The Husband Maker Boxed Set

by White, Karey

  “Thanks, Flynn,” I finally said. I had never been so open about dating and my worries with a man before. I had always been afraid it made me look lacking in some way. But Flynn was easy to talk to. I wondered if it was because this was a short-term arrangement or if it was just Flynn. Whatever it was, the openness was nice.

  “Maybe I should be the one who’s scared, aye?” His voice was teasing again.

  “You sure you want to call this a date?” I asked. “Are you ready to go home and get married?”

  “Ah, Charlotte. You don’t scare me at all.”

  The Interstate took us west and it wasn’t long before eight lanes of traffic narrowed to four and eventually two. We turned south on the Pacific Coast Highway. I knew the ocean was to our right, but a thick fog hugged the coastline, blocking our view of the water. As we drove, the sun rose higher and the cottony billows melted to a haze and then burnt away completely to reveal the steep cliffs and the choppy water beyond.

  “I didn’t know California and Scotland had so much in common,” Flynn said. “Don’t much think of fog when you think of California.”

  “The bay area gets lots of fog but it usually burns off in the morning.”

  “The sun must not burn as hot in Scotland because sometimes the fog lasts all day. And Scotland is greener, I think,” Flynn said. The steep hills rising to our left were covered with brush and a pale carpet of springtime grass.

  “This is actually pretty green for right here. In the summer this will be mostly brown. But it gets greener the farther south we go, down around the golf courses and south of Carmel.”

  “I said Carmel wrong yesterday, didn’t I?”

  I laughed. “You said it like the candy.”

  “You were kind not to make fun of me.”

  “It’s an easy mistake to make. I’m sure if I came to Scotland, I would mispronounce plenty of things.”

  “Are you going to come visit my fair country?”

  “I said if I came to Scotland.”

  “I think that’s a grand idea. You’d like Scotland, and if ya came to Stornoway, ya might never want to leave. They say a piece of heaven broke off and landed in the cold North Sea and when people discovered it, they called it the Isle of Lewis.”

  “You sound like a tour guide.”

  “If ya came ta Lewis I’d be your guide. Pay ya back for showing me around.”

  “Speaking of guide, is there anything in particular you want to see on this little day trip?” I had spent the evening googling sites to see and had a few ideas of places to go, but if Flynn had something in mind, I didn’t want to leave it out.

  “Wherever you want to take me. I’m at your mercy.”

  Something about him putting his entire day in my hands made me nervous and excited. I wanted to make this day a day he’d remember long after he went back to Scotland.

  My little, old car roared down the highway. The radio worked but music sounded tinny, and there was a constant background buzz, so I rarely turned it on, and Flynn didn’t ask me to. Conversation was surprisingly effortless. We fell into a comfortable rhythm of lively talking and then quiet, almost like the rattling hum of the engine had temporarily hypnotized us. Neither of us felt the need to fill the quiet moments, and we didn’t talk unless we had something to say.

  “Does this road continue north into Oregon?”

  “No. It starts north of San Francisco and ends before it hits Mexico. It runs along about three fourths of the California coast. The section we’re driving today, that goes to Big Sur, was the first section of the road that was finished. That was in the 1930s. Other pieces were done at different times. They weren’t completely linked together until 1964.”

  I could feel Flynn watching me, and I glanced over to see his wide smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Did you study the history of this road in school?”

  I laughed. “No. I studied it last night. On the internet. So I could tell you about it.”

  “Is that true?”

  I shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to be sure I could tell you about some of the things we see.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Not really. If I’m going to be your tour guide, I should do it right. Besides, I just want you to enjoy your visit. Especially since Bruce has been so tied up. It’d be awful to spend money on a big trip like this and not get to see very much.”

  “You’re a thoughtful lass, Charlotte.”

  “Look at the rocks out there.” I wanted to distract him from my flushed face, so I pointed at the large rocks that rose out of the ocean. Waves crashed against them, sending up a wild spray.

  “Your ocean looks friendlier than mine. The waters around Stornoway are gray and mysterious.”

  It wasn’t quite lunchtime when the terrain began to flatten out and civilization reappeared. “You want to see the golf courses first?”

  “I love golf.”

  “Do all Scots love it?”

  “No. It’s a hard sport. Some hate it. My dad broke so many golf clubs, my mum told him he couldn’t golf anymore.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She told him we couldn’t afford to keep replacing clubs, so if he didn’t control his temper, he’d have to quit golf.”

  “So did he quit?”

  “Naw. He told her he was going to start selling clubs at the store, so he dedicated one corner of the store to golf equipment. He’d just order extras so when he would ruin one, he’d just subtract another one from the inventory. She thought he’d quit losing his temper, because he always came home with his clubs in good shape. We never told her to check the rubbish bin behind the store.”

  We laughed.

  “Are you an angry golfer?”

  “Naw, but Bruce has been known to throw a club or two.”

  I pulled into a turnout and reached for a file folder in the back seat.

  “Are you a good navigator?” I asked.

  “Hawl?” It took me a second, but then I remembered that “hawl” means excuse me.

  “Following a map?”

  “Oh, ya. I can do that.”

  I pulled out a paper that I had printed off the night before with a map of the roads that lead through the golf courses. “There are a few places we can pull over and see things. They’re marked. Just let me know which ones you want to see.”

  For more than an hour we toured golf courses. We didn’t walk the courses but some had lookouts or views from the club house. Flynn’s favorite was Pebble Beach. Mine was Spyglass Hill. It had so many flowers.

  “Would you take our picture with it?” Flynn asked an older man standing on the boardwalk with us. We were looking out at the Lone Cypress, a landmark at Pebble Beach.

  “Be happy to,” the man said and took Flynn’s camera.

  We stood together and smiled. The man held Flynn’s camera under his arm, carefully removed his glasses, and put them in his pocket. Then he aimed the camera in our direction.

  “Move in a little closer so I can get a better view of the tree.” The man winked at us. Flynn pulled me close to his side and the man snapped a picture. “Now just hold tight a minute. Let me see if this is a good one.”

  Flynn and I stood there for a few moments while the man held the camera at arm’s length and studied the picture. “I think I’ll take another one. You look too serious. Smile kids.” We smiled, and the man snapped a couple more pictures. When we started to move apart, he grunted and gave us a stern look. We didn’t move.

  It took him a moment, but then he found the button and looked through the pictures. “You know, kids, when I was your age, we used film.” He held the camera farther away from him and tilted his head. “You probably don’t even know what film is.”

  I stifled a giggle. “Does he think we’re ten?” I said quietly and Flynn squeezed my shoulder.

  “Aye. I remember it,” Flynn said to the man.

  “I hope you appreciate these new-fangled cameras.” He wav
ed Flynn’s camera in the air. “You can take as many pictures as you want until you get a good one. I remember shooting entire rolls of film and until we had it developed, we didn’t know if a single picture had turned out or not. And did you know we even had to pay for the ones that didn’t turn out?”

  “That’s madness,” Flynn said.

  “Hold still.” The man held up the camera again and snapped another picture.

  “I remember taking a whole roll of film and I’ll be darned if not one picture turned out. Half of them were blurry and the rest were black. I spent $3.00 on the film and $4.00 to have it developed and not one picture turned out.”

  He snapped two more pictures. “Are you not smiling?” Flynn whispered, glancing at me.

  “I’m smiling,” I said through my teeth. Flynn was snickering.

  “Stop it.” I elbowed him.

  “Let’s try another one. Don’t make him do all the work, young lady. Put your arm around him and look like you like each other. You don’t want people thinking you were fighting on your honeymoon.”

  I stifled a snort.

  “This is your honeymoon, right?”

  “Aye, but it is,” Flynn said. “How could ya tell?”

  “I’ve always had an eye for newlyweds. Even when they’re fighting. Phyllis used to say it was a gift. She was my wife. She had hair the same color as yours, young lady.”

  “Get over here, little hen,” Flynn said, pulling me in front of him. He wrapped his arms around my stomach and snuggled forward until his cheek rested on mine. His arms were warm, the stubble on his face, scratchy and soft at the same time. It felt wonderful and I resisted the urge to rub my cheek against his.

  “That’s better. Let me take a couple of these and you can choose the best one,” he said.

  “Little hen?” I whispered.

  “Shhh.”

  The old man held the camera away and looked at the picture he had just taken. “Ah, that’s a nice one.” I felt disappointed when Flynn stepped away to retrieve his camera.

  “Be glad you don’t have to get these developed. My brother owned a little hut and you could drive up and drop off your film, just like McDonalds. We thought it was fast to be able to see our pictures in an hour. Here you kids can look at all these pictures in just seconds.”

  “Thank ya,” Flynn said, his accent strong.

  “I’m sure you kids have quite a story about how you met, but I won’t keep you from your honeymoon. Congratulations. Be happy together.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Ah, but we sure will,” Flynn said.

  We held it together until the old man was gone and then we both collapsed onto a bench laughing.

  “Little hen? What is that?”

  “It’s an endearment. It’s what we call our sweetheart.”

  “You call your sweetheart a hen? Doesn’t sound very complimentary.”

  “Ah, but it is, my little hen.” Flynn squeezed my shoulder. “Now let’s enjoy the rest of our honeymoon.”

  I shook my head. “You let him think we were really newlyweds.”

  “I didn’t want to spoil his record. He got some pretty good shots. Look at these.”

  I leaned closer and Flynn put his hand above the screen to block out the sun. Our arms brushed together as we scrolled through the pictures.

  “This one’s the best,” Flynn said, stopping at the picture of me in his arms. “The tree looks nice and you look like you’re about to burst.”

  “I held it together pretty good.”

  “Aye, we both did.” Flynn put the camera around his neck. “What did he mean about getting your pictures from a hut?”

  “I’m not sure what he was talking about.”

  As we walked back to my car, I suppressed the urge to reach for Flynn’s hand. That was silliness. No matter how much I enjoyed his company, this would probably be the last day I ever saw him. Even though I was trying not to overthink the situation, I couldn’t help but realize that holding his hand, or any other affectionate behavior, would just make me miss him when he went home. I didn’t need anyone else to miss.

  We were hungry by the time we arrived in Carmel. I parked the car on a little side road, close to a touristy street lined with restaurants and gift shops.

  “Some of these remind me of home,” Flynn said as we walked by little cottages that had been there for years.

  We ate turkey and cranberry sandwiches at a little café that had outdoor seating. Flynn finished eating before I did. He folded his napkin, stretched out his legs to the side of the table, and rested his arms across his stomach.

  “No need ta rush.” He put his hand up when he saw me take two quick bites.

  “I’m kind of a slow eater.”

  “We’re not in a hurry.” I slowed down, glad I could enjoy the last few bites of my sandwich. “Do ya come here often?”

  “Not enough,” I said between bites. “I should come more. It’s nice to get out of the city sometimes.”

  Flynn grinned. “You come here ta get out of the city. Stornoway’s the biggest town on the island and everyone there would think this was the city.”

  “I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.”

  “Aye.” I realized Flynn was watching me and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

  “What?” I wiped my mouth with the napkin.

  “Just thinkin’.”

  “About what?” I took a drink of water, not sure if I liked him looking at me like that.

  “I’m just wonderin’ who I’m going to marry now that I’ve dated the husband maker.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you about that.”

  “Sure you should have. It’s a talent.”

  I laughed and decided to play along. “Do you have a girlfriend at home?”

  “Naw. I have some friends who are girls, but not a girlfriend.”

  “Well, you’ll either hit it off with someone new, or you’ll start to see one of those friends that are girls—” I used air quotes—“in a whole new way. You’ll have to send me an announcement.”

  “Not an announcement. I’ll send ya an invitation.”

  “I could make a vacation of it.”

  “But first I have to find a wife.”

  “Don’t worry. You will.”

  “Will ya hate me if I break your little curse?”

  “No. I think that would make me love you.”

  “Hmm. Now this is getting interesting.”

  I shook my head. “We should go.” I scooted back my chair and stood. Flynn laughed at my abrupt ending to the conversation.

  “Where to next?” he asked.

  “Wherever you want.”

  “Maybe this would be a good place to pick up a gift for my mum.”

  We browsed our way down the street for a few blocks, looking in gift shops. Flynn bought a book called California Maritime Archeology for himself in one store, but we had made it almost back to the car and he still hadn’t found a gift for his mom.

  We stopped at a thatch-roofed bakery. It sat back from the street and had an English rose garden and a white, gated fence in front of it. The aroma of freshly baked cookies drew us in and we weren’t disappointed. A young girl was emptying a baking sheet of warm, chocolate chip cookies directly to a plate in the display case.

  While Flynn ordered two cookies, I wandered to a hutch in the corner. It was covered with crafts and jewelry. A silver chain with a small seahorse made of blue blown glass caught my eye.

  Flynn wandered over holding a small paper bag with our cookies. “What did ya find?”

  “This is pretty. Would your mom like something like this?” I asked, holding it up.

  “Aye. That’s nice.” Flynn handed me the bag of cookies and held the pendant up to the light from the front window. “I’m just not sure. She doesn’t wear a lot of jewelry.” He hung the necklace back on the peg and held up a soft, fuzzy, knitted hat. It was bright red. “She’d like this, but it might be a little bright.”

&
nbsp; I took a bite of one of the cookies. “Mmm. This is good.”

  “Maybe I’ll wait.”

  We finished our cookies as we looked in a few more gift shops and then walked to the car.

  “Do ya think you can pick me up at the sweet shop? I think I’ll get that cap for mum.”

  “You should get us another cookie while you’re at it.”

  Flynn thumped the roof of the car. “I like your thinking.”

  I dropped him off in front of the little cottage and drove around the block a couple of times.

  “She’ll like this,” he said, when he was back in the car. “It’ll be easy to spot her when she takes her walks down by the water.”

  I reached over and felt the soft yarn ball on the hat. “It’s so fluffy. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  I hadn’t been to Big Sur for more than two years, but little had changed. That was the beauty of it. You could always count on lovely hiking trails, beautiful beaches, and crashing waves.

  We stopped just before Bixby Bridge and took more pictures before we continued down the coast to Pfeiffer Park. I had found a highly recommended hike on the internet that didn’t disappoint. In under a mile, we moved from brush to tall trees, and finally to the beach. We removed our shoes and rolled up our pants as we walked in the sand.

  “Somewhere out there is a place where the water comes through a rock tunnel,” I said, repeating what I had learned the night before. “I’m not sure where it is.”

  The large, volcanic rocks out in the water were more like small islands.

  “Let’s see if we can find it,” Flynn said.

  We walked up and down the beach looking for the hole in the rock where the waves surged through in a spray. “I watched it on YouTube last night, so I know it’s here somewhere.”

  The sand was hot, so we spent most of our time walking through the cold water. Some of the waves lapped gently around our feet, but a few of them hurtled into our legs, soaking the bottoms of our pants.