As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  The hallway called.

  “M, so much wisdom! So true. So true.” She closed her eyes and spread her arms to the side, palms up, revealing a line of tattoos on the insides of both forearms. Words. Emmalyn would have to get closer to read what they said.

  “‘Bare isn’t always serene.’” Boozie opened her eyes and nodded her head, as if contemplating. “I know just what to do with that.”

  She danced to the narrow closet and grabbed a collapsible luggage rack from its interior. “Here you go. A place to put your things for now. You haven’t eaten, have you?”

  She hadn’t. Did she want to admit that? “I ate an apple on the ferry ride.”

  “Come on down to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something. We close early on Mondays. But for you . . . ” Her petticoat skirt flounced as she twirled toward the door. “Come.”

  The directive sounded like an aproned great-grandmother trying to get a young’un to eat. For whatever reason, Emmalyn pushed aside her misgivings and followed her to the main floor, through the glass doors of the darkened café lit only by light from the foyer, past vacant tables and chairs—a hodgepodge of furniture—to the café’s kitchen.

  A motion sensor lit the room.

  “Impressive.”

  “Liability issues,” Boozie said, snatching a handful of items from a stainless steel refrigerator. “It’s not that we mind feeding hungry people on a midnight raid. We just don’t want to be sued if they trip on something in the process. Solution? Motion sensor lights.”

  Emmalyn failed to suppress her smile. “I meant, the kitchen.”

  After depositing the food items on a stainless work surface, Boozie flipped two switches on an appliance that looked like a massive waffle iron. Two red lights on the temperature knobs responded. “You’re impressed by a commercial kitchen?”

  Emmalyn dragged her fingers along the smooth stainless worktable. “I am . . . I was a caterer. I did . . . I did catering. For a while.” Courage and truth will be your biggest allies, Emmalyn. Her dad’s voice. Did he have any idea how much courage it took to tell the truth? She’d give anything to be able to ask him.

  Boozie pushed the ingredients closer to Emmalyn. “I should let you do this yourself, then.”

  “No, please. I’m intrigued to see what this is going to turn into.”

  “Nothing fancy.”

  Emmalyn watched carefully as the woman worked. With a name like Boozie Unfortunate, who knew what might be produced in her kitchen. “Do you have a large staff?”

  “I’m usually out front. Two cooks this time of year. They rotate shifts. Pirate Joe buses. He’s learning more tasks. Four part-time servers. Not a large staff. But as you saw when we came through, we can’t seat more than twenty or twenty-five inside at one time. Another dozen in the courtyard during warm weather.”

  “Do you wish you had more space?”

  Boozie laughed that water-over-rocks laugh. “The tourists do. We like it this way. When we’re back down to three hundred residents from four or five thousand, this seems just right.”

  “LaPointe only has three hundred residents in the off season?”

  “Not just LaPointe. The whole island. Are you staying long?” Boozie spread something dark and gooey onto the slices of rustic bread. “I should have asked first. Do you like onion jam?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Vidalia.”

  “Oh, the jam? I’m sure I do. I’m not sure how long I’m staying. My husband and I own the—” Courage and truth. “I own a cottage where Big Bay Road turns into Schoolhouse Road.”

  Boozie laid down the butter knife and planted her palms on the stainless work surface. “You do not.” The brightness in her eyes spoke of wonder, not denial. “You’re the one? That L in the road with the big maple?”

  “Is the maple tree still there? I hoped it would be.”

  “Glorious as ever. You own that?”

  Emmalyn watched the young woman lay thin slices of pear on top of the onion jam, followed by turkey, some kind of pickle, and Swiss cheese. She topped the stack with another slice of the rustic bread and slid the concoction between the grill plates on the oversized waffle iron.

  “Not the tree. That’s part of the easement, I’m sure. I own the hunting cottage just beyond it.”

  “Right on the water?”

  “A hundred feet from the shoreline, but last I knew, it had a clear line of sight to the water, yes.”

  The sandwich sizzled. Boozie grabbed a square turquoise plate from a rack of anything but matched tableware. “Tea, coffee, hot apple cider?”

  “The apple cider sounds nice. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Boozie headed back to the fridge. “M, would you adopt me?”

  Something misfired in Emmalyn’s heart. “What did you say?”

  “I’ve been secretly envious of you since I was a kid. I didn’t know it was you, of course.” She poured two pottery mugs nearly full of cold cider and deposited them in a small microwave. Punched four touchpad buttons. The microwave stirred to life.

  Envious of me? Boozie, if you only knew . . .

  “I used to bike out there. Past Big Bay State Park and Big Bay Town Park. You might have caught the connection to Big Bay Road.” She stabbed an index finger into the spot on her cheek where a dimple should be. “Every time I came to that corner, with the tree in front of me and the water to my right, I’d dream about what it would be like to live in that spot. Something about that tree, especially now with the leaves turned. If I can’t own it, you’ll just have to adopt me so we can keep the property in the family.”

  She didn’t mean any harm by that. She couldn’t know. Emmalyn drew in a breath. Rub some dirt on it, her father would have said if he were here . . . and alive . . . trying to lighten the tension. Dirt. Yeah, Dad. That’s a good way to get an infection.

  “Hey. Hey, I didn’t mean for real.”

  Emmalyn looked at the young hand on her shoulder. It lay, soft and caring, like a toddler trying to comfort its mother. Her eyes drifted to the pale forearm attached to the comfort. And the tattoed word. HOPE. Like the pillow upstairs.

  Boozie retracted her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I thought it was funny . . . a woman your age adopting a woman my age.”

  “How old are you, Boozie?”

  “Twenty-four. I know I look fourteen. I’ll be grateful for that someday. That’s what everyone tells me.”

  Old enough to be your mother. Technically.

  Boozie lifted the handle of the electric grill pan. A perfectly browned Panini. She slipped a spatula under it and in one smooth motion planted it onto the turquoise plate. Three grape tomatoes joined it, held from sliding by a carrot/cucumber ribbon that encircled them. “Do you want to get this plate? I’ll bring the cider.”

  “Where?”

  “Let’s sit by the fireplace.”

  Had Emmalyn seen a fireplace? Ah, there it was. Along the wall midway toward the front of the building. Two wing chairs angled away from it with a just-the-right-height antique table between.

  Her appetite gone, Emmalyn sat from pure politeness. As delicious as the sandwich had looked moments ago, it didn’t hold the attraction of the quiet, conversationless room waiting for her upstairs.

  “Okay,” Boozie said, setting a mug in front of each of them and offering Emmalyn an eggplant-colored napkin. “Concession and confession.”

  Conversation. Emma stifled a sigh.

  Boozie flipped a switch under the mantel. Instant fire. “I had to allow this concession. I would much rather have a real fire, the smell of real wood smoke. The insurance company said I could have this or nothing, so . . . ”

  “It looks natural.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? We looked long and hard for this kind of flame. Anyway, confession time.”

  “Shouldn’t we turn on a light?” And not talk?

  “If you don’t mind eating by firelight, it would help. The locals get nosy if they see a light on. They assume
they missed an email about the Wild Iris open on Monday nights now. Which it’s not. Except for you.”

  As complicated as life had gotten back in Lexington, Emmalyn’s mind reeled with unanswered questions about life on Madeline Island, and within The Wild Iris Inn and Café, in particular.

  “So, confession time.” Boozie leaned across the table, her hands cradling her mug. “I don’t know what I said to upset you, but I was obviously insensitive about something, and I apologize. You don’t owe me an explanation, but I hope you’ll forgive me.” She sat back then, as if waiting for official word before progressing.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Not from you, anyway. How long was the young woman going to wait?

  “Alright then. Let’s pray. Do you mind?”

  Mind praying? Or mind if she prayed?

  “Holy One, Father of all . . . ”

  Guess it didn’t matter if she did mind.

  “. . . thank You for bringing M here to The Wild Iris. Thank You for making us practically drown in the depths of Your love. Thanks for inventing pears and onions and for filling our souls with Yourself, the Living Bread, Jesus. Amen.”

  How would Emmalyn swallow now? The crazy one with the bizarre name and a huge heart and a HOPE tattoo was crazy about Jesus. What was she supposed to do with that knowledge? Run?

  Boozie stretched her arm toward the turquoise plate and shoved it closer to Emmalyn. “Eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Emmalyn picked up the prayed-over panini and had it halfway to her mouth before she read the word on Boozie’s other forearm. HEALING.

  Hope and healing.

  What unusual packaging for that message.

  3

  Fake fires don’t flicker low. They don’t make embers that sputter and signal it’s time to call it a night. Emmalyn would have to say it aloud. She was tired and wanted to go to her room. As soon as the conversation took a breath, she’d do just that.

  Boozie chatted while Emmalyn ate every tantalizing crumb of The Wild Iris signature sandwich. Yes, the onion jam was homemade. The bread, too. One of four breads available daily. Emmalyn listened to the list then forgot most of the options as she worked to keep up with the pace of Boozie’s island life, which seemed a much safer topic than Emmalyn’s.

  Mid-sentence about the historic roots of the building in which they sat, Boozie’s eyes widened. “You were a caterer.”

  Emmalyn sipped the last of her cider. “I was.”

  “We could use help.”

  “I’m not looking for a job.” Yet.

  “More of a consulting role?”

  “Really not interested right now. I think I’ll have my hands full with the cottage.”

  Boozie nodded, knowingly. “With the roof and all.”

  “The roof?”

  “You haven’t been out there yet?”

  Emmalyn folded her napkin and laid it on the table. “No. What about the roof?”

  “Probably not as bad as they say.” Boozie’s head tilted at a sympathetic angle before she pressed her lips tight.

  “ ‘They’ have been talking about my cottage?” A slither of distress wriggled in her chest.

  Boozie drained her own mug. “I thought that’s why you’ve come. To fix the place.”

  Truth be told, I’ve come to fix me. I think. “The roof’s in rough shape?”

  “It wasn’t, until the storm. A big old pine tree decided it wanted to wait out the storm inside, from what I hear.”

  “Boozie! Shouldn’t I have been called?”

  “The town clerk’s probably the only one who knew who owned your place. No one’s been there for years. Right?”

  It had been more than eight years since Max and his buddies had hunted here. Nine since Emmalyn and he had fallen in love with a stretch of beach beyond a sun-yellow maple.

  “Some of the guys tarped it.”

  Emmalyn’s facial expression must have asked the question before she could get it verbalized. Boozie hurried to explain.

  “After a storm like that, the guys make the rounds, checking on people. What I heard was they got the limb lifted out of the way and nailed a tarp over the hole to keep any more rain from getting in.”

  Any more rain. In the space of a few words, the redecorating she faced before a hunting cottage could become a place for her to retreat turned into a major repair project. The hesitation she’d felt on the road fully matured. She couldn’t do this. What was she thinking?

  Max, this too. This too is all your fault. Somehow. It had to be.

  “Pie.” Boozie stood. “We need pie.”

  “I don’t really—” Emmalyn would have finished the sentence with “eat pie,” but Boozie had teleported into the kitchen already. For such an organic-looking young woman, she must not have a good grasp of the difference between good and bad carbs.

  Introvert? Extrovert? Boozie fit under the Tidal Wave category. But with a gentle touch that made people forget they were being carried someplace other than where they were headed. Or maybe it was only Emmalyn who reacted that way. Maybe others had spines left in them. Hers had eroded over the course of the last five years. Ever since the night Max called to say he was in trouble, the SUV was totaled, and the fertility clinic was missing a front window and a pile of bricks.

  And that the homeless man leaning against the foundation was in the hospital. Not expected to live.

  But he did.

  The man wasn’t expected to walk again, though.

  “Dutch apple pie. Fixes everything.” Boozie placed a significant wedge of pie in front of Emmalyn. “With maple vanilla whipped cream.” The woman smiled as if inching the corners of her mouth up a degree for every calorie represented on the plate, as if proud of herself for finding a way to fit even more into an already decadent dessert.

  Emmalyn looked for evidence that the layers of Boozie’s clothing hid reckless pie-eating, then stopped herself. Health-conscious was one thing. Shallow was another. She couldn’t afford to be shallow, not with what lay beneath the top layer of who she was. “It looks delicious.”

  “Joe’s work.”

  “Pirate Joe? I thought he bused tables.”

  “You’ve been paying attention.” Boozie’s eyes sparkled as she chewed.

  “I . . . notice . . . details. Obsessed with details, some say.” She dug her fork into the tower of physically unnecessary but emotionally critical calories. The fork vibrated with gratitude. Or was that her hand trembling? She didn’t need pie. She needed to be alone. With time to think. And the number of a good roofer.

  “So, a detail person. Exactly what we need.”

  “At The Wild Iris? As I said, I’m not looking for a job. I don’t think.” She mentally subtracted roof repair from her malnourished savings account.

  “Anything you’d suggest for us?” Boozie swept both arms to the side, one after the other, as if encompassing the entire restaurant with her question. “Some people resist change. The Wild Iris thrives on it. We have our nonnegotiables, like our signature panini and our root soups. It was one of the server’s ideas to present a trio of root soups in hollowed out baby pumpkins for the fall. That’s been a big hit.”

  Big hit. Hollowed. Baby. Baby. Baby.

  “You’ll have to stop in for a taste of that sometime while we still have baby pumpkins available. Such a short season. M? Are you allergic to celery root or something?” Boozie leaned in. “You don’t have a super-expressive face. More like a model for high fashion. But when a muscle twitches, it shows.”

  Emmalyn took a bite of pie and motioned, “Chewing.”

  “If that doesn’t appeal to you,” Boozie said, “we have other choices. And that might be where you could help us fine-tune a little. Right now the menu is a little overwhelming for our kitchen crew. You know what I mean?”

  Such a short season.

  “M?”

  “I guess the trip wore me out more than I realized. I’d better call it a night. Thank you for the great meal. Can you put it on my room t
ab?”

  “Will do. Pie’s on the house. Do you want to take the leftovers to your room? A little hot tea to go along with that? Sure you do. I’ll be back in a sec. You go on ahead. I’ll leave it on a tray outside your door.”

  Emmalyn picked her way carefully through the shadowed café, aiming for the lamp-lit foyer and the stairs that would take her to a pocket of numb serenity in Random Room 37.

  * * *

  Every bed looked lopsided since Max left. Optical illusion. Even this one he’d never seen seemed to tilt her direction when Emmalyn sat on it, a teeter-totter with no one on the other seat. She moved to the chair instead. Only room for one. Good thing that’s all she needed. Room for one.

  She tucked her feet underneath her and wrapped the chair’s chenille throw around herself, to the chin, amazed at how cool she could feel in a room that seemed overly toasty when she’d arrived. A thermostat hung at eye level near the door. She chose instead to sink deeper into the chair and fling the throw tighter around her shoulders.

  Moonlight skittered across the surface of the water. That barren moon. Lifeless, yet still illuminating the scene. What’s your secret?

  Three light taps jarred Emmalyn from her thoughts. She tossed the covering aside and crossed to the door. The thank you died on Emmalyn’s lips when she saw only the tray in the hallway. No hostess. For all her exuberance, Boozie sensed when a guest needed privacy. Curious woman.

  Emmalyn set the tray on the nearly bare dresser top, nudging a book—it looked as if it were created from handmade paper—out of the way with her elbow. She poured a cup of tea from the carafe. Lavender Earl Grey, she judged from the aroma. Nice. Decaf? What did it matter? She rarely slept a full night anyway.

  The book lay open, intended to be read by others.

  From the dates and the varieties of penmanship, she discerned it was a guest journal. She thumbed through a few pages, catching a line or two, landing for a few moments on some of the entries longer than, “Great night’s stay. Thank you!” or “Warm chocolate chip cookies outside our door? We’ll definitely be repeat customers.”