A Call for Kelp

by Bree Baker

  Denise was on her feet before I could say anything. “Coming right up.” She strode around the counter and grabbed a loaf of freshly baked bread on her way to the toaster.

  I looked from her to Wyatt. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Just checking in,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

  “Oh, you know me,” I said, unwilling to admit I had no idea how I was doing—though curious topped the list of my current emotions. Why had he really shown up an hour before I opened? Surely he had toast at home. Did he know I’d been poking through his office yesterday? I might’ve owed him an apology for that.

  “I do know you,” he said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

  Denise returned with toast, sweet tea, and jam. “This is nice,” she said, delivering Wyatt’s order, then sampling one of the croissants I’d plated for us to share. “A quiet little breakfast between friends.”

  “Breakfast!” I bonked the heel of one hand against my forehead. “Sorry, guys. I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to be at my aunts’ house for pancakes.” Apparently waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t great for my clarity of thought. I grabbed the big bag of Amelia’s books I’d abandoned behind the counter last night and shot an apologetic look to the friends staring back at me. “I swear I don’t mean to keep running off and leaving you alone. The food’s all prepped and ready to go,” I told Denise.

  “Perfect. Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” Denise said, motioning widely to the café. “Have fun. We’ll finish our talk later?”

  I gave her a thumbs-up, and I was off.

  “Hug your aunts for me,” Wyatt called behind me.

  I hurried down the boardwalk toward the first of two Little Libraries in my area. They were in opposite directions from my place, so I decided to hit the one farthest from my aunts’ house first, then double back.

  Hot summer sun beat against my skin and glistened off the gorgeous ocean waves. I watched gulls swoop and call in the cloudless blue sky. I couldn’t help wondering if one of them was Lou and if he’d left any pieces of his breakfast on my café’s rear deck. I suspected most of my lunch guests would find bits of mutilated crab unappetizing.

  I checked my watch and said a prayer of gratitude when the first stop came into view. Amelia’s Little Libraries had become a staple in our community and were easily the cutest things on the boardwalk. She had several more throughout the town and all were heavily frequented. The Little Libraries were made from upcycled materials and worked on a need-a-book, take-a-book premise. Some were designed to look like giant birdhouses, others like big wooden tomes. All were whimsically painted and held a great selection of books.

  I set the bag at my feet while I opened the little door. I arranged the handful of remaining books to make room for more, then stocked the shelves in a tidy fashion.

  The bag was seventy-five percent lighter when I finished. Amelia had been right about the Little Libraries being low on stock.

  I’d barely gotten the bag back on my shoulder when a pair of familiar figures rounded the bend ahead. I recognized them both in seconds: Quinn from the documentary and the Canary! My heart jolted and I swung an arm overhead. “Canary!” I called as they moved in my direction.

  The pair of men stopped thirty yards away.

  “Mr. Canary!” I called again, hiking Amelia’s book bag higher on one shoulder and loping their way. “It’s me, Everly Swan. Do you have a minute?” My strides faltered when the expression on his face turned to panic.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said, regaining myself quickly and increasing my speed. “I only need a minute.”

  The Canary’s mouth opened, then shut. His brows rose dramatically, and then he ran.

  Chapter Twelve

  I ground to a stop beside Quinn and dropped the bag of books between us. “Why would he do that?” I rasped, gripping the stitch in my side and wishing I were in better shape.

  “He’s a weird guy,” Quinn said, watching as the Canary vanished around the bend behind them. “How do you know him?”

  I groaned and let my head fall back as the pinch between my ribs faded. I snapped upright as a more important question occurred to me. “How do you?”

  “I don’t,” Quinn said. “He recognized me from the documentary team and wanted to know if I had an insider’s story he could use for his blog. When I said no, he asked if I had anything of Mitzi’s that he could have for his private collection. I told him that was creepy. I mean, why would I have any of Mitzi’s things?” He wrinkled his nose. “Why does he?”

  “He’s a superfan,” I said, hoping that was true, and that the Canary wasn’t actually her stalker. Or worse, one and the same. Maybe he was the one who’d sent her the letters. If so, why had he shared his file of information with me? Nothing made any sense. I rubbed my face in frustration. “I wish he wouldn’t have run. I really need to talk to him.”

  Quinn looked unabashedly baffled. “Why?”

  “Never mind.” I sighed and turned back in the direction I’d come. I was far too tired to get into that whole mess at the moment. Instead, I worked up a smile and hoisted the bag of books back onto my shoulder. “Any chance you’re going to my aunts’ place for pancakes and some filming?”

  Quinn smiled. “That’s where I was headed when the Canary saw me.”

  “Well then, we can keep each other company.”

  We walked in companionable silence most of the way, stopping to unload the rest of the books into Amelia’s other Little Library on the boardwalk. My few feeble attempts at small talk didn’t get us any further than his occasional question about my life growing up on an island with beekeeping great-aunts. Neither of us mentioned Mitzi, but the elephant in the room between us was huge and likely the reason we couldn’t seem to connect. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Rose’s decision to press on with the documentary so soon after Mitzi’s death. It just didn’t seem right, but maybe that was my Southern manners talking. I would have been far more comfortable bringing her family casseroles and helping around their house while they took time to grieve.

  I picked up the pace when Aunt Clara began sending texts to ask if I was coming. Apparently, the pancakes were done and beginning to cool.

  “There it is,” I told Quinn when the family homestead came into view.

  My aunts lived in the home where I’d grown up, the same home where they’d grown up, and where their moms and grandmas had grown up. The property had been handed down through the generations since a Swan woman founded the town centuries prior. One day the lot of it would be mine, and that was the saddest thing that would ever happen to my world. It would mean that I was officially alone.

  “Cool house,” Quinn said, marching eagerly up the flagstone walk, his nose and chin high—probably pulled along by the rich, buttery scent of Aunt Fran’s signature pancakes.

  I smiled, admiring the dark gray colonial saltbox with a neat black roof, window trim, and door. Emerald green grass ringed the home and outbuildings where I’d once run barefoot, chasing robins and butterflies. Wildflowers pressed against the scalloped wooden fence and tidy cobblestone paths that wound through carefully tended gardens.

  A trio of strangers stood near a tripod in the gardens. They each had a steaming mug in hand. Various props leaned against a card table holding an open laptop and a basket of muffins.

  The home’s front door popped open, and Aunt Clara stepped out. “Good morning!” she called, waving furiously and bracing the door with her hip. “Come in! Come in!”

  I stepped inside and waved to Rose, seated on a three-legged stool at the massive center island. The kitchen was as warm and inviting as always. A black kettle still hung from a chain in the oversized fireplace, which had long ago served as an oven. These days it mostly boiled water with essential oils and herbs picked from the gardens to sweeten the air.

  Bouquets of flowers, handpicked
by my aunts, dangled from the rafters where they were hung to dry. The leaves and buds would soon be added to soaps, potpourris, candles, and any number of organic products sold at Blessed Bee.

  I helped myself to coffee while Aunt Clara welcomed Quinn into their home and Aunt Fran set two more places at the table. “Who are the people in your gardens?” I asked.

  Aunt Fran waved me to my seat. “Stagehands,” she said. “Rose invited a few of Mitzi’s fans to work on set today.”

  “It’s perfect,” Aunt Clara cooed. “The fans are so happy to be involved in Mitzi’s final product that they didn’t want to be paid, and the money saved on wages can go directly to bee research or film production.”

  “Smart,” I said, offering a smile to Aunt Clara, then Rose.

  Rose didn’t notice. Her plate and mug were empty, her expression unusually sour. Her attention seemed fixed on Quinn.

  “Swan for mayor,” he said, peeping through the open doorway to my aunts’ sewing room/office/campaign headquarters just off the kitchen. “Cool. Which one of you is running?”

  “You know this,” Rose said at the same time as Aunt Fran answered, “Me.”

  Quinn’s gaze slid over Rose to land on Aunt Fran. “Exciting stuff. Best of luck with that. Thank you for breakfast.” He accepted the plate and took a seat at the table beside the garden-facing window. “This was very kind, and it smells delicious.”

  “And yet you were late,” Rose said.

  Aunt Fran cast Rose a wayward look, clearly bummed at the change of topic. Campaign details and strategies were among her favorite discussions these days. She’d already declared that the moment the documentary filming ended, the three of us Swan women were diving directly into campaign madness. And we would stay there until the election.

  I tried not to think about that. Campaigning would involve far too many run-ins with Mary Grace Chatsworth and her man candy, Vanders. I shut my eyes and shoved the memory of their pending nuptials from my mind.

  Aunt Clara took a seat beside me at the table. “We were just talking about Mitzi before you arrived. Did you have a chance to get to know her, Quinn?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. We didn’t cross paths much. Rose handled all the details and organization of the trip and Mitzi’s role here.”

  “Because you weren’t around,” Rose said, covering her empty mug with a palm when Aunt Fran tried to refill it. “Where were you this morning? We were supposed to meet here and set up together. Instead you’re late and I had to set up alone.”

  I forked a hunk of pancake and dragged it through a puddle of Aunt Fran’s elderberry syrup. “He was detained on the boardwalk by a superfan,” I said. “That’s where I ran into him.”

  Quinn’s expression relaxed a bit, and he went back to his pancakes with gusto.

  “Did either of you know Odette well?” I asked, dragging my attention from Rose to Quinn. “I didn’t realize when I met her that she was Mitzi’s stepdaughter. Did the two of them get along?”

  “Odette’s high strung and entitled,” Rose said, still looking sour. “She’s young enough to be Mitzi’s granddaughter, but she was her stepdaughter, and that made for lots of snickers and gossip, which she hated. The age difference made it nearly impossible for them to agree on anything. Plus, she’s the only child of a millionaire. She wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but Mitzi made it work.”

  “What didn’t they agree on?” I asked, biting my tongue against the urge to say, specifically.

  “Money, mostly,” Rose said. “How much she should be paid. How many hours she should work. How she should spend her earnings. All of that.” She slid off her stool and carried her plate and mug to the sink. “We need to get started or Clara and Fran will be late to open their shop.”

  I checked my watch. I wasn’t sure how long they planned to film in the garden, but I needed a few minutes in the archives. “I’ll be right out,” I told my aunts. “I want to take a look at the old cookbooks before I head home.”

  “Take your time,” Aunt Clara said, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  “See you in a bit,” Aunt Fran called, holding the front door for everyone to pass.

  “Quinn?” I asked, before he stepped outside. “You mentioned that funding for this project came in after Mitzi got involved. What happened?”

  “Initially, we planned to do some crowdsourcing and online auctions to come up with a budget for filming. Then Fran told Rose about Mitzi’s willingness to get involved, and once Rose confirmed it, people got a lot more interested in helping.” He rubbed his eyebrow. “Rose said an investment company called to offer her a big check, and that was that. No more need for fundraisers. I guess the investor heard Mitzi Calgon was involved and figured there was no way to go wrong by backing this film.”

  “Do you remember the investor’s name?” I asked, a flutter of excitement building in my core.

  “Not offhand, but I can ask Rose.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Ocean Pacific Something, I think. I’ll ask.”

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping back so he and Aunt Fran could catch up with Rose before she became any more irritated.

  I returned to the table and finished my pancakes in solitude, watching the foursome in the garden through the kitchen window. I savored the homemade syrup and remembered why I didn’t serve breakfast. My best efforts couldn’t touch Aunt Fran’s pancakes or secret recipe syrups. I pushed Rose’s opinion of Odette around my mind while I pushed the remaining breakfast around my plate. When I didn’t get anywhere with my ruminating and the plate was empty, I washed it in the deep farmhouse sink, along with all the other dishes that had been stacked there.

  Outside, Rose stood behind a large camera on a serious-looking tripod, making hand gestures while my aunts spoke to one another from a pair of red rocking chairs positioned among the blooms. Aunt Fran made a stuffed bee fly through the air, and Aunt Clara held a bouquet of flowers. I assumed this was a segment on pollination. It reminded me of the presentations they frequently gave for children, and I wondered what sort of documentary Rose was making. Quinn wandered in the periphery, brows furrowed in concentration, while a set of folks I didn’t recognize extended boom mics and light reflection materials in my aunts’ general direction.

  I dried my hands and headed for the archives with surprising gusto. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed spending time there. I nearly jogged down the hallway leading from the kitchen to the first-floor guest room and bath. I made a right past the stairs to the second floor and crossed into one of the oldest parts of the home. The archives were in what had once been the main living area. With time and the help of many skilled craftsmen, the Swan home had grown from a one-room cabin to more than four thousand square feet of history and charm. I only wished the nooks, crannies, and hallways could tell me the things they’d seen.

  I slowed in reverence and anticipation outside the aged wooden door, then turned the knob slowly as excitement built in my chest. The scent of old books hit me the moment I pushed the door wide. I hopped down three wooden steps into the sunken space and took a minute to enjoy the dry heat and familiarity. The ashy scent of ancient pages and crumbling leather called to me. Dust particles floated like silver confetti in the light, a party just for me. I rocked my heels on the creaky knotty pine floorboards and enjoyed the slow complaint of the hinges as I pushed the door shut.

  Hundreds of books sat on shelves pressed against the walls, as well as on bookcases pressed back to back and anchored to the floor and ceiling like aisles in a bookstore. If more of the books had been penned by real authors instead of ancestral Swans, we could’ve called the room a library.

  I knew exactly where to look for recipes. I’d been doing it all my life, but this time, instead of seeking a challenge, I needed something simple. Something I could showcase on my blog and followers couldn’t ruin. If a viewer was willing to give it a try, I
wanted them to find success, not discouragement.

  I ran my fingertips over the old covers, pulling dessert books lovingly into my arms. I started with books from Grandma’s generation, then slowly moved deeper into the room…down a makeshift aisle of older tomes, selecting one or two books from each set of shelves until I reached the last row. My favorite row.

  Against the rear wall, farthest from the door and window, protected from extreme temperatures, light, and humidity, were the handful of handwritten texts—journals that had withstood the tests of time, including house fires and tropical storms that flattened almost everything else on the island.

  I carried my selections to the armchair in front of the window and sat in the warm light, then opened the oldest book on my lap. I could take the others home with me, but the oldest books were too fragile to travel. The ink on their pages was nearly too faded to read. Aunt Clara was slowly, painstakingly, copying the recipes into new books while the words were still legible so generations after us could enjoy them too.

  The book practically fell open to the rum cake recipe everyone loved so much. I took a picture of the faded cursive script and notations so I could enjoy them later. Then I added a few more photos of breads and cookies that might work for my blog before returning that book to the stack at my feet and selecting another.

  The sound of footfalls reached my ears from somewhere outside the archives, and I paused to see if they were coming my way. I supposed Aunt Clara or Aunt Fran could have forgotten something or come in search of a couple extra hands. When the floorboards groaned outside the archive door, I stilled and waited. A sensation of unease rippled over me, and despite the wall of bookcases between myself and the door, I felt exposed. “Hello,” I called, my knees officially knocking.

  The door creaked open, then slammed shut a heartbeat later. There hadn’t been enough time for anyone to come in. So, what had happened? “Hello?” I tried again, inching my way to the end of my row.