“Yeah?” His stomach gurgled loudly; it was that quiet in this neighborhood. “Where’d you come from?”
“Manhattan.”
“You know someone here? Have family nearby? Wedding? Funeral?”
“I came on my own.”
“Because…”
“To experience the town.”
He snorted. “That’ll take a good bite out of half an hour. What, you’re some kind of missionary?”
“No.”
“Mary Kay?”
“Uh…no.” She called his disdain and raised him.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess.” He rubbed his belly, snapped the waistband of his boxers with his thumb. “Ditched the boyfriend or he kicked you out.”
“Nothing like that.” She rushed her answer, sounding defensive and therefore guilty.
“No, of course, nothing like that.” He took another slurp of coffee, staring at her over the rim. She waited him out. “Well, welcome to Comfort, Ms. Detlaff. If there’s anything we colorful locals can do to make your stay more enjoyable, please let us know.”
“Thank you.” She ignored his sarcasm. If she wanted to indulge cranky cynics, she would have stayed in New York. “I’m sure I’ll see you again if we’re going to be neighbors.”
“Oh absolutely. We’ll do potlucks and Tupperware parties.”
Elizabeth stalked next door, happily unable to hear whatever else he mumbled as he went back into his house. He didn’t seem to belong here any more than she belonged in New York, though for a lot of years she thought she did. Too easy to fool yourself into thinking something was true just because you wanted to believe it.
Up the evocatively creaky front-porch steps, across the porch itself—with genuine rocking chair!—to the screen door, so picturesquely in need of painting she nearly got a lump in her throat. If she’d had to spend one more night in the soulless decorator-perfect condo she shared with Dominique, she would have gone over the edge. Hard to remember how thrilling it had been when his restaurant’s success and subsequent cable-show stardom not only bought them the place, but gave them license to remodel it to their taste…to Dominique’s taste.
She rang the doorbell, ding-dong, and waited breathlessly for a collie to start barking and Timmy to show. Down, Lassie, it’s that real nice lady I was tellin’ you ’bout.
Instead, a woman who must be Megan opened the door, pushed out the screen, making only brief eye contact but with a smile. Elizabeth did get a lump in her throat then, along with yet another shivery dose of woo-woo insight: She and this woman were going to be close friends.
Okay, Babcia. Enough.
Megan was older than she sounded on the phone, probably ten years older than Elizabeth’s thirty, and beautiful—even if Elizabeth hadn’t been in the mood to think everything in Comfort was beautiful. She had thick auburn hair pulled back in a short, low ponytail, greenish eyes set wide apart and slightly freckled skin, flawless without makeup. A few extra pounds softened her, partly camouflaged under an apricot scoop-neck tee and a chocolate brown jumper. She looked so casually cool and comfortable, Elizabeth felt self-conscious in her all-the-rage sleeveless tunic and cropped designer jeans, and promised herself she’d go shopping soon and find a new image to match her surroundings. When in Comfort…
“Hi Megan! I’m Elizabeth. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Megan nodded at her floor, still smiling. “Nice to meet you, too. I hope you had a good trip.”
“I had a trip from hell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Megan glanced up. “Did you drive or fly?”
“I flew. The flight was fine.” She tapped her head. “The hell was in here.”
“Oh…”
Elizabeth bunched her mouth. She’d probably just scared the poor woman to death. “I’m fine, really. Just some upheaval. It’s all behind me now.”
Megan’s brows rose. “Well good. The apartment is in the backyard. You can come through the house or go around, whichever you’d like.”
Like David’s, her accent wasn’t quite Southern. Elizabeth hadn’t been able to tell for sure on the phone, but she’d suspected not. Disappointing, since the lilting local language-tune made her want to lie down and be told stories past her bedtime.
“I’ll come through.” Who wouldn’t want the chance to see part of someone’s life? Megan nodded and moved aside so Elizabeth could step in.
Inside, a real home. Not the dreary European-widow look of Elizabeth’s childhood in South Milwaukee, nor the sloppy college-kid apartment she’d shared with then-boyfriend Alan in Boston, nor the bonsai/exotic artwork/koi-pond artifice of her and Dominique’s condo. Instead, a dark paneled living room—with genuine recliner!—and a TV that looked to be all of nineteen inches; a cross-stitch sampler in faded pastels, framed and hung on the wall: Bless this house and all who live within its walls; a shabby floral rug on scuffed plank floors; a coffee table covered with a lace cloth; more lace curtaining the windows. Exquisite lace, now that she looked harder, intricate and cobwebby soft.
“What gorgeous curtains.”
“Thank you.” Megan kept walking. “We enjoy them.”
Elizabeth followed slowly, glancing around, taking in as much as possible, itching for her sketch pad to record what she saw. Some people kept journals with words; hers comprised pictures—most recently, failed fabric design ideas. To the left, a dining room with chubby-legged dining table and chairs and a matching sideboard. One of the chairs had been re-glued or repaired, ropes still holding the legs in place.
On the right, a family room, entrance under the stairs, games stacked haphazardly on shelves, worn and stained olive green carpet, an air hockey table and a fleet of metal vehicles jumbled in one corner—yellow backhoes and diggers and dump trucks. Megan did have children; Elizabeth couldn’t wait to meet them. Husband too? She’d have to ask. To the left at the back, the kitchen—faded and cracked linoleum floor in a yellowing spotted pattern that had probably always been ugly; cheap table and chairs; dingy countertops.
But everything recently scrubbed and tidy, everything with character and probably a story, everything said family, home, warmth…and comfort.
“Your house is beautiful, Megan.”
Megan glanced over her shoulder in surprise. “Well. Thank you.”
Outside, down concrete steps into a garden—an entirely different story.
“Wow.” Elizabeth turned slowly, savoring each sight, shape, color and scent. “Your yard is amazing.”
Megan laughed abruptly, self-consciously. “Thank you.”
“Did you do this all yourself?”
“Yes.” She swung her sandaled foot to kick at scalloped black edging. “I enjoy it.”
“Where I live, you could charge people a fortune to make their yards look like this.”
Megan laughed again, still nervously. “Mostly I grow what we eat.”
“Seriously, you should think about it.” If Megan was taking in boarders, she had to need the cash. “Dominique had someone design a garden on our building’s roof, and the guy could buy a Hawaiian island on what we paid him. I can take pictures of your yard and show some people I know who’ve moved to North Carolina from—”
“Thank you, but no.” Megan met Elizabeth’s eyes then, expression calm but definite. “I just do it for our family.”
“Okay.” Had Elizabeth offended her? She hadn’t meant to.
“Where are you from originally, Megan?”
“Oh.” She waved around her. “All over.”
“Your accent…”
“I was born in Newfoundland, but we moved frequently.”
“Newfoundland, how cool!”
Megan looked taken aback. “Oh. Thank you.”
“So you moved a lot. Was your dad in the military?”
“He’s an electrician.” She took a step away, arms folded, each hand clutching the opposite elbow.
“His company kept transferring him?”
She pressed her lips t
ogether. “He just liked moving.”
“I see.” Elizabeth tried to look pensive while she wondered if there was anything Megan would talk about in longer sentences. “I grew up in Milwaukee, then I lived in Boston for a while, now New York City.”
Megan nodded, head at an angle that made Elizabeth want to draw her. Madonna Among the Herbs. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”
“I don’t know.” She turned her face blissfully up to the sun.
“One month certainly.”
“But it could be longer?”
“Mmm. I don’t know.”
“Ms. Detlaff—”
“Elizabeth.”
“—I’m…curious. About why you chose Comfort.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Megan was watching her a little anxiously. This would probably not be a good time to become Babcia and say Comfort had chosen her. At the same time, she didn’t want to lie. Lies didn’t belong in a place like Comfort.
“I had a fight with my boyfriend and needed to get away for a while.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Elizabeth did another visual sweep of the garden. Sage, thyme, lavender, tarragon, oregano, dill, rosemary, basil, vegetables Elizabeth recognized and a few she didn’t.
“Dominique is a chef, so our garden has herbs and vegetables too. Here’s his card.” She dug in her purse and handed it over proudly. Dominique! in gold, the name of his restaurant, then underneath, his cable show: French Food Fast. “Are you the cook of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“With children? I saw the playroom…”
“Three. Two girls and a boy. My mother-in-law lives with us too.”
Wow. Three answers to one question. “What does your husband do?”
“Stanley is a salesman.” Megan looked back down at the brick path. “He sells physical therapy equipment.”
“Does he travel a lot?”
“Two weeks out of the month.”
“Ouch. That’s hard, I know. My boyfriend not only travels, but when he’s home, he’s gone all day and way past midnight at his restaurant. It’s that much harder to have any kind of relationship, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Megan’s cheeks flushed; she turned away. Obviously, Elizabeth shouldn’t have said anything about relationships, though she’d only meant to show sympathy. “I’ll show you the apartment now.”
“That would be great.” She followed Megan on the flagstone pathway to a side entrance in the garage, anticipating the sight of what she hoped would become her new home, up a flight of steep, musty stairs carpeted gray blue.
The place was small, two rooms and a bathroom, the bedroom in wall-to-wall dark, plush gray, a single bed covered by a quilt sprigged with tiny pink flowers over a rose-colored bed-skirt, a mottled dark wood dresser with more of that intricate lace draped across the top, and a plain blue chair with a couple of white paint drips on its seat.
In the living room, a navy love seat with red-white-and-blue pillows, a bare coffee table, an eagle-emblazoned rocker by the window and an overstuffed chair in what looked like a homemade maroon slipcover. More lace curtains blew gently in the warm breeze. In one corner, a small brown refrigerator, a sink with two cabinets above, two below and a two-burner electric cooktop sitting on its tiny counter.
Elizabeth walked through, stood in the center of each room and felt an aura in the place. Honesty. Hard work. Pride.
“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to.”
“Oh, no, it’s—”
“The kitchen’s not much. Rent includes supper in the house with the family every evening if you want. Or not, if you’d rather not.” The last added somewhat hopefully.
“It’s perfect.” Hodgepodge, mismatched, and perfect.
“Really?” Megan was looking around as if Elizabeth were talking about some other apartment, and she’d like to know whose.
“Yes, really. And that lace…” She sighed rapturously, walked over and stretched the panel out into the room. Exquisite. Handmade. “Did you get it locally?”
“We—yes. Most of it.”
“I’ll want to buy tons to take home.” Elizabeth dropped the curtain and turned in a complete circle, arms wide. Imagine waking up in that cute bed, hearing the birdies chirping a good-morning song worthy of a Disney movie. Drinking her coffee with a view of mountains, reading by the window in the rocking chair. She could picture the life so clearly it was almost as if she’d already lived here. “I’ll take the place.”
“Oh.” Megan backed up a couple of steps. “When were you thinking of moving in?”
“Right away. Today. Right now.” She couldn’t believe the positive vibes she was getting from this whole experience. You win, Babcia. She was meant to be here, in this room, near this house, in this tiny town in a state she’d never visited before. And even if she never figured out why, the experience was already uplifting and healing. Her panic over the last few days had completely abated.
“The kids can be loud. You might not be used to that.”
“I’ll love it.”
“They’re around all day, not in camp or anything.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“I…will need to make sure your check clears.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I can pay cash if you point me to an ATM.”
“Cash.” Megan slid her eyes sideways, as if to consult the door. “Well.”
“I have excellent credit. No criminal record. I’m quiet, neat and clean. I don’t smoke or use drugs. I’m on a journey I don’t understand yet, but I hope to soon. Maybe you’re supposed to share it with me.”
Megan looked slightly horrified at this last impulsive addition to Elizabeth’s speech. Her lips parted, closed. Parted again. “I don’t think I need to go on a…journey with anyone.”
“Right. Okay.” She rubbed her forehead. Too much too soon.
“Then maybe I’m here to learn from you.”
Megan laughed her nervous laugh and took another step back. “I have nothing to teach anybody.”
“My grandmother used to say, ‘Everyone can be a teacher, if only by example.’” Elizabeth smiled encouragingly. “Which would make me a student just being around you.”
“Ah.” She looked as if she wanted to step back farther, but she was nearly at the door and might topple down the stairs.
“I know this sounds crazy because you haven’t lived through the past few days with me. Even I thought it was crazy at first. I still don’t know why, but I need this time to be away from my life.” Elizabeth moved toward her, eager to explain this much at least. “When I walked into the Chit Chat Café, the first thing I saw was your advertisement tacked to the community board. The breeze from the door blew it toward me. The fringe tags with your number tapped me on the shoulder, ‘Hey, Elizabeth, check me out.’ This apartment is exactly the type of arrangement I imagined when I flew down here, but I never dreamed I’d find it. Now here it is. And here you are. And here I am.”
Elizabeth waited anxiously, afraid she’d babbled on too long, willing Megan to understand how important this was to her, and who knew, maybe to both of them.
Megan took in a deep breath which pushed the slight bulge of her stomach against the knit fabric of her loose dress, then exhaled so the material deflated to hang straight again. “No one else has come asking about the place. I could use the money. If you want it, it’s yours.”
Chapter Three
Fiona’s love, Calum, lost his father to illness the previous year. He fishes alone in the voes—the small fjords of the islands—or goes out farther with Fiona’s father, Andrew. This week his mum has gone to Lerwick by horse carriage to see a doctor for Calum’s younger brother, who is ill. Fiona’s mother, Mary, and her father invite Calum to share their Saturday dinner of krappin—a stuffed fish dish—and oat bread Fiona baked herself, praying the rounds would come out perfect and that Calum would notice and th
ink what a good wife she’d make.
They have a merry time in the but end of the house—the main living area—while outside, rain pelts the thatch and wind buffets the sheep and horses who roam there, feeding and watering themselves. Calum has never looked so handsome. He is tall, grown broad and muscular with age, and fair-complected with lively brown eyes and boyish freckles, his short coffee-colored hair attempting as usual to escape its combing.
The talk is of fishing, of the storm that blew up from a beautiful calm and threatened the men and their catch, how they took down sails and rowed grimly over the writhing gray waves to a sheltered voe. How, while they waited out the gale, one man told a tale of his great-grandfather, approached during such a storm by a mermaid who tried to lure him into her arms with sweet songs and promises of safety. Had his friends not held him back he would have jumped overboard to have her. Legend has it that mermaids must bewitch humans into consummated marriage or suffer the loss of their beauty to unions with coarse, brutal finmen, amphibious creatures who have no love for the humans competing for their fish and women.
At the Tullochs’ that night they talk further, about how the house next to Calum is empty, how Paul Halcrow and his wife and children left one night years back, taking nothing with them, and never returned.
Calum is thinking how pretty Fiona looks, firelight glinting in her eyes and off the fair strands of her hair. He feels the expectations of everyone around him that they will marry. His head tells him he won’t find a prettier or harder working or more agreeable wife; his heart tells him she’s loyal and good tempered; his loins tell him she’s shaped to please and to bear him strong sons. But a voice coming from a place he doesn’t understand tells him to be patient and wait. So he does, though Fiona is of marrying age and someone could steal her from him.
As the dinner breaks up, as he prepares to tramp over the wet and uneven land to his home, where he’ll bank the fire, crawl into his enclosed wooden box bed and shut out the twenty-four-hour summer light, he finds himself asking if Fiona has seen where they’re breaking ground for a lighthouse at Eshaness’s highest cliff’s edge, over by the broch—an ancient round stone ruin.
Knit in Comfort Page 3
