm conviction that high heels on a short woman were just a lame form of sucking up. And whatever James Tiptree, Jr. was thinking about Becky’s shoulder-length auburn hair, she was keeping to herself, just as she’d kept her gender hidden through two decades of writing science fiction. Georgette Heyer merely hung on the wall and looked magnificently 1920s as she always did.
Natalya shot out a thumbs up. “Men are going to whimper!”
“Yes!” Becky offered a fist pump and did a little circular stomp dance on the rug. “That is if they notice me with you around.”
“Since when have you ever had to worry about that?”
“Since Jessica looks so happy dancing with Greg.” Together they turned to look back out the window. Becky half wanted to collect the writers’ pictures from the walls so that all the women in the room could look out together.
“It is a little like she’s bragging, isn’t it?”
Becky could only nod. Jessica was draped shamelessly against her new husband, slow dancing to an up-tempo Backstreet Boys song. Three months ago Jessica returned to Eagle Cove after a decade working as a Chicago journalist. She was supposed to be here just a week and then return to her whirlwind urban career. Instead, she’d stayed as the town’s new marketing manager and was doing great at it. Tourism was at its highest level in years. That was good news for the Lamont’s B&B, the real estate business of Jessica’s mom, and it certainly hadn’t hurt Becky’s brewery.
“Time to go break up all of this unmitigated happiness.” Natya declared firmly. It was. And Jessica was right, Natalya was always the sneaky one of the group.
“First dibs on cutting in on the bride for a dance with the groom,” Becky declared just as Natalya was opening her mouth to do the same.
“Rats!” Natalya’s curse warmed her heart.
To secure her victory, Becky raced for the door, offered an air high-five to Nora Roberts’ picture above an entire bookcase filled with her writings, and beat Natalya to the stairs. But she was blockaded from escape at the bottom of the stairs…the kitchen was packed. She was in the midst of the mayhem, when across the impenetrable mob, she saw Natalya slink down the old servants’ back stairs and out onto the porch. Her wicked grin showed exactly where she was headed—to claim the second dance from the groom.
“Rats!” All she could do was echo Natalya’s heartfelt curse of a moment before. Becky stomped her foot in frustration; growing up in this house gave Natalya an unfair advantage.
Harry yelped more in surprise than pain as someone tromped on the toes of his Oxfords. The kitchen was so noisy with a dozen simultaneous conversations that no one particularly noticed his cry. It took him a moment to spot his attacker, but when he looked down he discovered an astonishing sight.
The first thing he noticed was the impressive swell of her chest. It was just very…impressive. Ah yes, his lawyerly finesse with words. Sad. But it was hard to be completely coherent when faced with such an exceptional view. Then he forced himself to focus on the owner’s face.
“Becky!” He ignored her smirk that said she knew exactly where his attention had first landed and gave her a quick hug that she returned after a moment. “It’s like old home week.” Everyone had turned out for his little brother’s wedding. The fact that Greggie was marrying, had married, the first woman Harry had ever kissed didn’t bother him…too much. He and Jess had been almost done before they started during freshman year. Wasn’t it just backward justice that Greg was the one who’d always had the big crush on her without ever admitting to it.
“Old home week only to you foreign types.” Becky Billings smirk had shifted to tease, something he recalled her excelling at. Her light brown eyes practically twinkled with delight. He also recalled that among other things, she’d absolutely ruled every class debate in high school. He might have ruled the soccer field, but her quick mind and quicker tongue had ruled the verbal playing field.
“Foreign as in a hundred yards down the road,” he gave it his best shot. His family’s homestead was the other grand Victorian of the town. The two old houses stood at the head of the beach and commanded the best views in Eagle Cove.
“Foreign as in you live in New Orleans and are just here slumming.”
“Care to do a little slumming with me?”
“You call that a pickup line?” Becky snorted out a laugh and slapped him hard enough on the arm to send him ricocheting off Cal Mason Jr. who bumped into Cal Mason Sr. in earnest conversation with Jessica’s father. Cal Sr. shoved Jr. back into him and the two of them ended up tangled together against the stove, both struggling not to spill their beers all over each other.
“Sorry, Cal, Becky just—” he pointed, but the spot where she’d been was empty. Cal gave him a look as if checking his mental capacity: low, after the view of Becky’s chest had drained the blood out of his brain.
He looked around and caught occasional glimpses of the top of her head as she moved through the tight-packed kitchen crowd, her liquid-oak hair floating lightly behind her. The crowd parted just enough to offer him a full view as she stepped out the far door and onto the sunlit porch.
She might be short, barely up to his chin, but her industrial-grade curves and trim waist looked awfully good on her. And that dress. Holy wow! Spaghetti shoulder straps, clinging material, and a flirty flare high enough on her thighs to reveal that there was no excess load on that frame. She was no runner, couldn’t be with that body, but they were amazing legs. Then with a exuberant “Yip!” of excited greeting, loud enough that he could hear it over the music and the overlapping chatter, she raced out into the sunlight and was gone.
Harry rubbed his shoulder where she’d hit him. He’d forgotten how strong she was. He’d have to remember that the next time he caught up with her. And the way she looked, he definitely had some catching up to do. But he didn’t want to appear overeager either. So, he leaned back against the stove with Cal. They’d been the forward strikers on the soccer team back at Puffin High, finishing the season ten-and-two, a new pinnacle for the Pufflings. Cal Sr. and his own father, Judge Slater, had chosen the ridiculous baby seabird as the school mascot most of half a century before. He’d never found out quite why, so he and Cal Jr. worked on their beers and rehashed it some for old times’ sake.
But what he really wanted to talk about was Becky Billings and the way that woman looked in a clinging black dress with chili pepper red cowboy boots.
Available at fine retailers everywhere:
Eagle Cove
About the Author
M.L. Buchman started the first of, what is now over 50 novels and as many short stories, while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career.
All three of his military romantic suspense series—The Night Stalkers, Firehawks, and Delta Force—have had a title named “Top 10 Romance of the Year” by the American Library Association’s Booklist. NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA award. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and fantasy.
Past lives include: years as a project manager, rebuilding
and single-handing a fifty-foot sailboat, both flying and jumping out of airplanes, and he has designed and built two houses. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing and receive a free starter e-library by subscribing to his newsletter at: www.mlbuchman.com
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Also by M. L. Buchman
* sweet version also available
The Night Stalkers
Main Flight
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
By Break of Day
White House Holiday
Daniel’s Christmas
Frank’s Independence Day
Peter’s Christmas
Zachary’s Christmas
Roy’s Independence Day
Damien’s Christmas
and the Navy
Christmas at Steel Beach
Christmas at Peleliu Cove
5E
Target of the Heart
Target Lock on Love
Target of Mine
Firehawks
Main Flight
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point
Flash of Fire
Wild Fire
Smokejumpers
Wildfire at Dawn
Wildfire at Larch Creek
Wildfire on the Skagit
Delta Force
Main Flight
Target Engaged
Heart Strike
Wild Justice
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