Читать книгу Those Cassabaw Days - Cindy Miles - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

Cassabaw Station Present day Late May

EMILY QUINN WAITED in a single line of four or five cars as the big steel bridge to the island broke apart, each side rising high. The warm early-afternoon sun poured in and warmed her skin. Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” played as she watched the large shrimp trawler pass beneath her. She turned the volume up, the trumpets and trombones and tenor saxophones of the vintage twenties music she loved so much coming to life through the speakers. Down the river, stilt houses and wooden docks hugged the water and marsh grass. She was almost home. Moments later, after the trawler had passed safely below, the bridge lowered, and she was again on her way, heading off the mainland and onto the island.

The early-summer wind whipped through the Jeep’s open doors and top and Emily inhaled, filling her lungs until they squeezed against her ribs.

Emily peered ahead down the stretched two-lane highway. Palms and oleander trees lined the narrow seven-mile tract of road over the marsh to Cassabaw Station, and it was just as she’d remembered. A tinge of excitement raced through her body, making her skin tingle. She had missed this—the salt life, her daddy had called it. She remembered only hazy bits and pieces of her past, but that one in particular stood out. That, and her father’s sandy-blond curls.

The humidity lingered as heavy as the brine of the creek—so much that it clung to her skin, her tongue. Emily swept her gaze to either side of the road as she drove. Rudy Vallée sang “As Time Goes By” and she hummed along, and somehow the vintage music fit right into the feel of Cassabaw. Low tide and clumps of saw grass hugged the edge of the muck. Oyster shoals rose in scattered little hills from the water and blinked in the sunlight.

Across the marsh, a lone white shrimp trawler sat anchored to the pilings, its masts and outriggings jutting skyward. Multiple docks stretched out over the saw grass to the water. Several had small tin-roofed dock houses. One of them now belonged to Emily and her younger sister.

Not for the first time since leaving Maryland a jolt of self-doubt shot through her, an unfamiliar sensation to Emily. Had she made the right decision? Was this new life, this brand-new start in the place where she’d grown up, really for her? Emily wasn’t fond of these niggling, questioning fears because it was more typical of her character to ponder, make a sound decision and be done with it. Stick to it and be confident in it.

Now, she questioned herself. Was it just butterflies? The return home after so many years? Her dad’s old aunt Cora—Emily’s last living relative, save Reagan—had passed away and left them the river house and the Windchimer, a seaside breakfast-and-lunch café. With Reagan now in the air force and deployed to Afghanistan, and Emily’s recent breakup, there had been no better time to accept.

It was a good decision. It had to be. In truth, Cassabaw had been pulling at her for some time. She’d been unsettled with her retail manager’s job, with her relationship and the hustle and bustle of the city, and politics. Alone in Bethesda, or alone in Cassabaw? Somehow things didn’t seem so rimmed with despair on the island, even though she’d still be alone. The city never was her cup of tea. Now? The opportunity to leave it had been perfect. The therapist she’d had, so very long ago, had informed Emily that she suffered abandonment issues. Maybe. Possibly.

A couple of months earlier, Emily’s boyfriend had ended their relationship. She’d met Trent Hughes her sophomore year of college where they’d both played lacrosse for Mount St. Mary’s University. He was nice. Generous. Safe. Charming. Athletic. Everyone liked Trent. She may have even loved him, really, and had at the very least fancied the idea of growing old together. At first, she’d been hurt by the breakup. Hurt and rejected.

But politics and business—and his mother—always came first with Trent. And from the start Emily, with her spontaneity, her quirky love of the twenties and thirties and otherwise average life, just didn’t fit in with Trent’s political upper-crust Georgetown family—no matter how hard she’d tried. Mrs. Hughes definitely wasn’t thrilled about her dating Trent. The longer they stayed together, the bolder those facts became to Emily. Trent had always assured her he loved her the way she was, but over the past several months that assuredness didn’t really sit well with Emily and she had no doubt Allegoria Hughes had been a major factor in Trent’s decision to break things off. Emily, possessing a mammoth amount of pride, didn’t fight his decision—and that surprised Trent. And when the opportunity arose to move back home, she knew it was right. She wanted Cassabaw, not the Capital. She didn’t want someone to just merely accept her the way she was. At twenty-seven, her whole life lay ahead. Alone, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She’d make it work no matter what.

Finally, after fifteen long years, she was home. She inhaled deeply, letting the breath escape her pursed lips. Yes, indeed. It felt right.

Emily’s eyes slipped over the long, narrow road, crossing the marsh and river as she passed. The USCG station entrance stood ahead on the left. Matt Malone instantly rushed to the front of her memories. She fondly remembered her neighbor, Mr. Malone, as being part of the Coast Guard. He had worn his Coast Guard hat, and had really big muscles. Matt was his middle son and had been her very best friend. The years that separated them had somewhat dulled their old life together.

Now that she was back on Cassabaw...? Matt Malone seemed solid, real. Kind of like he would be waiting on the path that ran between their houses; a lanky twelve-year-old boy with a wide, toothy grin and emerald-green eyes. Random silly things they did as kids rushed back like a pot of water boiling over fast. Climbing trees. Eating wild blackberries that grew beside the keeper’s cottage. Racing up the steps to the lighthouse. Crabbing off the floating dock. Chasing fireflies in the summer. Dancing decades-old dances Matt’s Irish grandfather had taught them. So many recollections...

Emily had bumped into Mr. Malone—Owen—and his old sea-dog father, Jep, at Aunt Cora’s funeral in King’s Ferry, and told them she was moving back to Cassabaw. Emily hadn’t spoken long to the Malones, but Owen had told her that Matt had joined the marines right after high school. When she’d returned to Bethesda after the funeral she’d tried to find him on Facebook, but nothing. All she could find when she did an internet search was an old picture in the Cassabaw Station Gazette. A cocky, proud, eighteen-year-old newly enlisted Matt Malone. Even seeing that picture had been strange; he looked like Matt, yet different. More mature. Still a kid, though. She tried hard to picture crazy little Matt Malone grown-up, and it was nearly impossible. What had driven him to join the marines? To leave Cassabaw?

Matt Malone. Was he married now? With kids? God, how weird, she thought, to think of that little prankster with kids of his own. She’d have to visit the Malones and find out for herself.

The speed limit dropped to forty-five as she edged closer to the small island’s city limits. a large sign displayed a hand-painted beach, with sea-oat-covered sand dunes and the familiar black-and-white lighthouse against the picture-perfect gray blue of the Atlantic. Welcome to Cassabaw Station stretched in a half circle of wide black letters at the top. At the very bottom, in the right-hand corner, the artist left her mark with a single dandelion, its wispy little petals floating up and away.

In the center of the flower, the letters KQ were inscribed. Emily remembered it well. Katie Quinn. Emily had the same dandelion tattooed onto her shoulder, the petals scattering up and over. Trent had always liked it; his mother despised it. She’d said tattoos were a little on the distasteful side. But Emily loved her body art. Loved what it meant to her. And on her shoulder it would stay. Forever.

Her eyes skimmed over her hand as it gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. There, on her inner wrist, her parents’ birth year was forever embedded with black ink. 1965. Trent’s mother had disliked that one even more.

“You can do this, you can do this,” Emily encouraged herself out loud. A burst of confidence surged through her, and she squealed. “Yes! I can do this!” It’d be her new mantra.

Although dying to see the Windchimer, she decided to go to the river house first. Then, later, the island cemetery. Emily heaved a gusty sigh and pressed the clutch, downshifting to Third as the speed limit declined again. Suddenly, the Jeep sputtered, almost stalling. With her foot pressing the clutch, Emily shifted back into fourth. The transmission lurched, but finally caught the gear.

“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.

Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.

Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.

Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.

Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.

“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.

More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.

Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief. Barely made it. She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.

Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.

Emmie! Reagan! Time for supper!

A sad smile tugged at Emily’s mouth as she recalled her mom’s sweet voice. It seemed like forever ago that she’d heard it. Blinks in time, those memories. She cherished every single one.

Male voices rose from the river, interrupting Emily’s reverie. She peered through the trees in that direction. Easing out of the open door, she slid her iPhone into the pocket of her vintage sundress and started across the hard-packed dirt path that wound to the marsh. Flip-flops smacked her heels as she walked, and the voices cleared.

“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.

“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”

“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”

“I know that, Dad.”

Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.

“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.

Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.

“Didn’t expect you till next week.”

It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then, she supposed.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I decided to come a little early. Just got in.”

“Who is it?” Jep Malone grumbled, peering in Emily’s direction. He wore the same white cap and light blue short-sleeved coveralls she remembered. She was surprised he hadn’t worn the same thing to the funeral. Quite a character, Jep Malone.

“It’s Alex and Katie’s oldest girl, Dad,” Owen told his father. “Cora’s niece. Emily. We saw her at the funeral.”

Old Jep stared in Emily’s direction and waved a hand. “’Bout time you came back home. Your dock’s got a big hole in it, missy.”

Emily laughed. “I see that!” she called back. “I’ll add it to my fix-it list. My Jeep just died on me, too. You wouldn’t happen to know a good mechanic?”

“Sure do,” Owen hollered back. “One of the best.”

“Great!”

“What about that dock?” Owen asked.

In reality, Emily had thought she would do as much of the work as she could. But now, staring down at the missing planks, the rotted ones and the water below, she wondered how successful she’d be. It was a bigger job than she had thought, and the café entered her mind. She definitely had a lot on her plate. “I’ll probably need someone for that, too.”

“I’ve got just the man for both jobs. I’ll send him over directly.”

Emily smiled and waved. “Thanks, Mr. Malone!”

“You bake, Emily Quinn?” Jep asked.

She cocked her head, still smiling. She liked the Malones. Nice men. “Yes, sir, I do.”

Jep stared in her direction. She didn’t need to see his face. Digging back into her memory, she had a perfectly picture of the tanned, weathered skin and lines around his eyes from the sun. He may have looked like an old sea dog, but she recalled that his startling emerald gaze held a lot of warmth. And mischief. Just like Matt’s.

“Good. I like pie.”

“Dad,” Owen chided.

“Well, I do!” Jep grumbled. “You any good at it?”

Emily chuckled. “Pretty fair.”

Owen shook his head and waved. “Ignore him. Let us know if you need anything, Emily. And you should stay off the dock until it’s fixed. It’s too rotted. I’ll send your man around directly. And don’t let him charge you too much.”

“No, sir, I won’t. And thanks!”

Emily started back down the dock. She had been home for only twenty minutes, and already had a mechanic and a fix-it man. She made a quick plan to bake a couple of pies to take over to the Malones after she’d settled in.

As she stepped off the dock and back onto the dirt path, Emily pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and made her way through the shade to the front porch. Grabbing her travel bag and a box of renovation magazines from the Jeep, she climbed the steps. Looking to the left, she took in the porch, scattered with dead leaves. The swing she and Reagan used to spend hours playing on with their Barbie dolls sat on its bottom; the white paint was faded, and the chains hung limp. Poor old Cora must’ve had a hard time keeping the place up by herself. Although, the property itself looked to be in decent shape. The azalea bushes were trimmed, and the grass cut. Pulling the key out of her shorts pocket, Emily unlocked and opened the front door and set her belongings down. Keeping it open, she stepped inside.

The aroma of lemon hung in the warm interior, and hazy sunlight filtered in through the windows. The estate attorney had arranged for a cleaning crew to go through the house, and they’d done a pretty good job.

Painted wood walls reminded her of Irish cream, and the ceiling rafters were exposed. Upon a polished wide-planked wood floor sat sheet-covered furniture, still as ghosts. A fairly new sixty-inch flat-screen TV filled the space above two bookcases. A small brick-faced fireplace with a white-and-green painted mantel faced the opposite wall, its gaping mouth dark and hollow. Above it sat a large photo in a frame. Emily moved toward it, and swallowed hard. She grazed the polished wooden frame with her fingertips, and her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her; herself, Reagan and their parents, sitting on their dock at sunset. Emily sat in their father’s lap, while Reagan sat in their mother’s. Their mom rested her head against their father’s shoulder.

Emily remembered the day Aunt Cora had taken that photo, three weeks before the accident. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Could she do this? Could she make it through all this? By herself?

Yes, yes she could. She had to. Stop questioning yourself, Quinn. Sheesh.

Emily drew a few deep breaths and moved slowly through the small, quiet river house, down the hallway to what used to be her and Reagan’s bedroom. From the shapes beneath the sheets, Aunt Cora had turned it into an office, more than likely running the Windchimer’s finances from home. She would have to dig in right away and see if she could make heads or tails out of all that paperwork. Emily’s eyes roamed the room, to where their twin beds used to be. Reagan’s had been all pink and frilly; hers was Scooby-Doo. She continued down the hall, peeking inside the bathroom and then her parents’ old room. More white ghosts sat dormant in the filtered light. A huge sheeted bed, minus the mattress and box spring, rested catty-corner, and a small pair of French doors opened up onto the covered porch. Emily turned and headed back up the hallway. Aunt Cora hadn’t been a pack rat—that was for sure. Just the bare necessities, so it seemed. The movers would arrive tomorrow with Emily’s belongings, and then she could start settling in. For tonight, though, she had her overnight bag, a pillow, sheet and blanket.

Across from the living room, Emily walked through a white-trimmed archway leading into the kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. A smile pulled at her mouth as she made her way to the mammoth white porcelain sink, its vast picture window facing the marsh and Morgan’s Creek. With her eyes closed, she could easily see her mom, clear as day standing there, baking oatmeal-raisin cookies, or cooking supper.

Slowly, Emily opened her eyes. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the magnolias and shot right through the window. Dancing bits of dust swirled in the light like so many diamonds. She waved her hand through it—

“Ma’am, the front door was open and—”

“Whoa!” With her heart in her throat, Emily spun around, and backed up until her rear end bumped against the sink. Fear and adrenaline surged through her veins as she gawked, wide-eyed.

The man was a beast. Heavily muscled. Close-cut hair. He just stood there, like a solid rock. Muscles flexed at his jaw. An emerald gaze stared right back at her.

Then, Emily looked—hard. Dark hair—although buzzed short. A scar through his brow over very familiar eyes. She’d know those eyes, and that scar, anywhere, no matter how long it’d been. “Holy moly, I can’t believe who I’m looking at.” Then she simply shook her head in shock and gave a light laugh. “Well, you’ve grown. I still really love the color of your eyes, Matt Malone. They remind me of the green mossy algae that sticks to the sand at low tide.”

Something Emily deemed as confusion flared in Matt Malone’s eyes. Then, they widened. “Emily Quinn?” he asked. His matured, slightly deep and raspy voice filled the small kitchen.

Emily moved then and gave her old best friend a hug around the neck. No longer lanky, his body was warm, thick and hard as solid stone. “You remember!”

Then, she backed up and couldn’t help but stare some more. Matt Malone had really, really changed quite a lot in fifteen years.

Well over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, Matt loomed over her. He had the same long dark lashes that framed those trademark Malone eyes. Although his hair was shorn, the cowlick remained just off the center of the hairline near his forehead, and was as obnoxious and untamed as ever. The gash through his brow still stood out, like a brilliant bolt of lightning, just as fresh as the day Emily had given it to him when she tripped him during a race to jump off the dock. It now gleamed silver, intriguing. Gangly had turned into lean. Confidence, maybe arrogance, wafted off him in waves.

His black T-shirt was just snug enough that she could see his chiseled chest and biceps. Muscles flexed at his unshaven cut-in-stone jaw as he studied her. How had her prank-playing, skinny little childhood friend turned into this man?

Then his handsome face hardened. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Emily blinked, stung by his brusque, sharp tone. Hard, somewhat cold, Matt’s eyes did not welcome her. Not at all.

What had life done to her old best friend?