“And there are blossoms on the same bush where I found the ripe berries.”
He bent and peered at the branches. A delicate, pale pink lantern-like blossom was hanging in a cluster of the green berries. “How many does it take to make a bottle of syrup?”
“A fair amount. I make jam and syrup when I pick them, but also keep bags of berries in the freezer for homemade ice cream and baking.”
Jake searched among the bushes, then lay down on the ground and focused his camera up into the branches. Photographing flowers and berries was hardly his forte, but at the moment he couldn’t trek into the wilder parts of the Cascades. He needed to take advantage of the images he could capture.
With an effort, he shut his mind to everything except the delicate blossoms, hanging together with both green and purple berries. And the taste of them, rich and bursting with flavor...and the promise of becoming syrup poured over French toast.
That was what he needed to capture—the story behind the blossom. It was a new thing for him, and he wondered if that was partly what Hannah had meant when she’d talked about seeing the soul behind the beauty. Places and things didn’t have souls...but they did have stories.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BRENDAN STOPPED BY Luigi’s late Saturday afternoon to thank Barbi for coming over when he was sick.
“Ciao,” Luigi greeted him. “Do you need a menu?”
“I’m just here to see Barbi.”
“Barbara is in the dining room.”
The restaurant was divided into two parts, one side being more like a traditional pizza parlor and the other providing a more elegant atmosphere. Brendan stepped into the Tuscan-style dining room and saw Barbi setting out silverware on the tablecloths. She seemed astonished to see him...probably as astonished as he’d been when she showed up at his door.
“Yeah, Brendan?”
“I want to thank you again for coming over when I was sick. It was a really decent thing to do.”
She plunked down a saltshaker. “Don’t sound so surprised. Besides, I told you it was for Hannah, ’cause she was out of town.”
“But I still appreciate it. And then you did my laundry...though, well, I’m not sure why.”
“You were sick.” Barbi stuck her chin out as if daring him to question it further.
Brendan nearly smiled. He’d been sick, all right. Positively disgusting. There weren’t too many women who would have stuck around him in such a mess, tidying up and making sure he had fresh towels and sheets.
“Barbara,” Luigi said from the door. “That pizza is ready to deliver.”
She hurried past Brendan without looking at him again, and he caught the whiff of a light, fresh fragrance. It was nice. Heavy scents gave him a headache. One of the first things he’d noticed about Hannah was that she didn’t wear much perfume, either.
Not that it mattered now that she’d broken things off with him. If only he could talk to her about it, maybe he could change her mind.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Townsend?” Luigi asked when they were alone.
Brendan shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m eating at the pancake supper tonight.”
“It is for a very good cause.”
“I imagine it hurts your business when there’s a community dinner on a Saturday.”
The restaurateur made a dismissive gesture. “We’ll have a light night, and get more business than usual tomorrow. At least for pizza. And if not, there is always the next day.”
Brendan left, thinking again about the difference between Mahalaton Lake and the city. He couldn’t imagine a businessperson in Seattle or Boston being so philosophical about lost trade.
The pancake supper was being hosted by the Grace Community Church, and the parking lot was partially filled when he arrived. He’d intended to call David Walther and suggest they go together, but having the flu had put him behind at the office. Ironically, it had been one of his busiest weeks legally.
He paid for his meal and added an extra donation, then stood to one side, thinking it was too bad Barbi couldn’t be there. He’d attended several of the town’s events over the past fourteen months and usually saw her there, as well. Sometimes it seemed as if he’d been in Mahalaton Lake forever, and sometimes it was as if he’d only just moved. One thing was sure, though, the dreams he had about Maria in Seattle, the ones with her telling him to come here, had never returned. He didn’t know what to make of those dreams, even though they’d changed the course of his life.
“Hello, Mr. Townsend,” said Cora Baldwin. She was married to one of his clients, and she gestured to a table along the wall where a line of men were poised with electric griddles, pitchers of pancake batter and spatulas. “The start of the line is over there. It’s all-you-can-eat, so enjoy.”
“Thanks, Cora. But please call me Brendan.” Even after living here for over a year, he had the worst time getting people to use his first name. Doctors, pastors and even the mayor seemed to be addressed informally...everybody except him.
Cora smiled pleasantly as she walked away, but he had a dismal conviction he’d remain “Mr. Townsend” to her. Was it because he hadn’t been born in Mahalaton Lake and still didn’t quite belong? Glancing down, Brendan assessed his appearance...suit, vest, tie, shoes shined appropriately. Very proper, the way he’d been taught to dress in a family conscious of its public image in Boston. Of course, he wasn’t in Boston, as Barbi had once pointed out.
Still mulling it over in his head, he looked around to see if there was anyone else he could sit with...and saw Hannah arrive with Danny and her parents, along with Jake Hollister.
He sighed. If Hollister hadn’t been there, he might have tried to talk to her again, but not under these circumstances.
* * *
HANNAH GOT INTO the food line with her parents, Danny and Jake and watched the fireman cook their pancakes. Half the fun of the supper was seeing the guys in their aprons and hats, expertly making large, fluffy pancakes on the electric griddles. Several could even flip them high in the air.
“Isn’t Brendan eating with us?” her mother asked in a low voice, looking across the social hall.
“No.” Hannah’s tone didn’t invite further discussion. She’d broken up with Brendan because he was the wrong man for her, but she didn’t want Jake to start imagining he’d had anything to do with it...especially after that kiss. Next thing she knew he’d be warning her off again.
“I see.”
“Here you go, Hannah.” Randy Westfield handed her a plate at the same time her family and Jake were getting theirs. “Be sure to come back for more.”
“Thanks. Is Gwen around?”
“She’s probably in the kitchen with Wendy.”
“How is Wendy doing?”
Randy’s face looked pained. “The same as usual.”
“That bad, huh?” Hannah gave him a sympathetic smile and went over to sit next to Danny. Across the table, Jake appeared uneasy. While he had a plate of pancakes in front of him, his camera was around his neck, and as she watched, he lifted it to look through the viewfinder.
“You might want to put that away, at least until after you eat,” she advised. “You don’t want to get syrup on your equipment.”
“Oh, yes,” Carrie added. “Somehow it ends up on everything.”
Jake hastily tucked the camera in his bag—his professional equipment was probably more important to him than breathing.
Hannah smiled determinedly. She loved the department’s monthly suppers. They’d been part of her childhood, and she wanted them to be fond memories for her son, as well.
* * *
BRENDAN SIGHED AS he looked at Hannah tucking a napkin under Danny’s chin. He’d really blown things with her and didn’t know if there was any hope of fixing it. Perhaps he should just leave and get a
meal elsewhere.
“Ready to eat?”
Startled, Brendan looked down and saw Barbi Paulson. She put her arm in his, and it felt good not to be standing alone like an awkward dodo bird.
“I thought you were working.”
“Luigi always gives me time to come over and eat at the MLFD suppers.”
“That’s nice.”
“Did you have a fight with Hannah?” she asked, looking over to where the Nolans and Jake Hollister were sitting.
“You could say that. I did something dumb at the ice cream social,” he found himself admitting. It was more than that, but being an ass that day couldn’t have helped.
“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” Barbi assured him. “Let’s get our pancakes.”
Since it was early, there still wasn’t a line at the cook table. The firemen teased Barbi when she wanted a pile of silver dollar-size pancakes, but it was friendly banter, rather than flirting.
“Three regular cakes,” Brendan said when asked. But the cakes weren’t “regular”—they were thick and fluffy and wider than tortillas.
Barbi led the way to the opposite side of the social hall from where Hannah was sitting with her family. Butter and syrup sat on each table, along with cups and insulated carafes of coffee.
“In case you didn’t come to the MLFD pancake supper last year, there’s hot chocolate and tea over on the beverage table,” Barbi explained, carefully dotting butter on each of her small pancakes.
“Coffee is fine. They sure do a nice meal.”
She dribbled syrup onto her plate. “Uh-huh. Next time they’re serving spaghetti. It’s strictly firehouse cooking. Whenever the auxiliary tries to fancy things up, the guys won’t let ’em.”
“Doesn’t Mahalaton Lake have any female firefighters?”
“No, but there are women on the rescue squad. My mom always wanted my—” She stopped abruptly and stuffed a small pancake into her mouth.
Brendan didn’t think she’d ever mentioned her mother. Then again, he was pretty sure she’d never mentioned her family, period. He cut a neat wedge from his own stack of pancakes and chewed it down. “Ohmigod, these are great,” he exclaimed, looking at his plate in surprise.
“Ohmigod?” Barbi cocked an eyebrow. “Such language, Mr. Townsend. Are you certain you’re from Boston?”
He grinned, some of his mood lifting. “I escaped, remember?”
“What did you have to do, gnaw off your leg irons?”
“Something like that. When you’re a Townsend, you’re supposed to get a law degree, join the family firm and die at your desk. No detours.”
“Sounds awful.”
Yeah, it did. And it wasn’t as if he’d made a hugely better choice by going to Seattle. There he’d been assigned to corporate cases and had hated helping rich companies get richer while dodging every environmental and safety regulation they could legally avoid. The only good thing in his life had been Maria, and she’d been more career focused than him.
But in Mahalaton Lake he helped families set up trusts so their children could be protected. He wrote wills and advised on myriad issues that were often as simple as honest property-line disagreements.
Hell, he finally liked his profession.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Barbi licked a drop of syrup from the corner of her mouth and Brendan shifted, his shorts becoming snug. She was a very attractive woman when she wasn’t mouthing off.
“I’m thinking Boston isn’t so bad, but I like practicing law in a small town.”
“Then why do you act as if you’re up there on Mount Mahala, and the rest of us are below you?”
“I don’t... That’s not how I feel,” he said indignantly.
“It’s how you act. A suit at a pancake supper, are you serious?”
Brendan looked down at himself. He’d wondered earlier if his formal attire was why Cora Baldwin wouldn’t use his first name. Things in Mahalaton Lake were much more complicated than he expected—even his clothes seemed to be an issue.
“I’m getting more food. You coming?” Barbi asked suddenly.
“Uh, sure.” He followed and once again the firemen patiently made her more bite-size pancakes, along with his three large ones. By the time he’d cleaned his plate again, he was stuffed.
“I need exercise,” he groaned.
Barbi stood up. “I have the perfect thing.”
Brendan’s eyes widened as she tugged him into the hallway. “Take off your jacket,” she ordered.
Okay, they were in a church. There was no way she planned to seduce him...though in another setting he might be willing. He took off his coat.
“Now your tie and vest.”
Confused, he did as she asked. Briskly she hung the garments on a clothing rack that looked as if it had been screwed together from sections of old galvanized pipe. Then she unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves.
“Roll your sleeves up above your elbows.”
“Barbi—”
“Do you want to fit in better or not? Volunteering to help will make everyone feel as if you’re one of them.”
Brendan thought about the standards he’d been determined to keep...without ever truly considering if they were worth keeping. He rolled up both sleeves as she undid several buttons at his neck.
Barbi stepped back and regarded him critically.
“Not bad,” she pronounced. Grabbing his hand, she took him into the bustling church kitchen through yet another door. “Hi, everyone,” she called. “I brought fresh meat for you. I gotta go deliver pizzas, but Brendan wants to help. He’ll empty trash, wash pans, carry those heavy coffeepots...whatever you need.”
A chorus of pleased exclamations sounded around the kitchen, and he turned, feeling almost panicked. “Barbi.”
“Just do what they tell you.”
With that minuscule bit of advice, she shoved him toward the smiling women working around the sink and countertops and disappeared.
* * *
BARBI HURRIED BACK to Luigi’s, knowing she’d stayed longer at the pancake supper than she should have. But seeing Brendan there, looking so alone and out of place, had made her sad.
She wasn’t sure what to make of him.
They still argued, but lately he didn’t seem as snooty as he used to. What didn’t make sense was why he’d moved to Mahalaton Lake in the first place. He was a big-city guy and determined to do things a certain way. Not that she knew much about cities, but something that worked for Boston and Seattle wasn’t necessarily right for a small mountain town. Didn’t he get that? Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed him into volunteering, but it was hard for people not to feel friendly when they were all getting splashed by the same soapy dishwater.
“Sorry I’m late,” she called as she raced into the restaurant kitchen.
Luigi shook his head. “Nobody ordered pizza except the crew on duty at the fire station. I told them you would come when you finished eating pancakes. How could they object?”
She grinned, yet every time Luigi was so decent to her, it made the idea of leaving Mahalaton Lake that much harder. And now there was Brendan, who wasn’t nearly such a pain in the butt as she’d thought.
Luigi quickly assembled two pizzas, and when they were baked, Barbi cut and put them into boxes.
“Tell them no charge,” he said.
“They’ll insist. You know the fellas. No free rides.”
Luigi looked annoyed and grumbled under his breath as she hurried out again.
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING Jake stood in the library reading the titles of the movies on the shelves. While he’d noticed there was a large DVD collection there, he hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention before Hannah’s “quiz” on movie quotes. He could count on one hand the number of times
he’d been to the cinema, though he’d seen native dances and rituals all over the world.
Jake supposed that was what the pancake supper was...a native ritual. A delicious ritual that thoroughly trumped doughy pancakes made over a campfire. The way Hannah had savored the sweet syrup and buttery flavor...
He groaned and walked the length of Huckleberry Lodge several times, trying to make the ache in his groin go away. There was nothing like nature’s most primal drive to make you feel alive, but it had left him with a pain that hot tubs and physical therapy couldn’t help.
Under the surface, Hannah was a woman with passions and depths he could only guess at. He suspected her ex-husband had sensed the same thing, but had been too shallow and impatient to stick around to explore them. Not that he was thinking of doing that, either, Jake assured himself. Soon he’d return to work, doing his photography the way he’d originally set out to do it...alone, with no distractions.
And it was just as well.
What if Toby had been killed in that crash? It would be another reason to feel guilty, and it was bad enough thinking about Gordon. Nonetheless, it would feel strange after years of silent laughter at Toby’s grumbling.
Jake stepped onto the lodge’s main deck and looked down at the water. As with Spirit Lake, this one lay under the shadow of a volcano, but Mount Mahala was one of the less active peaks in the range.
Spirit Lake.
The name alone... A light prickle went across his shoulders. Perhaps he wasn’t as immune to superstition as he wanted to believe. Though he was loath to admit it, he did understand what Hannah had been saying up at Mount St. Helens...about feeling something mysterious and powerful in the presence of an extraordinary work of nature.
And she’d struck a chord in him when she’d spoken about her boyfriend’s death. It was true—believing in nothing was cold comfort in the face of imminent mortality. However uncomfortable it had been, it was nice that she’d been willing to share such a painful memory to help him understand how she felt. It also helped that she wasn’t a religious fanatic, like some of the people he’d met over the years; she just seemed open to the idea of something more.
Jake's Biggest Risk (Those Hollister Boys) Page 18
