by Dani Pettrey
“They were sisters.”
“Family doesn’t exist for my mother.” Bailey found her book and slid it in the duffel’s front pocket. “She lives for no one but herself. Always has. Always will.”
“Why don’t you let me come with you? I’m sure I could get some time off. You should have someone there with you. Someone other than your mother.”
Bailey hugged Carrie. “Such a good friend, but you said yourself if you take any more time off, you won’t have a job to come back to.” Which was true, but it wasn’t the main reason Bailey wanted her best friend to stay behind. She’d met Carrie after becoming a Christian. Carrie was part of her new life, not her past, and she needed to keep the two separate.
“I’m sure if I explain . . .” Carrie started.
“Not necessary.” Bailey turned and headed for the kitchen. “I’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer I need to finish off before I leave. Wanna help me?”
Carrie smiled. “Way to change the subject.”
“Is that a no?”
“Yeah, right.” Carrie made a beeline for the freezer. “I call dibs on Chunky Monkey.”
A pint of Chunky Monkey later, Bailey saw Carrie out and then cut the lights. Bone-tired, she crawled into bed, not ready to face what lay ahead.
Yancey.
She was going back to Yancey in the morning.
Tears tumbled down her cheeks.
Lord, I can’t do this.
You don’t have a choice, came the soft reply.
4
Lights danced like fireflies against Tariuk Island’s rugged mountains, illuminating the darkness surrounding Bailey.
A cool breeze riffled through her hair, loosening tiny wisps from her tightly woven bun. She struggled to pin them back in place but gave up and gripped the ferry rail as Yancey came fully into view.
The lights spread out to reach her, glimmering reflections skimming across the surface of the water, only to be dashed against the ferry’s bow.
She wanted to run, to bolt the other way, but the ferry stayed its course. It was drawing her in, pulling her on a path she didn’t want to travel.
Can’t breathe.
She forced herself to swallow a gulp of air. Tears smarted her eyes. She wouldn’t cry—she’d promised herself.
It didn’t matter what they thought. What he thought. She was a different person.
The crisp sea air splattered her face like a blanket of reality. Who was she kidding? In their minds she’d forever be Easy Lay Bay. The passing years, a doctorate, and all her streamlined suits weren’t going to sway their opinion of her—truth was, there were days she still had to convince herself.
The ferry docked beside a silent marina. She’d chosen the last of the day, hoping the streets would be deserted, praying she could slip into town unnoticed and stay out of sight until the funeral. Then it was just a matter of getting Agnes’s stuff in order and hightailing it back to Oregon.
Clutching her bag, she ambled down the gangplank, the cool night air biting at her tearstained cheeks.
“Bailey, is that you?”
She froze midstride.
Gus Holbrook hobbled forward. In the dimness of the dock lights he looked much as he had a decade ago. A few more gray hairs poking out of his weathered ball cap, perhaps, but it was still the same old Gus.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and struggled to compose herself.
“Let me get that for you.” He reached for her bag.
She tightened her grip on the strap. “I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself. Truck’s over here.” He gestured to his rusted orange pickup. It was hard to believe the old thing still ran.
“That’s kind of you, Gus, but I can walk.” She didn’t like being dependent on others, especially not in Yancey.
“Nonsense.” Gus harrumphed. “I’m not leaving till you climb in that cab, young lady.”
She sighed. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He’d always been kind to her—one of the few. She bit her bottom lip. It would get her through town faster. “All right, Gus. Thanks.”
His craggy face lit with a smile.
She held her bag on her lap as they started the short drive from the docks to town.
Nestled between the ocean and the mountains, Yancey was viewed as an idyllic island village by the numerous tourists that flooded its shores every cruise season, but to her it symbolized only regret and shame.
She stared out the windows, amazed at how little had changed in the ten years she’d been gone. The library remained in the refurbished Russian farmhouse at the top of Main Street, setting the tone of a town steeped in history.
Turning right on Main Street, they passed the same shops she’d frequented as a teen—Jenkins’ Flower and Fudgery, the General Store, Baranov Books. But it was the store next to Baranov’s that caught her eye. Last Frontier Adventures was painted in bold blue over the entrance to what had once been Ben’s Bait and Tackle—the shop Cole McKenna’s family owned. She was dying to ask Gus what happened—had they sold, changed location?—but she couldn’t allow herself to go there, couldn’t spend her first night in town asking questions about Cole McKenna.
The shop was dark, but the streetlamps illuminated the posters lining the front bay windows—images of people white-water rafting, rock climbing, and scuba diving. Beneath the pictures sat a display of equipment needed for each endeavor. A pair of flippers tugged at her heart. Cole had taught her to dive.
She closed her eyes, and images of that day flashed through her mind—acclimating to the sensation of breathing through a mouthpiece, sharing the rush of going beyond natural limits to a hidden world beneath the ocean’s surface with the boy she loved.
“Funeral’s set for ten on Tuesday at New Creation.” Gus broke through her memories.
Again she swiped moisture from her eyes. In town less than a half hour and she’d cried twice. She was pathetic.
“We can go over the will Wednesday afternoon, if that suits.”
It was hard to believe Agnes was gone. The woman had seemed invincible. “That’ll be fine,” she said, working to keep her voice even, to show no hint of the sadness barreling through her.
They passed the town square. Blue ribbons and glittered signs posted throughout signaled the upcoming Summer Festival and Bailey winced. She’d made one of her numerous and more infamous mistakes with Tom Murphy behind the dunking booth.
Her stomach lurched.
This is too hard. Too painful.
“You’ll have to stop by the diner tomorrow. I’ll make you a hearty breakfast to kick off your first day back home.”
She wasn’t home. Yancey could never be home. “Still got the diner?”
“Yep. It was Martha’s dream. After she passed . . . well, I couldn’t just close it. I’m sure people think it’s odd after all these years, but I can’t bring myself to give it up.”
“A lawyer owning a diner. I suppose that’s not so unusual.”
He chuckled. “I suppose not. Life in a tourist town—everyone plays a variety of roles.” He looked over, studying her in the gleam of Main Street’s lone stoplight. “Speaking of roles . . . I imagine it’ll take you a while to sort out the shop and decide what you want to do.”
She steeled herself for Gus’s displeasure. “I’ve already decided.”
The light turned green, but Gus didn’t move. “You have?”
“Yes. The light . . .” she said, gesturing toward it as green reflected across their faces.
Gus accelerated, the old truck clunking and sputtering. “You were saying . . .”
“I’ve decided to sell.”
“You’re selling the Post?” Sadness rang in his tone, but not surprise.
Bailey shifted from the window, a cool draft seeping through the worn-out sealing. “I want to find a buyer who will agree to keep it the Russian-American Trading Post.”
Much as Gus couldn’t destroy Martha’s dream, she wouldn’t destroy Agnes�
�s by closing the shop, but she couldn’t stay in Yancey. Finding a buyer was her only option.
“That’s not exactly going to be easy. The Post was Agnes’s baby. It’ll be impossible to find someone who’ll love the place the way she did.”
“Perhaps, but as long as the buyer keeps it the Trading Post, it’ll be fine.” She’d know she’d done right by Agnes. “Can you put out the word? Try and think of someone who’d be a good fit?” Surely someone else in town shared Agnes’s love for Russian history. She did. There had to be more than two of them.
Gus pulled to a stop in front of the Post and cut the engine. It took the truck another moment to respond and stop gurgling. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
He inhaled. “I had hoped . . .”
She arched a brow.
He shrugged. “. . . that maybe after you’d spent a few days you’d decide to stay.”
“That’s sweet, Gus, really, but impossible.”
A weary smile spread across his wrinkled face. “Nothing’s impossible . . .”
“With God,” she finished Agnes’s favorite saying.
Her chest tightened. Even God couldn’t fix her past.
“I think you’ll find the place hasn’t changed much,” he said as he hefted himself from the cab.
Small towns never did.
He lumbered around to her side and opened the door, the hinges creaking with age. “We managed to talk Agnes into letting us repaint the place last year.”
She stepped from the truck and nearly lost her footing. The two-story white panel shop with apartment overhead knocked her back thirteen years, all the feelings of an abandoned fifteen-year-old girl crashing over her anew.
Her mother’s excuses for dumping her off resounded in her mind as she stared at the white lace curtains framing the oversized shop window. It was too dark to see the items on display, but the arrangement remained simple.
Her gaze traveled up to the apartment windows overhead. The same white eyelet curtains hung behind two lit electric candles.
“The candles,” she murmured, her breath catching in her throat.
Gus stared up at them, his eyes misting. “Main Street didn’t seem right without them lit.”
She nodded, fighting back tears. She wasn’t the only one hurting. Gus had carried a torch for Agnes as far back as Bailey could remember. He’d lost his wife years ago, and as far as she knew, Agnes had been the only woman to catch his eye since. It was all very sweet and innocent. From her and Agnes’s frequent phone conversations, Bailey knew the two had still sat beside each other every Sunday and Wednesday night at church and shared supper most Sunday afternoons. No whirlwind romance, by any means, but a deep abiding friendship and, Bailey believed, love.
Gus cleared his throat. “The sign’s new.”
“Oh?” She glanced up at the oval-shaped burgundy sign with raised gold lettering that read Russian-American Trading Post and then back at Gus, confused. “It looks the same.”
Gus let out a strangled chuckle. “She agreed to let us get her a new sign if it was identical to the original. Dale Green had to make it from scratch. Took him three times to get the color exactly right.” He shook his head. “Gal was so headstrong.” He turned his head and sniffed.
Bailey remained rooted in place. Should I say something?
She reached out her hand and promptly drew it back again.
Gus fumbled with the keys. “I think you’ll find everything in good working order.”
He opened the door and switched on the lights.
Bailey remained fixed in the entry.
Crowded pine bookcases and file cabinets flanked one wall; items on display for sale in a glass-enclosed case flanked the other.
Agnes’s worktable commanded the center of the room, a chair on either side—one for Agnes and one for her.
Her heart hammered in her throat.
Gus gestured to the stacks of files covering every inch of the workspace. “She must have been in the middle of sorting files when . . .” He pulled off his cap and clutched it in his arthritic hands. “Some of the gals from church put some food in the icebox for you when they heard you were coming.”
She wondered how long it had taken for the news of her pending arrival to filter through town—a day? More likely, a few hours.
She nodded, fighting to stall the tears. She remembered those women—their admonishing glances, their hushed whispers.
Her stomach quivered.
A shadow scampered across the floor, followed by mewing.
She looked to Gus and he smiled.
“Is it . . . ?”
Butterscotch poked his head around the stairwell.
Bailey bent, signaling for him to come. “Hey, Scotch.” She held out her arms.
The cat mewed and sniffed the air tentatively.
“It’s Bay,” she whispered, and he darted into her arms, purring.
He was soft and warm and every bit as cuddly as she remembered. “How you doing, old friend?” She rubbed the silky fur between Butterscotch’s ears, and he purred.
“I stop by every day and feed him. Tried taking him to my place, but that foolish cat would have none of it. Bolted out the door every chance he got.”
“I’ll take care of him.”
“Sure looks happy to see you.”
“Yeah, I suppose he does.”
“He isn’t the only one. It’s good to have you home, girl. Agnes would be so happy.”
Bailey swallowed. She only wished they’d had more time.
“Well, it’s late.” Gus sighed. “I should get out of your way and let you get some shut-eye.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t mention it. If you need anything . . .”
“I know who to call.”
She locked the door behind him and, cradling Butterscotch in her arms, climbed the stairs to the apartment overhead.
The soft glow of the candles illuminated the cozy living space. A half-done puzzle of Big Ben covered the small table, an empty tea-stained mug resting beside it.
Butterscotch meowed.
Biting back tears, she turned to the bedroom she’d called home for a handful of years and flipped on the light.
The same pink, ruffled comforter lined the bed, the same half-empty perfume bottles and jewelry boxes lined the dresser. She trailed her hand along the items, her fingers stilling on the gilded-silver-and-enamel music box.
She lifted it and sank onto the edge of the bed. Butterscotch curled up beside her. With a shaky breath, she opened the lid and Tchaikovsky’s theme from Swan Lake spilled out.
Tears budded in her eyes. A gift from Agnes her first night in Yancey.
Nestled inside lay the locket Cole had given her. She remembered that day, that moment, as if it were yesterday. The warmth of the sun after a day spent diving, the sand between her toes, the look in his eyes—full of hope and anticipation—as he’d presented it to her, his hands sure as he placed it around her neck.
Tears tumbled down her cheeks. Two gifts from the two people she’d loved in Yancey. And now she’d lost them both.
5
Slipping off his dive mask, Cole swallowed a gulp of sea air. The sun’s rays penetrated his dry suit, its warmth radiating along his cool skin.
Landon sank down beside him, tossing him a Gatorade and a granola bar.
“Thanks.” Cole stretched out, his body aching from the day’s heavy labor. Fortunately, all that remained was harnessing and refloating the fuselage. Henry Reid’s body had been retrieved, leaving only Mark Olsen’s unrecovered. Cole hated leaving a man behind.
Landon angled his head back and shut his eyes.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Cole instructed. They’d be heading back down soon.
Deputies Tom Murphy and David Thoreau chuckled voraciously at the boat’s bow. What they found so funny about today’s events eluded Cole.
“She looked great. And still single,” Tom said.
“Maybe you should drop by, offer to take her out for a drink.”
“We know where that’ll lead.”
Thoreau nudged Tom. “Exactly. Come on, you know us married guys have to live vicariously through those of you who haven’t been taken prisoner yet.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Details, my man. That’s all I’m asking for.”
Landon tossed his empty Gatorade bottle in the waste bucket. “What are you two jabbering about?”
Tom lifted his chin. “Haven’t you heard? Easy Lay Bay’s back in town.”
Cole’s jaw flexed. “Don’t call her that.”
Tom and Thoreau exchanged a knowing glance.
“Why not?” Tom hopped down from the bow and swaggered toward Cole. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You two had a thing way back when.”
Tom’s tone and choice of words made what he and Bailey had shared seem dirty, when it was far from it. Or at least he’d believed so until she’d broken his heart and never looked back. “We were friends.”
“Friends?” Tom tilted his head in Thoreau’s direction. “Well, we all know how friendly Bailey could be.”
Cole crushed the empty Gatorade bottle in his fist. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then you must have been the only one she wasn’t like that with.”
Cole stood and grabbed his gear. He was too old for childish games. “If Bailey’s back in town, it’s for her aunt’s funeral. Show some respect.”
To his astonishment Tom let it drop, and Cole returned to the water, hoping to drown all thoughts of Bailey Craig in its depths. In a few days she’d be gone and he could go back to pretending she didn’t exist.
Cole sat at the stern, bone-tired and ready to be back on shore.
They’d floated the plane successfully and the wreckage was being towed back to shore by their support vessel a few leagues ahead of them. Retrieving wreckage wasn’t his favorite job, but it was a necessary one, and since he was the most qualified diver on Tariuk Island, his help was needed.
That’s the way things worked in a small town, at least how they worked in his town. Everyone helped out—whether it was volunteering with search and rescue, assisting in towing disabled vessels to shore, or running a booth at the Summer Festival.
