by Robbi McCoy
“Don’t jump!” he commanded, but nobody was listening. “Man overboard!” he screamed to the captain.
The jetboat engine went silent and someone threw a life preserver, but Wren was already too far downstream. Reminding herself to stay calm, she let herself float with the current as she swam methodically toward shore, hoping none of those would-be rescuers were in trouble. The water was cold but bearable, and not too deep. Seeing the bottom beneath her, she stepped down into the sandy gravel and walked the rest of the way onto dry land.
She stood dripping, the binoculars still around her neck, and located the jetboat upstream. As she watched, Kyle appeared, swimming toward her. She waved. A minute later he walked out of the river and gave her a hug.
“You’re okay,” he observed.
“I’m fine.” She shivered, her skin covered in goose bumps. “Where’s Raven?”
“Don’t know.” Kyle lifted the binoculars off her.
“That was stupid, all you guys jumping in like that.”
“I know. But what do you expect when a couple of girls fall overboard? Everybody wants to be a hero.” He scanned the river through the binoculars. “There he is!” He waved at a dark bobbing head. “Raven!” he hollered. “Over here!”
Raven turned their way and fought hard against the current until he made it into the calm, shallow edge a few feet further downstream, where he pulled himself out. They ran to meet him, finding him grinning from ear to ear amid labored breathing.
“That was fun!” he shouted.
Wren slapped him playfully just as the two kayakers paddled by.
“So what was that all about?” Kyle asked.
Wren pointed at the yellow kayak. “That’s Olivia Ward.”
“Olivia Ward?” Raven asked.
“Olivia of Sophie and Olivia.”
“That’s Sophie’s partner?” Kyle asked, staring after the kayak.
“Wife, I’m guessing,” Wren said. “Same last name.”
The jetboat came along then to pick them up. They climbed up the ladder and into the boat, then they rounded up the rest of the miscreants, all of whom had made landfall safely. Wren picked up Raven’s T-shirt from the seat where he’d left it and dried her hair with it.
“Hey!” he objected, grabbing it from her. He wrinkled his nose at his wet shirt, then rubbed it across his own hair.
The boat proceeded to the dock with no further tricky maneuvers. Once they were secured, the captain came over the loudspeaker with a stern lecture for everyone who had misbehaved, telling them they had ruined the tour for everyone and endangered many lives with their foolish antics. Wren, Raven, Kyle, Antonio and Nicola all stood on deck sopping wet, their heads bowed, taking their rebuke while the other passengers filed off the boat glaring at them. When the captain was finished, they too disembarked.
As they walked along the dock, Wren noticed the two kayaks that had triggered all the mischief. They were unattended, tethered at water’s edge. There was a restaurant nearby, up a flight of wooden stairs. It was built partly on the riverbank, partly on pilings and had a large open deck overhanging the river. Other than the jetboat dock, there wasn’t much else here to stop for. Wren guessed the kayakers had pulled out for a meal.
“Who’s up for lunch?” she asked.
“Me!” Raven sang, raising his hand like a kindergartener.
“Me too,” Kyle said. “There’s nothing like a heart-pounding adventure to rev up an appetite.”
Raven pulled on his damp shirt, then the three of them climbed the stairs to the entrance of the building.
“Let me seat you outside,” suggested the hostess, “where you can dry off.”
They were led through the dining room where Wren rapidly scanned the tables, looking for Olivia Ward. She finally spotted her at one of the outdoor tables as they followed the hostess single file into the bright afternoon sunshine.
“Can we have that one?” Wren asked, pointing to the closest unoccupied table to Olivia and her companion. It was too far away to overhear their conversation, but would afford her a much better view of them than she’d gotten on the river.
Wren took the chair facing Olivia’s table and the boys both positioned themselves with a view out to the river, oblivious to Wren’s purposes. They seemed more than usually caught up with one another, giving Wren the opportunity to study Olivia and friend by peeking at them over her menu. They were both about fifty, she decided. She was shocked to see that Olivia was old enough to be Sophie’s mother. Her companion was handsome with a full head of dark, graying hair, small, penetrating eyes and firm, clean-shaven chin. Olivia’s hair was turning gray from some light natural shade, ash blonde, maybe, the same color as Sophie’s hair. She was thin and fit with light-colored eyes and a long face, pronounced lines on either side of her mouth, around her eyes and across her forehead. She was eating a salad, talking animatedly with her companion.
The waitress, a girl who introduced herself in a high, squeaky voice as Ariel, came by for their order. Having been using the menu as cover rather than reading material, Wren took her first glance at the menu while the boys ordered. Her eye landed on a wild-caught Oregon Chinook salmon salad and she ordered that.
“You guys are all wet,” Ariel observed. “You been swimming?”
Kyle nodded soberly. “Yeah, we took a little dip.”
Ariel giggled. “Most people wear swimsuits.”
“It was spontaneous,” Kyle informed her.
She squinted her face up in a silent laugh before departing.
Wren looked past the boys to Olivia’s table, and was surprised to see her table mate with his hand over hers in an affectionate and familiar gesture. Wren stiffened, then cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions. He might be her brother. Or a dear, close old friend.
Ariel arrived at Olivia’s table, picking up salad plates. Her grating voice rose loud enough for anybody on the deck to hear as she slapped the air, laughing, and said, “Oh, Dr. Connor, you’re so funny!”
Dr. Connor, Wren repeated in her mind. Not that a name told her anything.
“Ah!” said Raven as Ariel returned to them a few minutes later. “Food at last!”
She set their plates down, then said, “Can I get you anything else?”
“Ariel,” Wren said as casually as she could, “is that Dr. Connor over there?”
“Yes. That’s him. Do you know him?”
Wren ignored the look of alarm on Kyle’s face. “I do, but not well. I was considering going over to say hello, but don’t want to intrude. He seems to be having such a good time with his…wife?”
Both Kyle and Raven had now turned completely around to stare at Olivia and Dr. Connor.
Ariel knit her brows together. “You must not know him very well at all. Everybody knows he’s a widower. It’s nice to see him out with a woman. After all these years, he deserves some happiness.”
“No, I don’t know him well,” Wren confided. “His wife died a long time ago, did she?”
Ariel’s mouth twitched noticeably as she threw a covert glance at Dr. Connor. She sat in the one empty chair at their table and pulled it up close to Wren. “A long time ago,” she confirmed.
Raven and Kyle also focused their attention on Ariel, and the four of them formed a small, huddled group of near-whisperers.
“His wife’s name was Cordelia,” Ariel began. “She was the youngest of three daughters. The other two were greedy, heartless women who put a contract out to have Cordelia murdered so they could have their father’s fortune for themselves.”
Wren gasped. “Murder?”
“The father was a stupid old fool who was easily manipulated. They duped him, took everything he had, then turned him out to live on the streets.”
“What thankless children!” Kyle exclaimed. “Unbelievable.”
“They got it in the end, though,” Ariel whispered. “Both sisters were in love with the same man. One poisoned the other one, then she killed herself.”
&n
bsp; “Murder and suicide!” Raven exclaimed.
Ariel nodded solemnly. “Their father, by then blind and insane, died of grief. The whole family, gone, just like that.” She sputtered a pfffft. “And poor Dr. Connor a widower.”
All four of them turned their heads to look at Dr. Connor, who looked perfectly happy as he leaned over and gave Olivia a romantic kiss on the mouth. Wren audibly caught her breath. Ariel jumped up and ran off to resume her duties.
“I thought she was Sophie’s wife?” Kyle said. “Looks like she’s somebody else’s lover.”
“Not unlike Sophie herself,” Raven observed quietly, looking askance at Wren.
“Look,” she said, defensively, “I didn’t know about any of this last weekend when she asked me to her room.”
Dr. Connor sat with Olivia’s hand in both of his, smiling fondly into her face.
“Do you think he knows about Sophie?” Raven asked.
“Do you think she knows about Wren?” Kyle responded.
“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’” Raven quoted, then held up his index finger and said, “You know, a lot of people think that’s Shakespeare, but it isn’t. It’s Sir Walter Scott from an epic poem called Marmion about a sixteenth-century battle between England and Scotland.”
“Raven,” commanded Wren, grabbing his wrist and nodding her head toward Olivia and Dr. Connor. “Focus.”
“What do you mean, Wren? This is none of our business. If Sophie’s wife has a boyfriend, maybe it’s payback, you know? Simple justice on her cheating ass. Just be glad you aren’t involved. That looks like a big mess and it’s bound to blow up in everybody’s face. Now let’s eat. Leave them to their ruin.”
Raven was right. It was none of her business. She tasted her salad and tried to keep her mind and eyes off Olivia. But it was impossible. She found herself inventing explanations, some of which left her feeling buoyant, like the one where Sophie and Olivia had already broken up and were still living together out of habit or convenience. The real explanation didn’t have to be sordid or disastrous. It didn’t have to cast Sophie in an unflattering light. But there were many other possible explanations that left Wren discouraged.
When Olivia and Dr. Connor stood to leave, Wren bolted up from her chair, ignoring the startled looks on the boys’ faces, and dashed over to confront Olivia. She seemed to be driven almost against her will to this rash action, and had no idea what to say, but once she was standing face to face with the woman, she had no choice but to speak.
“Hi,” she said, thoroughly embarrassed. She glanced back at her table to see the boys staring at her with open mouths, motionless, looking like they were waiting for a bomb to go off. She turned back to Olivia. “You’re Olivia Ward, aren’t you? I’m a friend of Sophie’s. My name is Wren, like the bird.”
Olivia smiled. “How do you do, Wren. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Sophie mention you.”
“No, we don’t see much of one another any more.”
Olivia turned to Dr. Connor. “This is my friend Warren.”
Dr. Connor shook Wren’s hand. “You’re one of the girls who fell off the jetboat.”
“That’s right.”
His eyes twinkled good-naturedly. “Glad you didn’t drown.”
“Me too.” She turned back to Olivia. “How is Sophie?”
“She’s great,” Olivia replied. “Thriving. You should come out to the farm for a visit and meet the goats. Sophie’s raising goats now, you know. Making cheese.”
“I heard. Totally fascinating.”
“I’ll tell her I ran into you.”
“Oh, no!” Wren objected, glad that her brain was able to work faster than her mouth. “Uh, don’t bother. You know, now that she’s on my mind, I think I’ll just give her a call. I’ll mention I met you here, you and Warren.” Wren smiled at them both in turn with what she hoped was a suggestive undercurrent. “We’ve been sitting right over there for the last half hour.” She pointed to her table where her brother and Kyle suddenly looked extremely guilty and pretended to be in the midst of a conversation with one another. “I won’t keep you any longer,” she said to Olivia. “You and your…date were on your way out.”
Olivia looked slightly alarmed. “Look,” she said quietly, “do you mind not saying anything to Sophie about seeing me here with Warren? I mean, no details at least.”
“You mean details like the hand holding and kissing?” Wren asked, glad to have gotten the upper hand.
“Uh-huh. Like that.”
Wren observed Olivia’s face for a moment. “Okay. I suppose you’re the one who should tell her about that.”
Olivia nodded. “Yes, exactly.” She was firm, not the least bit apologetic.
When they had left, Wren returned to her table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Raven scolded.
“Did you find out anything?” Kyle asked.
Raven snorted. “Like the woman’s going to spill all her intimate secrets to a stranger! Of course she didn’t find out anything.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Smug Mug,” Wren said. “I found out plenty.”
“You did?”
“I did. Olivia Ward is having an affair with that dashing doctor on the sly. Sophie doesn’t know and Olivia wants it to stay that way.”
Raven’s eyes widened. “I’m impressed.”
“You know,” Wren said, feeling pleased with herself, “when you think about it, I know a heck of a lot more about what’s going on with Sophie and Olivia than either of them do.”
“What’re you going to do with this information?” Kyle asked.
Wren picked up her fork. “I don’t know,” she said decisively, then stabbed a piece of salmon and put it in her mouth.
There wasn’t much she could do with the information. She began to feel lousy. She felt sorry for Sophie, thinking about what would happen when she found out her wife was having an affair, potentially more than an affair, with that handsome Dr. Connor. A bad business.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true.
—Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2
Wren stormed out of the den and into the sunroom where Raven was having his morning coffee and reading the local newspaper. It was Friday and Kyle had gone out early to set up his drawing station downtown, hoping to get a jump on the weekend crowd.
“You wouldn’t think he’d want to provoke me like this,” Wren said, waving a piece of paper at Raven. “I can get back at him any time by reviewing one of his restaurants.”
“Who are you talking about?” he asked, picking up his coffee mug.
“This pompous ass, John Bâtarde.”
Raven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “John Bâtarde? That name sounds familiar.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s got a half dozen restaurants. A big star in the world of food. I think he even had a TV show for a while.”
“No, that’s not it. Somewhere recently...” Raven frowned, trying to remember, then he shook his head and said, “You should try one of these pastries. They’re fabulous.”
Wren eyed the plate of round doughy treats on the coffee table. “Are those aebleskiver?”
He shrugged. “Kyle found them somewhere in town.” He picked one up and popped it whole into his mouth.
“I haven’t had those in a while. But I think I’ll pass. Since I’ve been here I’ve done nothing but sit around and eat and drink.”
Wren sat in the comfy overstuffed chair next to the sofa and gazed out the sunroom window to the backyard. Raven and Kyle were not the gardening types. The yard was going wild. Tea roses were taking over the back fence and dandelions dotted the spotty lawn. In a bare patch that had been someone else’s vegetable garden, a few tomato and zucchini plants had appeared from last year’s forgotten seeds. Wren had taken pity on them and watered them a couple times, though she knew when she left they would be doomed. But she couldn’t bear to see a plant die of
thirst. Especially a volunteer from a seed that had survived the winter and found a way to realize its destiny all on its own. Such a hardy, optimistic little thing, a seedling.
She missed having a garden. A foodie without a bare patch of land to raise herbs and vegetables lacked authenticity. The Farmer’s Market was great, but couldn’t do much to satisfy the inclination to pluck a fresh sprig of rosemary to garnish a steak plate or snip a couple of chives to float on a bowl of butternut squash soup. Those spontaneous little touches that make food special have to come out of your own garden. She sighed fatalistically.
“Bâtarde has it in for me,” she explained, “ever since I reviewed his flagship restaurant Josephine earlier this year. I said his twelve-layer Hungarian Dobos Torte was dry.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, it was. The rest of the meal was great, which I acknowledged with ample enthusiasm, but the torte was dry. I also said it had good flavor, but all he heard was the dry part. The thing is, he didn’t even make the damned thing. He doesn’t cook in his restaurants. But it’s his recipe, his signature dessert…literally. It’s called John Bâtarde’s Hungarian Dobos Torte. I mean, his name is part of it. I was actually in Josephine the night he read the review. He had a violent temper tantrum. He’s been sending me hate mail ever since, threatening to destroy me.”
“The bastard!” Raven hit the table with his fist.
“He should have gotten after his pastry chef, not me. I’ve built my reputation on honesty. I don’t pander to anyone. I would never give a bad restaurant, or a bad torte, a good review just to be nice.”
“Oh, no kidding!” Raven waved the newspaper at her. “A person can’t even sleep with you and expect a good report.”
“That’s the review of Sprouts?”
He nodded. “Your goatherd isn’t going to be happy about this.”
She shrugged, knowing he was right. “I’m not in the business of making people happy. When Eno says nice things, people are all like, yeah, he got that right. But any little criticism and I’m some kind of freaking moron who doesn’t know a cruller from a…aebleskiver.” She leaned forward to look more carefully at the delicate spheres covered with powdered sugar. “Bâtarde, for instance,” she continued, sitting back in her chair. “I said lovely things about his crab quesadilla and his pumpkin seed fritters. But none of that registers. All he notices is the one tiny negative comment.”
