A Soft Place to Fall (Shelter Rock Cove)

by Barbara Bretton

  Assuming she ever saw him again.

  Oh yes, she was definitely glad she had a wedding to work today, a big demanding job with lots of details guaranteed to trip her up when she least expected it. She thrived on the pressure of time schedules and the never-ending surprises most weddings provided.

  Today she was the Annie everyone knew and depended upon. The one with the lists and the schedules and the stop watch embedded in her brain. That was how you built a business: by delivering everything you promised when you promised it . . . and just a little bit more. It made for some long days but the fact that she would soon be able to go to her mailbox without being afraid of the bills she might find lurking inside was worth a little sleep deprivation.

  She left Frankie's house then rushed back to the shop and began loading the church flowers into the back of her truck, taking care to keep the delicate blooms cool and their stems in water. She threw wire cutters, three heavy spools of satin ribbon, and a huge box of ferns, misty, and babies' breath in with it, then raced for the church. The last mass of the day ended at eleven and by eleven-ten, Annie and Claudia were hard at work turning the somber old church into a wedding bower of blooms.

  "I'm not sure Frankie's going to make it through the ceremony," she told Claudia as they placed the lush and fragrant arrangements of plumeria and ginger blossoms and hibiscus on the altar. "He looked scared out of his own skin."

  "They always look that way," Claudia said with a fond laugh. "God knows my three boys did."

  Annie turned to her ex mother-in-law in surprise. "Not Kevin!"

  "Oh yes Kevin," the woman said as she straightened the heavy satin ribbons draped over the altar cloth. "He was so nervous John finally had to sit him down and make him drink a shot of whiskey."

  "I don't believe it."

  "I'm not saying he didn't love you more than life itself because he did, but when it comes to taking that walk down the aisle, I think most of them feel it's the last mile."

  Annie thought back over the hundreds of weddings she had been to, either as a guest or as the florist, and a pattern began to emerge through the haze of orange blossoms. The brides had invariably been regal and steadfast in their resolve as they glided down the aisle while the grooms wiped beads of sweat from their temples and tugged at shirt collars grown suddenly too tight.

  "You're right," she said as she layered baby's breath and lacy ferns around the bigger arrangements.. "Why didn't I ever notice that before?"

  "We're the practical ones," Claudia said, gently shaping a flurry of plumeria with the pads of her fingers. "Once we make up our mind about a man, it's all over."

  "Is that how it was for you and John?" They had been one of the happiest couples Annie had ever seen, as perfectly matched in every way as a husband and wife could wish for.

  "Eventually," Claudia said.

  They chatted quietly about the upcoming nuptials as they decorated the front pews. Claudia took the bride's side, Annie the groom's, and they were finished in short order.

  As they were sweeping up fallen blossoms and scattered greenery, Claudia peered at Annie then stepped closer.

  "What's this?" She placed a gentle finger against Annie's left cheek. "Did one of those cats scratch you again?"

  "No," Annie said, busy picking up tiny bits of feathery green leaves from the pristine white bridal carpet. "Why do you ask?"

  "Your cheek is all red, honey. A little network of scratches."

  "I can't imagine how I –" She stopped mid-sentence and willed herself not to dissolve in a crimson blush. Sam's stubble, which had felt delicious against her skin, had apparently left a calling card behind. She hated to lie but she wasn't up for the truth. "You know how it is with cats," she said, vowing to give the maligned George and Gracie extra treats to make up for what she was doing to their reputation. "After a while you don't even notice the scratches."

  "But you said –"

  "I wasn't paying attention, Claude, I'm sorry I was thinking about the reception and all I have to do there." She glanced at her watch. "In fact I'm meeting Jen, Becky, and Sweeney at The Overlook in ten minutes."

  "Ten minutes! Good Lord, honey, we'd better hurry."

  Another crisis averted.

  "Thanks for the help, Claudia," Annie said as they stepped out into the brilliant September sunshine. "We should have everything ready by the time they say 'I do.'"

  Claudia retrieved her sunglasses from the bottom of her navy blue purse then slipped them on. "You know I would be there with you if I didn't have my seminar this afternoon."

  Annie slipped on her own sunglasses and rummaged through her tote-bag for her car keys. "What is it this time: Tai Chi or low-fat cooking?"

  "You're as bad as Susan," Claudia said with a shake of her well-coiffed head. "For your information, it's called Investing in Your Future, Part Two. This one is aimed at seniors on fixed incomes."

  Annie couldn't help groaning. "Please tell me this isn't that terrible financial analyst with the radio show out of Boston."

  "His name is Adam Winters and his show is the number one financial program in all of New England."

  "He's a huckster, Claudia. He's selling snake oil."

  "He happens to be highly respected in his field."

  "If his field happens to be scamming people."

  Claudia lowered her sunglasses and stared closely at Annie. "I've never heard you sound so cynical before."

  Back off, Annie, before you reveal a few family secrets. "Remember that financial analyst out of Bangor, the one who was brought up on charges? Some people actually lost their homes because they got involved with him."

  "I'm insulted," Claudia said. "I'm hardly a fool, Anne. I'm not about to turn over my life savings to a stranger."

  "I know you're not," Annie said, "but those guys make their money by being charming and convincing."

  Claudia slid her sunglasses back into position. "I'll be sure to tell Roberta you think we're two old fools soon to be parted with our money."

  "Claudia!" Annie didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I didn't say that. I just said you should be careful."

  But it was too late. Claudia marched down the church steps toward the parking lot in high dudgeon. Unless Annie missed her guess, Roberta would be in high dudgeon too before the day was over.

  She didn't envy Adam Winters one single bit.

  #

  Sam ate enough blueberry waffles to make both Warren and Nancy happy for at least a year then put away an extra one for himself.

  Nancy sighed loudly as she gathered up the dirty plates to whisk them back into the kitchen. "Men eat, women gain weight. Wicked unfair, I say, and you can quote me."

  Warren waited for Sam to polish off the rest of the coffee then invited him out back to check out the boat.

  "Nancy gave me the guided tour," Sam said as they walked across the backyard toward the converted barn where Max was waiting for them. "You didn't get much done this spring."

  "That's the trouble with being rich," Warren said. "You have the money to do what you want but you don't have the time." He looked over at Sam. "In case you haven't figured it out, that's where you come in."

  The inside of the barn was dim and cool. It smelled of cedar shavings, dried hay, and salt air. Sam greedily filled his lungs with the pungent aromas.

  "You already know I'm looking to open up the museum this time next year," he told Sam, "but we've fallen behind on the exhibits." The building he had purchased, formerly an old Catholic church at the foot of Small Crab Harbor, had been completely renovated right down to the wiring and floor joists. Local art work had been commissioned for the museum, including murals, sculptures, folk art, and a wide range of photographs, both antique and current. The Ladies Auxiliary and the VFW had managed to gather up a healthy collection of family albums, letters, and diaries that portrayed the day-to-day lives of fishermen and their families in a vividly moving fashion. A company in Bath was restoring a mailing boat from the 1920s and a 19th century whale
r. Both vessels would be berthed at the marina in Shelter Rock Cove and run three short cruises a day when weather permitted.

  "Have you ever been to the Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian?" Warren asked.

  Sam shrugged. "Maybe when I was a kid."

  "I'm looking to follow their lead and hang some of the exhibits from the ceiling using very thin wires. Your new neighbor Annie Galloway has been helping out with the lighting and the interior landscaping and we think the effect will be pretty damn striking if I do say so." The church's vaulted ceiling made it a natural for the technique. Warren envisioned a range of handmade canoes, dating from 17th century Penobscot to 19th century Passamaquoddy to 21st century third-generation Irish-American, swinging out over the main display area. "Kieran O'Connor was set to make us three canoes but he busted both arms and a leg in a car wreck in Montreal and he's out of business for a while." He waited a good long moment then exploded, "You're too smart to be this dumb. Do I have to spell it out for you? I need you to make the canoes for the museum."

  "That's a whole different craft," Sam said. "I'm better at repairs and restorations."

  "How difficult can it be?" Warren pressed. He hadn't gotten where he was by throwing in the towel at the first sign of resistance. "You get some wood, a few hand tools, none of that fancy stuff, and you make a canoe."

  "I'd rather work on finishing the restoration on your old man's fishing boat."

  "Nope," said Warren, laying a fond hand on the still-battered hull of the Sally B. "This is mine. I'll be seeing her through."

  "We'll need two kinds of wood for the canoe," Sam said, "another steamer so I can bend the hull, that old one doesn't –" He caught himself. "You old SOB. You knew I wouldn't be able to say no."

  "That's what I was hoping."

  "Why not farm it out to one of those canoe-makers near Boothbay? They do great work."

  "They're not local."

  "Neither are the restorers down in Bath."

  "Jake and Eli were born and bred in Shelter Rock Cove. I don't hold the move against them."

  "I'm not a Mainer," Sam pointed out. "All I have to do is open my mouth and everyone knows where I'm from. If you're looking for authenticity –"

  "You're third-generation Irish, right?"

  "Yeah, but –"

  "And you put in some time here when you were a boy."

  "That still doesn't make me –"

  "And you're living here now."

  "Only until I figure out my next step."

  "Who knows," said Warren as he pulled the plans for the canoe from the back pocket of his trousers. "Maybe you're looking at it."

  Chapter Nine

  Annie broke a few speed limits between the church and The Overlook but luck was with her and the Shelter Rock Cove police force of two officers and one chief were apparently busy elsewhere. The Overlook was situated atop one of the cliffs that, appropriately enough, overlooked the Cove itself. It had been built some eighty years ago by a wealthy shipbuilder who intended to use it as his summer mansion. The Great Depression, however, put an end to that dream and over the ensuing years the beautiful structure had served as an orphanage, a spa, a hotel, and now most recently as a reception hall for weddings, conventions, and other large and noisy gatherings.

  Sweeney's old VW bus was angled crazily into the spot nearest the tradesman's door and she was busy unloading centerpieces onto the pair of rolling carts Annie had found at a going-out-of-business auction over in Bangor a few months ago.

  "You're awfully punctual for a woman who refuses to wear a watch," Annie said when Sweeney turned around to see who was approaching.

  "All those years on the commune taught me how to –" Sweeney threw back her head and laughed with delight. "As I live and breathe! Whisker burns on Annie Galloway's cheeks!"

  This time Annie was prepared. "Blame George and Gracie," she said as she reached into the bus for one of the centerpieces. "Cat owners deserve hazard pay."

  "Oh no," said Sweeney with a shake of her head, "those aren't cat scratches. I live with six of the little beasties and those aren't cat scratches, honey, those are manmade."

  "You've been reading too many romance novels."

  "And you haven't been reading enough of them," Sweeney countered. "I think it's great, honey." She grabbed for a centerpiece herself. "In fact, if the whisker burns are from the man I think they're from, I think it's downright fantastic."

  Annie couldn't help herself. She started to laugh. "You don't know the first thing about him, Sweeney. He could be married and have six kids."

  "Is he?"

  Annie hesitated. "I – uh, I don't think so." Of course he isn't, Annie. Didn't he say he wasn't sleeping with anyone?

  "You don't sound terribly sure."

  "We didn't exchange resumes, Sweeney."

  "I did a reading on him last night," Sweeney said as they started trundling the dozen centerpieces into the building, "and I saw lots of family but no wife or children."

  "Not those tarot cards again."

  "I know, I know," said Sweeney. "You're much too practical to believe in the cards but the second I saw the two of you standing together outside, I had this funny feeling –"

  Annie made a face and resumed pushing her cart toward the entrance. "It's probably that bag of Oreos you carry around with you."

  "Believe me, honey, if I thought I had a chance with the man I wouldn't be here right now talking with you. I'd be doing the Dance of the Seven Veils on his front porch. I threw those cards three times and each time the answer was the same: your futures are intertwined."

  Annie tried to make a joke out of Sweeney's prediction.

  You knew it all the time, Annie, from the first second you saw him in the parking lot.

  Damn Sweeney anyway for putting these ridiculous thoughts in her head. If their futures were intertwined, why did she run for the exit last night like her life depended on it?

  You know the answer to that one, too. You had a glimpse of the future and it scared the hell out of you.

  "Oh, shut up," Annie muttered as she navigated the cart of flowers through the doorway.

  "Shut up?" Sweeney sounded much aggrieved.

  "Not you," Annie said. "I'm talking to myself."

  "You too?" Sweeney held the interior door open with her behind and motioned for Annie to precede her. "That's why I have cats," she said as she pushed her own cart into the main ballroom. "When someone catches me talking to myself, I just say I'm talking to the cats. Sounds weird but it's surprisingly effective."

  "I did that last week when the Flemings did the walkthrough on the house. They're dog people but I think they understood."

  Whisker burns, bouts of talking to herself. Before long Annie would be blaming George and Gracie for her bad taste in window treatments and the proliferation of nuclear weapons.

  The idea tickled her fancy and, more than that, kept her mind away from the thornier problem of Sam Butler and her feelings for him for at least six minutes. She considered that a genuine triumph. It seemed to Annie that he had been dominating her every waking thought since she first laid eyes on him in the Yankee Shopper parking lot. One moment she was the Annie Lacy Galloway everyone knew and depended on and the next she was some hot-blooded stranger, ripping the clothes off a man she barely knew and loving every second of it. How could you live thirty-eight years on this planet and know so little about yourself?

  She doubted if even Sweeney's tarot cards had an answer for that one.

  #

  Susan looked at Hall over the top of her reading glasses. The entire contents of all the major New England Sunday newspapers were spread across the picnic table, along with crumbs from a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and chocolate chip cookies.

  "Let me see if I got this right," Susan said, obviously trying to torture him. "You forgot your kids were coming to spend the night."

  "Completely," said Hall, resting one foot on the bench across from his friend. "I was in the shower when they sta
rted pounding on the front door."

  "The big ones or the little ones?"

  "Little ones," he said.

  Susan groaned. "Yvonne must've loved that."

  "She put a good face on it," Hall said, "but she looked pretty disappointed."

  "I'll bet." She glanced around her backyard. "Where are they?"

  "Waiting by the car."

  "Go get them. They can hang out with Jeannie by the pool." She laughed at the look on his face. "Don't worry. Jack's playing lifeguard. They'll be fine."

  Five minutes later Hall was back in position, one foot on the picnic bench, gaze riveted to his oldest friend, butterflies flapping around inside his abdominal cavity.

  "Since when can't you entertain your own children for the afternoon?" Susan asked him, cutting to the chase as usual. "Unless you're trying to wangle dinner invitations for the lot of you."

  "Just two."

  Susan's eyebrows lifted. "You have other plans?"

  Disappointment welled up inside him, giving the butterflies a run for their money. "She didn't tell you."

  Susan was smart. She knew without being told that "she" meant Annie. "I haven't spoken to her since she moved into the new house. Tell me what?"

  "Cappy's," he said, trying not to hang too many hopes on one word. "Seven o'clock."

  She leaned over to look at his watch. "And it's –"

  "Five forty-two."

  "I suppose you want to go home and shower."

  "Something like that."

  "And it's easier without having the kids hanging around, asking all sorts of embarrassing questions."

  "Definitely."

  "So go," she said, giving him an affectionate swat on the arm with the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times. "And tell her to call me. I want the scoop from both of you."