Blackberry Cove

by Roxanne Snopek

  “You know you can’t keep it, right?”

  Tuxedo, the black and white kitten they’d adopted last summer, had grown into a sweet, playful cat. But he was still a hunter at heart.

  Quinn stood up, cradling the bunny against her chest. “I can’t just leave her here.”

  “Oh dear.” Abby pointed to the back of her sister’s hand. “Is that blood?”

  After a quick consultation with Haylee, they were in the truck, on the way to town. Dr. Janice Corbin looked after all the animals at Sanctuary Ranch and Quinn insisted that they bring the injured rabbit to her veterinary clinic immediately.

  Haylee had warned them that wild bunnies rarely survived even minor injuries. Over the years, she’d worked with people who rehabilitated wildlife, and had learned that the usual cause of injuries like these were from cats. Coyotes and hawks rarely failed and the damage they inflicted, even if the target did escape, was usually too severe for survival.

  A seemingly inconsequential cat scratch, however, usually resulted in overwhelming infection and death.

  “Hang in there, Calliope,” murmured Quinn into the downy fur. “You’re stronger than you think.”

  She kept her head bent over the rabbit during the drive and Abby saw tears slipping down her thin cheeks.

  Oh, Quinn. Please, don’t do this. Not again.

  One of Dr. Corbin’s technicians took the little rabbit from Quinn and asked them to take a seat in the waiting room.

  “But,” Quinn protested, “I want to go with her.”

  “Wild rabbits are actually very stressed by human handling,” the young woman explained. “We’re going to put her in a warm, dark, quiet box while Dr. J finishes her last appointment. It won’t be long. She’ll call you as soon as she’s ready.”

  Quinn sat in one of the metal chairs in the waiting room and put her face in her hands.

  Abby sat next to her and rubbed her back. “It’s okay,” she said. “They’re used to this kind of thing. They know what to do.”

  “I know.” Quinn sniffed and nodded. “I know you think I’m getting carried away but, Abby, when I saw that little rabbit hiding in the brush, I felt something. Like I knew exactly how she felt. Yeah, I’m overidentifying, letting my emotions get the best of me. I know. But I’ve been thinking about . . . stuff lately.”

  “What stuff?” Abby didn’t want to know, but had to ask.

  “You know.” Quinn swallowed. It took her a long time to continue. Finally, she said, “I was talking to Jon about that article and I couldn’t help but remember.”

  “What did you tell him?” She could hardly get the words out. Maybe she’d been wrong. Jon was clever. He knew they were hiding something.

  “Nothing.” Quinn’s shoulders slumped. “Same thing I’ve always said.”

  Abby knitted her fingers together in her lap and took a deep breath. “Good. That’s good.”

  “No. It’s not. I don’t care what Carly said.”

  “Please, Quinn, don’t start with that again.” Abby forced herself to slow down, but the panic that started whenever Quinn got on the topic of Carly wouldn’t be denied. “She didn’t want that. It’s over. She’s moved past it. We’ve moved past it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  It was almost three years since they’d left Los Angeles and still memories of that time hovered in the wings, ready to tarnish even the most unexpected moments.

  “You’ve been doing so well,” Abby said, feeling her own throat tighten. “I wish I’d never let Jon talk to you for that interview.”

  “I’m not sorry.” Quinn lifted her tearstained face. “It was wrong to keep quiet then and it’s still wrong now. I don’t care what Carly said. She didn’t mean it. She was trying to protect me.”

  “And herself. She’s a smart girl.”

  “See? You get so angry, we can’t talk about it. It’s like you want to pretend that our life before Oregon didn’t happen. Carly.” She hesitated. “Mom.”

  Exactly, Abby wanted to say. Rebecca Warren had done enough damage. A fresh slate, starting over, no baggage. Clean as the tide-washed beaches; that’s the history she wanted for them. Why couldn’t Quinn see this?

  “But it’s my life, too. You don’t get to decide my memories. Or what I do with them.”

  “Really?” Abby forced herself to stay calm. “You want more memories of Mom? How about all the times I forged her signature so you could go on field trips? How about the time she threw up all over the lasagna you made for her? How about when we had to move in the middle of the night because she’d forgotten to pay the rent? I was always the one left behind to pick up the pieces after she showed up like a hurricane in our lives. Do you remember that, Quinn?”

  Quinn hunched her shoulders and pulled away. “That’s not all she was.”

  “That’s right. There was also the crying, the staying in bed all day, the online shopping, the canceled credit cards.”

  “I remember The Velveteen Rabbit.”

  Abby’s chest constricted. If she hadn’t been sitting down, her legs would likely have collapsed.

  “The Skin Horse,” she whispered.

  “‘Once you are Real,’” Quinn quoted, “‘you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’ That’s what Mom always told us. Remember?”

  What Abby recalled wanting, with all her heart, to believe that Rebecca could change, could overcome the demons that haunted her. Could pull herself out of the sucking quicksand of her life, for the sake of her daughters.

  But instead, she’d been someone with sharp edges, who had to be carefully kept, someone who fractured easily and often.

  “She wanted to be real, Quinn,” she said. “But she was broken.”

  The receptionist called them then, thankfully. Quinn jumped to her feet and Abby followed.

  But Dr. Corbin’s face was grave.

  “I’m sorry, Quinn,” she said. “The baby rabbit died while I was examining it.”

  “What?” Quinn’s voice was faint. “I don’t understand. She seemed fine.”

  “Wild animals are like that.” Dr. Corbin spoke kindly, but with a firmness Abby appreciated. “They have the ability to mask the extent of their injuries, so that predators don’t know that they’re hurt. This one had a chest puncture. I’m guessing a hawk attack. The rabbit couldn’t have survived, Quinn. That’s why you were able to pick it up. Healthy rabbits are hard to catch. I’m sorry.”

  Quinn was quiet on the way home and back to work in the garden, digging and spreading bark mulch with ferocious energy.

  * * *

  Housekeeping wasn’t exactly the career Quinn had imagined for herself when she was in high school, cramming for algebra and organic chemistry and physics, which she loathed.

  She pulled the wheeled supply cart over the bark-mulch path between cabins. Cabin 3 contained a couple of horse enthusiasts, who’d gone out with Gideon and Huck for an early trail ride, so they were first on her list.

  She’d wanted to be a veterinarian, at one time. She loved animals, even though she’d never had a pet of her own. Just as well that hadn’t worked out. She couldn’t handle seeing animals in pain.

  She made up the bed, wiped down the bathroom, put out fresh towels, and swept the floor. Tomorrow, she’d change the sheets, she thought as she pulled the door shut behind her and moved to the next cabin.

  Abby had always pushed her, telling her that education was the only way to dig themselves out of the hole that a bad genetic legacy had plopped them into. But without money for college, high school education only got you so far.

  Their dad couldn’t help dying when he had. Quinn was too young to remember, and Abby didn’t like to talk about it, so for many years, all Quinn had known was that he’d been in a car accident, that it was a tragedy, and that their mother had never recovered from her grief.

  Her curiosity grew as she got older though and eventually she came to understand that their mother’s grief had been complicated by the mountain of
medical bills their dad had racked up before dying.

  Dad couldn’t have foreseen being T-boned by a one-ton truck, but a little insurance would have been thoughtful.

  Quinn let herself into Cabin 5, a larger unit with two bedrooms and a pull-out sofa. A family of four was staying in this one, nice people although their small son hadn’t mastered the art of standing up to pee.

  She got down on her knees to wipe the base of the toilet, unable to be irritated with the boy. He was about kindergarten age, she guessed, with a gap-toothed grin and enthusiasm for every single thing about the ranch. Feeding the horses, walking the dogs, gathering eggs in the henhouse, digging for winter carrots in the kitchen garden.

  If she had her way, she’d spend her days showing him things like how the apple cider press worked or where milk actually comes from.

  She liked kids. They had a wide-eyed wonder about things that made Quinn feel happy, hopeful. There hadn’t been a lot of time for wide-eyed wonder in her own childhood.

  She searched her memory for times when she and Abby and Mom had been happy, but all she found were cloudy mental snapshots. Mom, wraithlike and insubstantial, smiling desperately beside a tiny Christmas tree, or next to a store-bought cupcake with a numbered candle on it, sometimes standing round-shouldered at the stove, stirring boxed macaroni and cheese. As the images progressed, Mom occurred in fewer and fewer, until she disappeared completely and it was Abby standing at the stove. Abby, walking Quinn to school, nagging her about homework.

  It was always Abby who came home with grocery bags in her arms, Abby who took out the trash and made sure the rent was paid.

  She picked up the sodden towels and then polished the mirror, looking at her reflection. Did she look like Mom? Abby always said so but aside from blond hair and blue eyes, Quinn couldn’t see any genetic similarities.

  There were other similarities, though. She knew Abby worried about her, watched for signs that she was like Mom in other, hidden ways.

  When the police officers had arrived at their apartment door, solemnly asking for Rebecca Warren’s next of kin, Abby immediately stepped in front of Quinn, as if to shield her, then sent her to her room.

  Quinn could still hear the muffled conversation.

  We’re sorry to inform you that the body of a woman we believe to be Rebecca Warren has been discovered. We need someone to confirm her identity. Who should we contact?

  Where had she been found? Abby wanted to know.

  In a Zipcar. Downtown. Behind the Regent Theater.

  How did she die?

  The pause before the answer. A suspected overdose. No sign of foul play.

  Abby had calmly gone with them and calmly returned a couple of hours later, to calmly report that Mom wouldn’t be coming home but that everything would be okay because Abby had a good job and all Quinn had to worry about was finishing high school.

  Quinn realized now that although her older sister had already been long adjusted to their mother’s absence and had probably been expecting news like that for some time, the preternatural calm she’d projected must have cost her dearly.

  It was different for Quinn. Sure, Mom had been gone a lot. But waiting for her to come home had become Quinn’s natural state. Mom always came home, eventually.

  Quinn tidied the kids’ room quickly, noticing that one bed was only slightly rumpled. But the master bedroom sheets were a tangled mess. As she straightened them, she found the little boy’s teddy bear balled up in the comforter.

  She picked it up and held it to her chest. She imagined the child awakening in the night, in a strange, dark place. Afraid but knowing, without hesitation, that he’d find reassurance and safety between the warm, sleepy bodies of his parents.

  That’s how it should be, she thought. That’s how it would be for her, if she ever had kids.

  She’d never lost the sensation that something was missing from her life, that she was still waiting, watching, as if Rebecca was simply running late, caught up in a job, missing her daughters as much as they missed her and planning to make things better for them, one day. One day.

  Quinn lifted the mat at the door and shook it onto the path. Bits of grit and evergreen needles flew out. A piece of dust must have landed in her eye because as she pulled the door shut and started down the trail to the next cabin, her vision was blurred with tears.

  Chapter Ten

  From Abby’s notebook:

  Not all bugs are bad. Learn to identify beneficial insects and add plants such as coriander, candytuft, sunflower, yarrow, and dill to attract them to your garden.

  Abby thought she’d been prepared for the garden hop, but she hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to complete her usual duties with strangers constantly around her. The compliments were gratifying and the blooms had been fantastic. But it would take her all day to move a single wheelbarrow full of yard waste to the compost heap. She’d move ten feet, stop to talk with someone, get three rows farther, stop again. Another row and someone had a question for her; it never ended. All day long.

  It made it tough to keep in touch with Roman, as well, though she’d managed to drop in most evenings. Three days ago, Daphne was called away for a family emergency, leaving Jamie and Abby to handle the meals, on top of their usual tasks.

  Rain had killed the last week of the hop and by then, Abby’d been more than ready to have it over with. It was a relief to be out of the public eye, and she enjoyed a chance to bake again, but she was anxious to see Roman again. Today, however, they’d gotten the lunch and supper prep done early. She was taking a few minutes between rain showers to take out the compost and pull a few weeds, then she was heading out to check in on them in person.

  Jon called and texted regularly, assuring her that they were doing fine. That was both good and bad news, since it meant Roman still hadn’t told Jon about the tumor. She’d pleaded ignorance when Jon inquired about some of his father’s medication, but urged him to ask Roman about it.

  He’d asked again about her and Quinn’s experience with the production company.

  Sure, she’d heard rumors, she’d told him. But it was so long ago. They’d only been there a short time. So sorry she couldn’t help.

  She could tell it had only piqued his interest further when she asked him not to talk about it with Quinn.

  Roman and Chaos miss you, he’d said.

  What about you? She’d wanted to ask. Of course, she didn’t.

  “Need a hand?”

  Abby dropped the handle of the wheelbarrow, sending a small pile of weeds onto her freshly raked path.

  Jamie stood at the entrance to the bulb garden. She had a brown and white dog with her, jumping at the end of the leash.

  Abby looked at the mess she’d just created. “I’m not turning down any offers.”

  Thinking about Jon and Roman wasn’t productive. Sooner or later, Roman would deteriorate. Jon would find out about the cancer and he’d be furious that Abby hadn’t told him. Whatever crush or flirtation they had going on right now would end. She’d be lucky if he spoke to her at all. Conversation with Jamie was just what she needed.

  “Is it okay if I let Cookie off her leash?” Jamie asked. “I want to work on her recall.”

  “Of course.”

  The dog raced up to Abby. She squatted to greet the squirming bundle of energy. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Cookie was the most recent dog to begin training with Jamie and Haylee as part of the pet therapy program. She was part beagle and part Shetland sheepdog, with maybe some terrier thrown in there. She had a short coat, a long muzzle, and beautiful black-lined eyes that gave her a mischievous appearance.

  “How’s she doing?” Abby asked.

  Jamie grabbed a rake that was lying near the path and evened out a patch of bark mulch made lumpy by footsteps. The dog, finished with affection for the moment, headed down the path, her nose to the ground, on the trail of who knew what.

  Jamie held up a finger. “You’ll see in a second.”


  She waited until the dog was at the far end of the path, then called her.

  “Cookie!”

  The dog lifted her head and whipped it around to look at Jamie. Instantly, Jamie depressed the device in her hand, and a sharp click sounded.

  “Come, Cookie!” Tufts of bark mulch kicked into the air behind the little dog as she pelted toward the source of the noise.

  “Good girl.” Jamie patted the panting animal and gave her a treat from the pouch attached to her belt. “Good Cookie.”

  The dog crunched the treat, licked Jamie’s hand, then went out to explore again.

  “Impressive,” Abby said. “Is any of that Quinn’s doing?”

  Since the episode with the rabbit, Quinn had been spending more time with the dogs. She barely talked to Abby, but seemed otherwise okay.

  “Um, hello? Who’s the master clicker trainer? Me. That’s who.”

  Abby laughed. Jamie had worked her butt off to learn her dog handling skills and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it.

  “But your sister’s pretty good, too,” she conceded.

  “She seems to enjoy it. Probably more interesting than cleaning rooms or babysitting.”

  “Cleaning rooms, for sure. She seems to enjoy the rug rats though. Cookie, come!”

  Once again, the dog peeled out of the shrubbery and raced back to Jamie for a treat.

  Abby laughed. “She’s making a mess, James!”

  “I’ll clean it up. Question for you. Do you think Quinn would be interested in doing more with the dogs? They really respond to her. She recognizes when they’re scared and knows how to calm them down. She’s good at interpreting body language.”

  The legacy of an insecure childhood, Abby thought. No matter how hard she tried, she could never make up for the lack of parents in Quinn’s life.

  “I think she’d jump at the chance. Why?”

  “Haylee and I were thinking that if we had another person on board, we could expand the pet therapy program. We’ve got a waiting list of places that want us to visit.”