The Last Wingman (Wingmen Book 6), page 8
“Nothing.” Her voice shifts to exasperation.
“There’s something in your tone that disagrees.”
“It’s just … different here.” She sighs.
“How?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Islanders are both helpful and friendly but also kind of standoffish and keep to themselves. Not sure that even makes sense.”
She nailed the description. “Pretty accurate if you ask me.”
“Why do you think it’s like that?”
“Summer people. It’s a love-hate relationship. We need them, but sometimes we resent them.”
“So … friendly, but standoffish.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Warm, but keep to ourselves.”
“Good to know it’s not just me. I was beginning to wonder.” She picks at a thread on her coat.
“Don’t take it personally. How long have you been here?”
“A little over a year.” Her fingers tap in the air. “No, closer to eighteen months.”
I didn’t realize she’d been on the island for six months before I noticed her.
“You’re still new. Most of us take a while to warm up to people. One of the favorite local pastimes is figuring out who’s been on the island longer. Anyone who moved here in the eighties is still considered new. Sorry to break it to you. No prizes, only gloating rights.”
“Let me guess who wins—the Donnelys?”
“Bingo, and they can be insufferable about it.” I roll my eyes. “Not really, but don’t ask Tom about his family history on the island. He’ll talk for hours.”
“Tom?” She presses her hand to her chest. “No! I can’t imagine.”
We both laugh.
“Obviously, you two have met.”
She nods. “What about your family?”
Her question is a natural continuation of the conversation, but my jaw ticks as I try to think of a neutral answer. Given she’s new, she doesn’t know the whole lurid tale.
“I grew up here … and my parents grew up here, too.”
She hesitates, maybe waiting for more details from me, before she speaks again. “When I first moved here, I went to the Smugglers Inn near the ferry one night to check it out. I wanted to try new things, get out of my comfort zone.”
“How’d that work out for you?” Smuggler’s isn’t a place I can imagine June.
“Other than the bartender and a drunk guy with hairy ears, no one spoke to me.” She groans in disgust.
“Did the drunk guy hit on you?” My protective instincts kick in even though I have no reason to feel protective of June other than the fact she’s a woman who shouldn’t be hanging out in bars near ferry docks.
“Sadly, no. He asked me if I wanted to give him a twenty for pull-tabs. With his slurring and my ignorance of pull-tabs, I did think he was trying to pick me up until the bartender explained pull-tabs are a game of chance.”
Her answer surprises me. “Did you want to be picked up by a man with hairy ears? If that’s your thing, I’m not judging, just curious.”
“It’s always nice to be asked to dance.” She flashes a half-hearted smile.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Relieved to hear she’s not trolling for the lowest hanging fruit available in a dive bar, I focus on driving her home. I stop at the red light. “Which way to your house?”
“Keep going on Cultus Bay. I’m off of French Road.”
I gape at her. “That is not close to here.”
“I don’t mind the walk.”
“It’s over a mile to French Road, in the rain, with no sidewalk. You should mind it.” An idea settles into my head. “If you don’t want me to see your house, I can drop you at the end of your drive. Don’t feel obligated to invite me in.”
“You assume I live in a house.” Her grin is cheeky and a little teasing.
I like flirty June and flash her a grin. “Well, now you have my interest piqued.”
Twelve
“This place is …” I pause, trying to think of the appropriate adjective without going over the top and giving myself away.
“A dump?” she asks, her voice gruff like she’s beaten me to the punchline of a joke about herself.
“Perfect.” I meet her eyes. “Nothing dumpy about it at all.”
We’re stopped in front of a mint condition Airstream Flying Cloud. Shaped and colored the same as a blimp, this is the gold standard for vintage campers. Judging by the collection of needles on the roof and the moss growing on the tops of the tires, it’s been here a long time—a lot longer than eighteen months.
“How did you find this place? I had no idea this was back here.”
“When I decided to move to the island, the price was right. I’ve updated the interior but haven’t done anything to the outside—as you can tell.”
“Can I see inside?” The words fly out before I realize I’m inviting myself into June’s home.
She sits still, a bemused expression on her face.
“You can say no. It’s just I love vintage trailers.” Because I’m a weirdo who says weird things like this. “That’s not a pick-up line. I really do love vintage campers. It’s the reason I’m driving this bus.”
“I, uh, I guess so.” She hesitates for a moment longer. “It’s kind of a mess.”
“I’ll wait outside if you need to straighten up, or I can come back another time. No pressure.”
“No, it’s fine. Just give me a minute.” She gathers her things and hops down from the VW. With her bag over her head, she jogs to the front door and unlocks it.
A few minutes later, she reopens the door and motions for me to join her.
Inside is everything I’d hoped. A few updates have been made to the upholstery and cabinets, but otherwise, the interior is all original and in pristine condition. My opinion of June has grown exponentially in the ten seconds since I entered.
“This is amazing.”
She picks up a copy of the local newspaper and folds it neatly before fluffing a bright green pillow on the small built-in couch upholstered in sunny yellow fabric. “I’m not used to having company.”
“What about when your friends come over?” I hover near the front door while she flits around the narrow space, tidying up an already spotless room
She karate chops a turquoise velvet pillow. “I usually meet them in Langley or go to their house.”
“Family?”
“None local and if they come visit, there’s no room in here, so I book them a room at one of the local B&Bs.” She’s refolding a neatly folded, rainbow-striped knit blanket for the second time.
I’m delighted that her home is as brightly colored as her outfits.
My attention lands on a sleek wood stove tucked in the corner between the living area and the kitchen cabinets. I’m glad to see she has a reliable heat source. “Sounds like your personal fortress of solitude.”
“Not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment.”
Confused, I shift my attention to her. “The fortress part or the solitude part?”
“Both?” Her forehead creased, she pats the blanket and sets it in the corner of the small sofa.
Sensing something but unable to pinpoint if it’s awkwardness or insult, I explain. “I call the coffee hut my fortress of solitude, which is a total misnomer if I think about it. Yes, there are moments of quiet, but it’s a stream of people asking me for things. Like if Superman became a celebrity superhero and now his Smallville refuge is a tourist attraction complete with a gift shop selling mugs and T-shirts.”
“Do you sell a lot of those?”
“You’d be surprised.” I meet her eyes. “I meant it as a compliment—in case I didn’t make that clear. I love your place.”
“Um, thanks?” She frowns again. “Sorry. Not sure why everything that comes out of my mouth right now sounds like a question. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The tiny space shrinks under the weight of our silence.
“I’d give you the grand tour, but unless you want to see my bed and a tiny bathroom, you’ve already seen the highlights.”
The toilet I could skip. Asking to see the bedroom feels like crossing a line but that doesn’t stop me from being curious about it.
“I’ve always wanted an old Airstream.” I tap the original cabinet next to me. “How could anyone not want something called both a flying cloud and a land yacht?”
“Really?” She leans a hip against the sofa. “Why?”
“How long do you have?” I joke. “I have a ’78 VW bus and some people think I live in it.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because sometimes I do. When life becomes too stressful and the walls begin to close in, the best solution is to remove the walls. I’ll camp for a few days, and that seems to right the world again.”
“Oh!” She straightens. “I’m being a terrible hostess. I should offer you coffee. No, you’re probably tired of coffee and I’d worry about messing it up. Tea? Is that an insult? I do have some cookies. They’re gluten-free gingerbread. I should warn you that they’re made with almond flour, in case you have a nut allergy.”
As she speaks, she opens cupboard doors and closes them without removing anything.
“Tea would be fine, but you don’t need to serve me anything. You needed a ride and I was there. Island code.”
“Take some cookies. Think of them as a thank you—unless you’re allergic to nuts. If they might kill you then please, don’t feel obligated. I’d feel terrible if you died from politeness.” She’s flustered and turning pink.
The space is so small, I take two steps and am able to wrap my hand around her wrist, stilling her nervous movements. “Tea is good. Cookies are even better.”
She pulls out an old-fashioned, round, metal tin and places it on the counter. “Take this one.”
Curious, I lift the tin and the weight surprises me. “All of them? I can’t take all your cookies.”
“I have more.” She opens the cupboard and sweeps her hand in front of it. Five similar tins fill a shelf.
“Are all of them full?” She’s a cookie hoarder.
“To some degree.” With a shy smile, she explains, “I can’t bake here because the oven’s too small to really accomplish anything. I’d have more success with an Easy Bake Oven. So, I’m forced to use the kitchen at the church. As long as I leave a dozen or two for the staff, they don’t mind me baking there.”
Huh. June spends a lot of time at the church. Nothing against church people, they’ve just never been my people—not that I’m anti-religion or God. Like George Michael said, you gotta have faith. I’m just not a fan of organized conformity.
I eye the other tins. “How many dozens do you bake at a time?”
“Five or six. What’s the point of making twelve cookies? Pfft. Amateurs.” She gives me her soft smile again. My stomach clenches at the idea that she knows the effect she has on me.
Curious about her baking skills, I remove the lid and inhale the scent of warm spices. “Reminds me of my grandmother’s gingerbread houses.”
“Try one. If you hate it, just tell me. You can spit it out in the sink. I won’t judge.”
“Stop. They smell incredible and if they taste half as good, it’ll be one of the best I’ve ever had.” I select a cookie and break it in half before biting into the soft texture. Spices, butter, and molasses explode on my tongue. In spite of having a full mouth, I manage to say, “Wow.”
“Good?” She picks at a few crumbs.
After swallowing, I gape at her. “I was right—definitely one of the best cookies ever. What else do you have? Are they all gingerbread?”
She points at the open cupboard. “No, I have chocolate chip and snickerdoodle.”
“I should probably try them all.” I take a seat on the banquette.
“Are you sure? Don’t force yourself.” She laughs, but it sounds nervous.
“Please don’t make me beg, because I would. I’m not above begging, but I’m trying to play it cool.”
“Should I put on the kettle?” She hesitates again, but I spot a flash of pride in her eyes.
A glance at the clock on her microwave confirms what I don’t want to be true. I’m out of time. Not overstaying my welcome is probably a good thing, though.
“Actually, I can’t stay. I’m babysitting my niece tonight.”
“Oh, that’s totally fine. Take the cookies to-go as a thank you for the ride.” She tries to cover the disappointment in her eyes with a smile.
I hate that I can’t say yes. The thought occurs to me that maybe June’s a little bit lonely like me.
“I will.” I take a chance to see if she’ll spend more time with me. “How are you getting to work tomorrow?”
Blowing out a breath, she gives me a sheepish smile. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Bus? Walk?”
“What time should I be here?” I dismiss her nonsense with a teasing glower.
She shakes her head in protest. “I can’t ask you to come pick me up.”
“You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”
Embarrassed but also maybe a tiny bit pleased, she says, “Does nine work for you? Or I can call Diane.”
“I’ll be here at nine. How do you take your coffee?” I tuck my tin of cookies under my arm.
“You really don’t have to bring me coffee.”
I dip my chin and stare at her. “I know.”
“But … if you were going to bring me something, a dirty chai latte would be nice.”
Accepting the small victory of providing for her, I decide to leave on a high note.
“Got it.” Opening the door, I pause. “See you at nine. Thanks again for the cookies.”
At the end of June’s driveway, I notice another fairy door inset into a tree trunk that also serves as her mailbox. It can’t be a coincidence that it’s similar to the one I found in Saratoga Woods. I love the idea that June is making these doors for the island fairies. Classic Hufflepuff behavior.
At 8:58 the next morning, I make the turn onto June’s long driveway.
I’m halfway out my door when she exits the Airstream. With a friendly wave, she quickly walks over to where I’m parked.
Today’s outfit is a burst of sunshine with yellow tights under a multicolored plaid dress and topped with a yellow striped scarf. I’m wearing black. Our streak of appearing as polar opposites is unbroken.
“Morning,” I tell her as we both climb into the van. “One dirty chai latte.”
She takes the drink from me and examines the name on the side. “Did you go by the Fellowship of the Bean this morning to get this?”
“I did. If you wanted coffee, I could’ve made it at home, but I don’t drink chai.”
She takes a sip and sighs, content. “Wasn’t that out of the way?”
“Not by much.” Concentrating on reversing, I hope she doesn’t make a big deal about something as simple as me getting her tea. “Had to stop by and pick up the bank deposit anyway.”
“Okay, thank you.” She holds the cup with both hands. “How was babysitting?”
“Fine. She slept the entire time. Kind of boring, but better than screaming for three hours.”
“That sounds horrible.” She visibly cringes. “Babies are scary.”
I cast a sidelong glance at her.
“What? They are. Ask anyone.”
“Aren’t babies a big part of your business model?”
“Baby stuff is, but not actual living, breathing, tiny humans. I try to avoid those.”
Nodding, I add this to the list of things about June that surprises me. I guess the times I borrowed Shaw Donnely and Rosie and took them to the shop didn’t help my cause.
“I sound like a terrible person saying I don’t like kids.” Pausing, she blows on the top of her cup. “Women are supposed to have a gene that makes us love all infants and huff their baby essence like it’s the elixir of life.”
“I’m not judging.” Downshifting, I slow to take a tight curve. “And I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
“You seem to like the tiny humans—even voluntarily hanging out with them.”
“It’s different when they’re family. A lot of my friends have had kids over the past couple of years. Hard to avoid them.”
“Is that why you stopped by the shop with other people’s babies?” she asks, a slight curl to her lips.
Busted. “You have a good memory. I stand by my story. I needed to buy a baby gift and wasn’t sure about sizing.”
She laughs. “That’s why we give people blankets—no sizing needed. Did the gift work out?”
I think about Ansel and the tiny Sorting Hat I got for him.
“It was perfect.”
“Did you have anything to do with the new Naked Whidbey calendar baby theme?” She eyes me, not hostile, but not exactly happy.
“It was Ashley’s idea. Most of the time, women act like their ovaries are exploding when they see a hot guy holding a baby.”
“Apparently.”
“Not you, though,” I say softly.
“I’m immune or I’m missing that gene.” She shrugs and sips her drink.
“Yet you make blankets for newborns.” None of her pieces fit neatly together. She’s an enigma of contrasts.
“Easy to do and quick to finish. The knitting circle at the church has made them for years. The blankets are part of being a member.”
“Can’t you find another knitting group? There’s more than one church on the island.”
She slurps the last of her drink. “I’ve tried all of them. The ladies in Langley are the nicest and most normal.”
“You interviewed church ladies?” June continues to surprise me.
“Of course, I’m glad I did. The Episcopalian women in Freeland were more about making body pillows than knitting. A few dressed their pillows in flannel shirts and a couple even added fake fur beards. I never went back.” A small shudder ripples through her.
“Did they resemble anyone in particular?” I ask, fearing the answer and wondering if the local gossip brigade are Episcopalians as I imagine Sandy, Connie and Sally sewing man pillows then cuddling them while they sleep. Delete, delete, delete.
