Indelible

by Laurie Buchanan

  Emma watches Mick rake his fingers through his hair, then absently rub his left hip. She appreciates the masculine way he fills out his jeans and dark green shirt. He looks devastatingly handsome.

  Hemingway stops on a dime at the edge of the picnic blanket.

  Reaching out to pet Hemingway’s sizable head, Emma laughs. “Hey, handsome. It’s nice to see you again, big guy.”

  “I bet Niall doesn’t know you’re here. Did you give him the slip?” Mick directs his question into big, brown, soulful eyes. Hemingway stands up and shakes his massive head to clear the dust. They both watch as the shake ripples down his enormous body, ending with a final flip of his tail.

  Emma crosses her arms and rubs them up and down with the palms of her hands. “The wind’s picked up. It’s starting to get downright chilly.”

  Squinting, Mick studies the horizon. “We don’t usually get summer storms, but I think one’s brewing. It’s rare for this area to get thunder and lightning, but when it does, it’s intense. A few years ago, we even experienced hurricane force winds. It was incredible.”

  Emma watches as Hemingway noses the picnic basket—hinting. After unlatching the lid, Mick finds a tidbit to share and then the three of them start toward home.

  A rabbit darts across the open expanse. Never one to ignore a good chase, Hemingway bolts in pursuit. They’re out of sight in moments.

  When Mick and Emma reach the paved walkway, Emma looks up at the tree canopy.

  Oh, shit! Jason’s rapid-fire mind scrambles for a cover story should he be seen.

  The wind rushes through the leaves, making them ripple like an ocean of greenery.

  Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Emma makes out the loamy smell of leaves decomposing in the rich, dark soil on the forest floor.

  “I had a lovely time,” she says.

  Kneeling, his face just inches from her, Mick draws Emma in for a kiss. Long, soft, and sweet, it brims with promise.

  And though he suspected it before, now Jason has proof positive. Emma is Mick’s weakness, his vulnerable point. I’ll use her to get to him. I’ll make him watch as I kill her. And then I’ll kill him. He’ll die—twice.

  CHAPTER 12

  “I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide.”

  —HARPER LEE

  Though the sun’s shadows are lengthening by the minute, the day is far from gone. In the kitchen, Niall is brooding. A Scottish trait he inherited from a long line of MacCullough’s. Stumped, he drums his fingers on the smooth, gray-veined marble pastry slab. He’s a man who takes a great measure of pride in what comes out of his kitchen.

  “Which would be the better appetizer to serve with grilled shark steaks in sage butter sauce?” he asks the room at large. “Cornmeal-crusted oyster mushrooms, or caramelized fennel and goat cheese?”

  Like a third-grader with an answer—arm waving wildly—Hemingway’s long tail thumps hard as if he has the answer to the question. “Ask me, ask me!” he seems to say.

  “You think it should be the caramelized fennel and goat cheese? Well okay. But if you’re so smart, what wine should I pair with the meal?” Niall asks Hemingway.

  Now standing, Hemingway gives a whole-body wag.

  “You think a medium-weight white with firm acidity, long finishes, and volcanic minerality would be sublime? Well now, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Granted it’s unusual, but I’ve selected a red that won’t overpower the shark while adding a range of earthiness, structure, fruit, and tannins. In town today, I stopped at Old Fairhaven Wines and picked up a few bottles of Molettieri ‘Vigna Cinque Querce,’ Riserva, Taurasi, Campania 2001,” Niall says, punctuating each word with a fake Italian accent and hand gestures for emphasis.

  “Hey good lookin’ what cha got cookin’, how’s about cookin’ something up with me?”

  Niall looks over to see Libby leaning against the kitchen entry. “I didn’t see you there,” he says.

  “I know you didn’t. I’ve been watching you. I was admiring the way your hair falls onto your forehead and the way your rolled sleeves show off your forearms. With your shirttails hanging out over your jeans and the heat of the kitchen adding color to your cheeks, you have a boyish look that pulls at my heartstrings,” she says, suggestively.

  Niall, in turn, admires the way laughter erupts from Libby’s unpainted mouth when she steps into the kitchen. While outside hanging laundry to dry, the wind had loosened her hair and sent it dancing around her face, causing Niall’s molten gaze to search her features one by one. When his eyes drop to her lips, he feels a tug in his groin.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Niall asks with mock severity, while thinking, That woman could charm blossoms into blooming.

  The laundry basket is cocked on Libby’s hip. Her sapphire eyes twinkle in merriment. “Long enough. I just finished hanging a load of towels out to dry, but the sky has repainted itself a slate gray. I expect rain clouds scudding overhead any moment.”

  Niall agrees. “The weather station revised the forecast a while ago. You’re right, a storm is brewing. It’s still well off the coast, but it’s expected to arrive tonight or in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “It’s going to arrive well before then,” Libby says.

  “You only use the clothesline when your soul needs soothing, Libby. What’s wrong?” Niall asks.

  She saunters over to him. “You know me too well.” After pressing the soft red petals of her lips to his, she gives him a saucy, come-hither look and struts out of the kitchen.

  With each languid step, the gauzy material of the billowing aqua and chocolate skirt whisper at Cynthia’s ankles. Tall and willowy, the epitome of earthy, bohemian beauty, she’s the first guest to arrive at the main house this evening. Stacks of silver and turquoise bracelets, perfect for her coloring, clink and clank together like a symphony, with each movement of her wrists. She’s wearing her new, hand-carved pendant. Crafted from ebony, it’s an intricately carved patu, the term for a club used by the Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand—a symbol of protection, something to ward off evil.

  Spacious and inviting, the main house at Pines & Quill is one you can enter as if it’s your own. Further, the guests were instructed by Libby the night before to let themselves in at six o’clock and head straight to the eat-in kitchen. And that’s precisely what Cynthia does. In addition to enjoying the company of these lovely people, her intent this evening is to discern something new about each one. Perhaps something she can help them with.

  Cynthia watches as Niall bats flour smudges from the Paris bistro-striped apron he wears when cooking, then wipes his hands and begins.

  “Cynthia, you’ve had a look at many of our guest’s palms, I was wondering—”

  “Oh my goodness, of course, I’d be delighted to look at your palm,” she interjects before he can finish.

  After taking Niall’s right hand in both of hers, Cynthia turns his palm upright, tips her head forward, leans in, and gazes with intent.

  A minute passes before she points a well-manicured, Ferrari-red fingernail to a place on his hand, touches it lightly and explains, “The outer edge of your palm provides the best view of the marriage line. See, it starts here and runs toward your ring finger. It’s amazing that this tiny line has such a large impact on a person’s life, but it does. And it’s often overlooked because it’s not as deeply etched into the palm as either the life or heart lines.” She points to each line, in turn. “See how your marriage line is located so close to your heart line?”

  Niall nods with wide-eyed interest.

  “That means you married young. If it were closer to the base of your little finger,” she says, pointing, “it would mean that you married later in life. And look here.” She points at a single, vertical slash line. “This means you have one child.”

  “You’re right,” he says, astonishment lacing his voice. “Our son, Ian.�
��

  “And you’re a good man,” Cynthia says just as Libby, a captivating picture in a French-inspired, sage silk top, enters.

  “I second the motion. But what makes you say that?” Libby asks.

  She’s worried about their son, Cynthia thinks. “Step over here and let me show you. See how this marriage line,” Cynthia says, pointing, “doesn’t have any lines running parallel to it?”

  “Yes,” Libby says.

  “That means Niall is faithful. He always has been and always will be. Would you like to know why?” Cynthia asks.

  “Yes, I would,” Libby says.

  “It’s because he married the love of his life,” Cynthia says, looking into Libby’s vivid blue eyes. “For some, there’s only one.”

  Hearing a noise, the three turn to see who’s arrived.

  Fran steps into the big, comfortable kitchen.

  It’s clear that the Zen-like balm of Pines & Quill is working its wonders, Cynthia thinks. Her usually taut face is relaxed and smiling. Unsprayed, soft-combed hair frames her oval face. “Oh, let me see you,” Cynthia says with enthusiasm.

  Fran turns around so Cynthia and Libby can both see the whole of her new outfit. She looks fantastic in the soft cream linen dress, sandals, and a vibrant lime-colored, light-weight, bolero jacket.

  “You’re beautiful,” the women exclaim. Stepping closer, they admire Fran’s new intricately adorned silver and burnished gold bracelet. It’s decorated with a cornucopia of gemstones in a variety of different colors, each complimenting the next.

  “I see you discovered Hyde and Seek,” Libby says, pointing to Fran’s new pendant.

  “Yes, I bought one of Mick’s hand-carved pendants. It’s a koru design crafted from ash wood. According to the enclosure, it represents growth, new life, and new beginnings. It seems fitting.”

  Cynthia looks at Fran’s left hand and sees that her ring is absent. I’m glad that she’s coming into her own.

  Just then, Mick arrives. Cynthia notices that his white shirt emphasizes his still damp, fresh-from-the-shower raven hair as he escorts Emma into a cloud of delicious smells that tease their nostrils when they enter the welcoming kitchen. Cynthia smiles. They’re falling in love. But I can sense Mick’s fear. He’s afraid of losing another important person in his life.

  A connoisseur of fine jewelry, Cynthia takes in the single pearls dangling from each of Emma’s lobes. They’re showcased by her upswept auburn hair. They’re like beautiful bookends, and if I’m not mistaken, they belonged to her maternal grandmother. Cynthia’s eyes follow Emma as she rolls toward the mudroom.

  “Hello, handsome!” Emma directs the compliment at Hemingway, whose neck is stretched over the bottom half of the Dutch door. From a seated level, Emma can’t give the attention to the now-beside-himself Hemingway that he wants.

  Cynthia watches with smiling interest, as do the others.

  After readjusting her position, Emma locks the wheels on her chair. With her well-toned, muscled arms, she uses the counter-like ledge on the closed half of the Dutch door to pull herself to a standing position where she is licked from chin to forehead for her effort.

  Rubbing his whiskered face with her forehead, Emma turns to see a slack-jawed audience and declares, “I’m famished!” Seeing the shocked expressions on their faces, she grins and adds, “I’ve been practicing.” Then she gracefully sits back down.

  Cynthia’s enthusiastic clapping is enhanced by everyone else’s.

  Not wanting to be left out, Hemingway joins their excitement, his ears shooting up in the air with each bark-laced jump.

  Through hearty congratulations, peppered with questions, Emma explains. “Though I can probably bench press a Buick, I don’t want the muscles in my legs to atrophy, so I work every day to strengthen them. And one day I’m going to move from this wheelchair to a walker. From a walker to trekking poles. And then on to hands-free walking,” she finishes with a confident smile.

  “This calls for a celebration,” Niall declares. “I’ve paired our meal this evening with a red Italian wine. Who wants to try it?”

  “Me,” comes the chorused answer.

  For the appetizer, Niall places a beautiful platter of caramelized fennel and goat cheese on the table. “Please help yourselves. Dinner will be ready soon. In anticipation of a storm, I prepared a variety of comfort foods. We’re having grilled shark steaks marinated in a sage butter sauce, candied sweet potatoes with a pistachio crust, slow-cooked green beans, and cornbread topped with whipped honey butter.”

  “I’m in food heaven!” Emma exclaims.

  “By the way, where’s Mr. Hughes?” Cynthia asks, one eyebrow piqued.

  “I’m not sure. We saw him earlier today. He must be running late,” Libby says.

  Worry strikes the pit of Cynthia’s stomach. Her eyebrows draw together in private thought as she watches the red wine Niall is pouring purl against the glass inside her long-stemmed goblet.

  Apart from the great horned owl perched on a high limb in one of the western red cedar trees surrounding Thoreau cottage, no one else is aware that Jason has company.

  The owl watches the woman with short, dark curly hair step with care between tree trunks, stopping periodically to look around. After pressing his needle-sharp talons into the tree’s flesh, he rotates his head on his flexible neck to get a better look with his large yellow eyes.

  The owl isn’t the only one schooled in the predator-prey dynamic. The man inside the cottage is well versed.

  The Lhaq’temish, the local Indian tribe who live on the Lummi reservation, believe that owls think like humans—only far better.

  The owl wonders if the woman tapping softly on the cottage door is predator or prey.

  “That was a hell of a long hike,” the woman says to Jason after stepping inside. “I need to pee.”

  Before leaving the bathroom, she checks the gun in her purse to make sure the safety is off. I know him well enough to be armed and ready. After placing the strap over her shoulder and adjusting the bag for easy access, she smiles at herself in the mirror then shuts off the light.

  Stepping into the living room, she asks, “What’s the plan?”

  “All in good time,” Jason says, raising his glass of Jack Daniels to her and nodding. “All in good time.”

  On the heels of a distant boom, Mick says, “It sounds like we’ll need to batten down the hatches tonight.” Raising his glass to Niall, he continues, “Here’s to storms and comfort food.”

  After toasting their chef, Emma says, “I’m glad it held off until now. I enjoyed writing on the patio this morning.” Then turning to Mick, she says, “And our picnic this afternoon.”

  “Me, too,” Fran chimes in. “After tai chi this morning, I wrote, and then went clothes shopping in town.”

  Lifting her glass in acknowledgement, Cynthia smiles. “Me three. It was fun helping you shop. Thank you for inviting me along.”

  Turning to Fran, Emma says, “I love your outfit, it’s beautiful. And your pendant is lovely. Did you buy everything in town today?”

  While running her fingertips over the intricate carving on her pendant, a pleased blush blooms on Fran’s face as she answers. “Yes, and more.”

  All eyes turn expectantly to Mick who’d remained quiet.

  “What?” he asks the room at large. When no one responds, he says, “I see you found Hyde and Seek.”

  “The real question is, did you get any writing done today?” Libby asks, eyes dancing in wicked merriment over the rim of her wine glass at Mick’s obvious discomfort.

  “Earlier I saw laundry flapping on the clothesline. Did you have a chance to bring it in, or should I run out and grab it now?” Mick asks.

  “I gathered it a while ago, but thank you for asking,” Libby says.

  Mick slides his gaze toward Niall. Help me out here, buddy! his dark green eyes plead.

  “I read somewhere that writing is like painting images with words,” Niall interjects in a rescue atte
mpt.

  Taking his cue, Fran responds, “I agree. I think that’s why writing attracts me. I enjoy the mystery of it, the way words fit together on a page to paint an image.”

  “Words are important to everyone,” Emma adds, picking up the verbal baton. “Left unsaid, they leave holes.”

  Cynthia adds, “I read a quote today by E. L. Doctorow. ‘Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader, not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.’”

  And the topic of writing is off and running, taking on an animated life of its own. Strains of Norah Jones singing “Come Away with Me” float to the table as dinner is enjoyed, and what Mick did or didn’t write today was forgotten.

  The sky is ominous, dark with rumbling thunder, as they adjourn to The Ink Well for dessert, a wild blackberry custard tart topped with Niall’s homemade whipped cream.

  “Libby, with his delicious cooking,” Cynthia says, nodding toward Niall, “why aren’t you the size of a house?”

  “Because I know there’s more where that came from,” Libby answers with a laugh. “And that knowledge allows me to enjoy his creations in small portions. I’m curious, who was able to leverage the focus word, ‘eavesdrop’ to help them write today?”

  “Not me,” came the unanimous response.

  “But I’m going to pay closer attention to the conversations around me. I can see where it would be helpful in writing dialogue,” Fran says.

  Handing the box to Cynthia, Libby says, “It’s your turn to select a focus word.”

  Closing her eyes, Cynthia reaches into the middle of the deck and pulls a card. “It says, ‘Ribe Tuchus.’ I wonder what that means?”

  After finding the spot in the book, Libby reads, “‘When, as a kid, I found myself unable to start or finish homework, my father would say, “Ribe tuchus!” Translated from the Yiddish, this means, “rub your bottom on the chair.” Sometimes this is exactly what you have to do. Sit, even if you don’t think you have anything to write. Sit until the muse says, “Okay, I guess you’re serious. Maybe I’ll drop in and dispense a little inspiration.” If you’re always running around, she may never find you. So put your seat on that chair.’”