At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  I nodded. “You want bacon?”

  He nodded, and asked, “Vodka?”

  He had a sense of humor, too. “No vodka. How about some orange juice?”

  The waitress took our order, giving Nikoli a disapproving look. After she brought heaping platters of food he dug in voraciously. I toyed with a piece of toast and tried to think of the best way to discuss his situation. There was the matter of his being on the run, the ransacking of my kitchen and the missing exotic bird. I started to ask about the bird then decided instead to talk about me.

  “I ran away more than once. In fact, you might say I’ve been on the move since I was fifteen. That’s when my parents died. So, I know how it feels not to belong.”

  He peered at me and nodded. “Sucks. Mother and father die.”

  “You know the police are looking for you. Because of the bird, the necklace you stole—and the fact that you shouldn’t be out in the world on your own.”

  He forked another mouthful of hot cakes into his mouth grimly. “No police. You stop. I give you necklace I took.”

  “What about the bird?”

  “Bird?”

  “Yes. The bird you stole from the pet shop. The bird that was in my house Friday night. The bird that led me to you in the mountains.”

  Nikoli stood. “No. Spirit bird is free.” Before I knew what he was doing he headed for the door. But his luck had run out. He plowed straight into Amos, who clamped a hand on his arm. Amos gave me a somber glance. “How’d you find him, Sagan?”

  “I didn’t. He found me.”

  “And you were bringing him in by way of Mama’s?”

  “A condemned man deserves a last meal.”

  The café had gone silent. Everyone was staring at the drama. Nikoli looked as if he might cry with frustration. Amos looked unhappy to be there, which was exactly how I felt, too. I stood. “Let’s go, Nikoli,” I said, stepping around Amos and out the door, where I waited for Nikoli to make up his mind. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  To my surprise, he came along.

  “Not run away again,” he said in a pleading tone. “I stay here. I work.”

  He could have been me as a boy. Lost. Alone. Not sure of who he was or where he belonged. I didn’t have anybody after my parents died, either. I understood his fear and his need, even if he didn’t. I never conjured up spirit birds to lead me, but I searched for visions and guidance.

  I turned to Amos and spoke in a low voice. “Let him stay with me while you talk to immigration. I’ll see that he doesn’t run away again.”

  Amos studied Nikoli. “What makes you think he’s in the mood to cooperate?”

  Nikoli must have understood. He slid his hand in his pocket then pulled it out holding the necklace. “Not mean to take. In candy box.”

  Amos took the necklace and nodded. “Okay, Nikoli. I’m leaving you with Mr. Salter for a few days. Don’t do anything foolish. Sagan, I hope you know the responsibility you’re taking on.”

  Responsibility. That thing I’d always avoided. I’d walked my own path, searching for a place to belong. Now I was committed, temporarily at least, to being a father figure for Nikoli. “I’ll manage,” I grunted.

  “Party? Vodka?” Nikoli said eagerly.

  I only knew one word in Russian. “Nyet.”

  Quinn

  SUNDAY MORNING, dim winter sunlight peeked through the shades of my room at the Finch house. I blinked lazily. Someone was practicing scales on the violin. Must be one of the Finch kids. Wait a minute, I could hear!

  I sat up in bed, and the room didn’t tilt near as bad as yesterday. My bout with vertigo was almost over—just like my friendship with Erik. I’d spent most of Saturday avoiding him, which wasn’t that hard considering I couldn’t hear all that well and I was on the phone with Mr. Polaski most of the time, anyway. The good news was that Peavey’s Garage called to say the Cirque d’Europa bus would be ready this afternoon; the bad news was that I’d be trapped on it with Erik and Magdalene and wouldn’t be able to avoid the conversation I didn’t want to have.

  The sweet-batter smell of pancakes or waffles tempted me to risk seeing Erik at breakfast. It wasn’t like he’d speak to me about ending our friendship in front of the Finches. Still wearing my flying monkey pajamas, I got out of bed with only minor dizziness and snuck down the stairs. I paused on the second to last step, listening to what was being said, hoping to determine my strategy before anyone noticed me. I heard the Finches and Erik talking of church and grumbling about Sunday school. Maybe Erik would go with them. If not, I could. Unless I was too late.

  “You shouldn’t spy on the ladies like that,” I heard Erik say, undoubtedly scolding randy Randy.

  Yet more evidence of Erik’s affection for Magdalene. I turned to go back upstairs, but Mr. Finch, dapper in a charcoal suit and blue silk tie, was coming down. “Good morning, Quinn,” he boomed. “And how are you? Full of vim, vigor, and vitality?”

  “I’m good,” I said, having no choice but to slink downstairs to the living room.

  Randy had his binoculars at the table. “Dad! Can I look next door without using the binoculars?”

  “No,” Mr. Finch said and took the binoculars from his son. “Quinn, we’re heading to church. Quinn? Erik? Y’all feel like accompanying us?”

  A glance passed among the Finch family and Erik, whose outfit was casual yet nice enough for church. I smelled conspiracy in the air along with breakfast. Then everyone looked at me.

  I feigned a smile. “I’m definitely on the mend, but not sure I’m up to church yet. You all go.” I made a point of looking at Erik, who grabbed his coffee mug as if in defense.

  The scent of chocolate wafted from the kitchen. But Mrs. Finch was emerging from the powder room with Charles in tow. Who was cooking? “Did you brush your teeth?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Charles Albert Finch?”

  “I wasn’t lying. I brushed them last night.”

  Mr. Finch looked at his watch, the Rolex Charles tried to give Erik on my behalf. “He can brush them when we get back. Let’s go, family. If we’re late, we won’t be able to sit together.”

  “Yes!” Charles grinned, as Mrs. Finch helped him into his coat.

  Mary Alice shook her head and followed her mother and Charles out of the house. Randy and Mr. Finch followed, which left me alone with Erik.

  “Aren’t you going with them?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I took a deep breath and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I guess now is as good a time as any. Go ahead. Tell me what you want to say about our friendship. I’ll listen.”

  He tried not to smile, but I could tell it was an effort on his part. How could he find the end of our friendship so damned amusing?

  I plopped down on the sofa with only a flutter of dizziness. He sat right next to me so that I could smell that sandalwood aftershave I liked. I wondered if he’d wear something else if I asked him to.

  “Quinn, as I was trying to say yesterday, I think friendships either fade out or they deepen.”

  I couldn’t let him see the stupid tears filling my eyes, so I looked down at the monkeys cavorting across the flannel fabric on my thighs. Several strands of my long hair swung over my face, hiding it. I bit my lip. “I understand.”

  “I can’t be your friend any longer,” he said.

  I couldn’t breathe. I’d sob, and I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I wouldn’t. “Why not?” I squeaked out.

  “Because I want more,” he said, only the want sounded like vant, which was so cute and made his rejection somehow hurt more. More?

  He tucked the hair hanging in my face behind my ear, warming my neck and face with his touch. “More,” he said, “as in a romantic relationship with you.”

 
My heart sped in my chest like I was running. “But Magdalene’s sexy and Belgian. You speak the same language, grew up with waffles and frites, bicycles and canals and the musty smell of centuries-old buildings. I can barely manage to walk upright some days, I—”

  He placed an index finger against my lips, stopping me from saying more. “I want you, Quinn. And I asked for a little help from our Creekite cupids this morning to show you what I feel, since my attempts to talk to you only seem to end in confusion.”

  “What about Magdalene?”

  He winced. “I went out with her twice and that was all it took for me to know she wasn’t right, to see that I’d been looking at the world with my own kind of vertigo.”

  “But she’s always touching you.”

  “She chooses to think there’s something there that isn’t. While you’ve chosen to believe there isn’t something here that is. It’s been quite a . . . problem.”

  He stood and held his hand out to me. I rose and allowed him to escort me to the Finch’s formal dining room, where two places were set at the end of the table in a cozy arrangement of fine silver and crystal.

  How could I have misinterpreted everything he said and did? And when had he planned this breakfast?

  In one corner was a violin stand, a dulcimer and a steel guitar with Joe Biddly’s String Quartet stenciled on its side. I noted the colorful flowers Mrs. Finch had sent Erik on my behalf displayed on the table. “Where are Magdalene’s roses?”

  “I offered them to Randy to replace the candy Charles stole.”

  “Won’t she be mad?”

  “I can find a new partner.”

  Bakery owner Ingrid Beechum, who’d taken one of the Bulgarians, poked her head out of the kitchen as Erik seated me. “Y’all about ready to eat?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said, too stunned to question anything that was happening.

  A little yip sounded at her feet. Bob the Chihuahua seemed pleased as well. I wondered where the Finch’s cat was.

  Erik poured us both a mimosa and raised his glass in a toast. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said gently.

  Ingrid entered with a steaming plate of Belgian waffles drizzled with melted chocolate.

  A serenade began in some strange, Southern-accented language, thanks to Joe Biddly’s String Quartet, who walked in from the study, sporting sweaters with the band’s logo and website address knitted in. Erik leaned over to whisper against my ear, and I felt like doing a triple twist. “Belgian folk music.”

  “I love it,” I said, when I really wanted to say I love you. It was probably too early for declarations of love. My head was spinning from the revelation rather than vertigo. I could get used to this sort of breathless feeling. “How did you know I wasn’t going to church?”

  “I knew if I dressed like I was going with the Finches, you would choose to stay home,” Erik said. “Between Mrs. Finch’s words of wisdom and your own admission that you felt something more than friendship . . . how could I lose?”

  He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it and read, One kiss bridges the distance between friendship and love.

  I tilted my head to the side. “Only you haven’t kissed me.”

  Locking his gaze with mine, he leaned in even closer. I could feel his warm breath on my face. His thumb grazed my cheekbone, sending a shiver down my spine. My heart pounded as eyelids lowered. This was it. The kiss I could build a dream on.

  His lips pressed against mine, gentle yet firm, and thorough in their exploration of mine.

  I’d allowed my vertigo to color everything I saw. I wasn’t going to do that anymore. Erik wanted me, even with my problem, even though we’d grown up in different worlds, even though we couldn’t partner anymore on the stage. I looked forward to that afternoon’s bus ride to Dollywood; I looked forward to life.

  By the time the Finches returned from church, my stomach was full of sweet waffles and my heart with the love that shone in Erik’s hazel eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Finch hugged each other. “See? The flowers worked,” she said.

  Charles squinched up his nose. “Na-uh. It was me.”

  Mary Alice sniffed. “I hardly think so. Quinn followed my advice and was honest about her feelings.”

  “Sorry folks,” Ingrid yelled from the kitchen. “It was the waffles!” Bob added a yip for emphasis. The cat hissed and chased him. Bob stopped long enough to pee on the carpet.

  Randy scratched his head. “So, like, Erik, the hottie with the red hair next door. You don’t want her?”

  “No,” Erik said, smiling at me. “I don’t.”

  Harry

  I AWOKE ON Valentine’s Day well before sunrise and lay with Josie’s warmth curled against my side as I went back over the possibilities for Yuri. It was frustrating. We didn’t even know if he had a green card, although that wasn’t an insurmountable hurdle. If our local lawyer, Mac Campbell, could arrange the adoption of three Mexican children for Opal Suggs, one little green card would be nothing for him to secure.

  The more I wrapped my mind around Yuri’s predicament, though, the more Josie’s suggestion made sense. Not establishing a home for aging bears, necessarily, but finding a bear sanctuary that already existed. With all the animal rights groups out there, surely someone had come up with the funds to establish a sanctuary for circus animals to be put out to pasture, as it were.

  My first thought was doing an internet search. That would net me information, but I wasn’t just looking for a bear sanctuary. I was looking for a well-established organization that had a good reputation.

  This was one of those times when having connections within the educational community came in handy. I knew a number of professors at the University of Georgia College of Veterinary Medicine. One of them was bound to have come across a first-rate sanctuary while conducting some research project. At least they could get me on the right track.

  I checked the clock. Six a.m. A tad early to be disturbing anyone on a Sunday morning, much less Valentine’s Day.

  Still, I couldn’t sleep. I slipped out of bed, took a shower, fixed ham and eggs and biscuits, and took a tray into the bedroom to surprise my wife with breakfast in bed. Breakfast led to other bedroom activities where Josie had still another surprise for me. I knew my wife was creative, but I never dreamed she had so many uses for muscadine jelly.

  By nine o’clock I was on the phone. My third call netted the name of a well-known rescued-animal sanctuary in California that took in abused and abandoned wild animals. They had a special section for bears.

  Bingo.

  “Thanks, Dave.” I checked my watch. “California is three hours behind us, which means it’s 6:30 there. A little early to—“

  “Are you kidding me? They’ve been up for an hour at least, feeding the animals. I’ll give Pat a call. What’s your number there?”

  An hour later, I sauntered into the kitchen where Josie was stuffing supplies into our backpacks. “My wife is a genius.”

  She straightened from her task at the kitchen table. “You found a home for aging dancing bears?”

  I grinned. “Dave came through. He put me in touch with a rescued animal sanctuary in California. I just got off the phone with the head honcho out there. They not only have room for the bear, but they’re so excited about having an experienced bear handler, I swear I could hear the director doing a happy dance. Especially since they’ll get Yuri and some cash, as well.”

  “Cash? Oh. You mean, you’ll write them a grant.”

  “Yes. I have no doubt I can secure funds for a place like that. And after all, grants are what researchers do best. Well, maybe not best, but second-best.”

  “Second-best?” Josie wriggled her eyebrows.

  I laughed. I adored her playfulness. “Okay, third-best.”

  She regarded me,
her face shining with love. “Harry Rutherford, you are the most giving man I know. Who else would go to so much trouble for a Russian you barely know and a beat-up old bear?”

  Pleased with herself and me, Josie returned her attention to packing.

  I walked up behind her, pulled her back against my chest, and dropped a kiss on her neck. “Don’t ever change, my love.”

  She melted into me. “One thing that will never change is how much I love you. Now, help me pack. I want to see that bear!”

  Right before we left our house, Ida called about the Cirque d’Europa bus. The bus would be fixed by late afternoon. The troupe expected to leave town around five that evening. Ida mentioned that the Methodist church was offering a special circus blessing for our guests, but I made our regrets. Josie and I weren’t even making it to our own church this morning, since we had to get up the mountain.

  I didn’t tell Ida that Yuri would not be rejoining the troupe. Anything could’ve happened during the night to change his mind.

  Josie and I reached the cabin around noon. Yuri and the bear weren’t there. We left our backpacks on the porch and quickly found the unlikely pair fishing in the stream that tumbled down the mountain about fifty yards away from the cabin. They were only a hundred yards above “Josie Falls,” where Josie and I had first met. I’d been following her on her mountain walks for several months, not wanting to show myself because of my scars. That day, however, I had to make myself known in order to rescue her when she came close to killing herself with a freezing dive into the pool below the falls. Josie had come up the mountain to escape her mother’s disdainful disappointment in her after she lost the Miss Bigelow County Pageant. We’d been inseparable ever since.

  Josie and I both stopped dead when the bear roared and took several lunging steps toward us.

  Yuri barked a command in Russian, and the bear turned to him instead, ambling over to tamely take the fish Yuri offered him.

  “Bear good fisherman,” Yuri said with a grin. “But he still hungry. So he guard fish.”

  “Goodness, Yuri,” Josie exclaimed. “This is all so amazing. Is it okay if we come closer?”