Second Chance Rose, page 12
“Tell us something we don’t know, buddy.” Noah clapped Sam’s shoulder. Turning to me, he said, “Hey speaking of islanders, what’s the deal with Rose?” He lifted an eyebrow in suggestion.
I supposed it would be good to get their perspective. Maybe I was too in my head about her to know what was real. Besides, I wanted to watch Sam squirm by delaying awhile longer. It was good for the guy to live off the rails a little.
“We’re just catching up is all.” Noah and Sam exchanged nods. I guessed they’d presumed as much.
“The one who got away?” Noah said.
“Something like that.” I rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands. I needed to tell them what happened ten years ago. I couldn’t put it off any longer. “You know I grew up here, but what you don’t know is why—or how—I left. The circumstances were…less than ideal.” I told them about my dad, about his scheme to swindle money out of people who trusted us, about our disappearing act—and about how I’d lost my connection to everything I knew in one fell swoop.
“You didn’t even say goodbye?” Sam probably couldn’t imagine not going through his list of friends and acquaintances and making sure they all had his new address.
Shame burned my cheeks, and I covered my face with my hands. “I wanted to,” I said quietly, “but I just…couldn’t. You don’t understand.”
“Try us,” Sam said.
“It was so humiliating. I was so ashamed.” I looked down to see my knuckles turning white. “And it was impossible to fit into this new world in Seattle. It was enough just to keep my head above water until I could join up.”
“You do know it wasn’t your fault, right?” Noah sat back in the booth. “From where I sit, I gotta say it looks like she forgives you. Or wants to, at least.” He tapped his fingers on the red leather upholstery. “That’s about all you can ask for.”
“But what if…” Why was it so hard to say it out loud? “What if I want more?” There. I’d said it out loud. No one laughed. No one told me it was impossible. They simply listened and nodded. “But she’s got a farm to run, a business to save, a grandfather who needs her. And with this leg, and the Quinn reputation…” I trailed off.
“Hey, if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.” Noah’s arms were spread wide on the back of the booth, an eagle spanning the wind.
“Hah! That’s not a thing.” Sam unfolded his napkin on the table and folded it again. “When you want something, you’ve got to work at it. This is no different. You need to show her she can’t live without you. That you’re the right man for the job. The right man for the farm. The right man for her.”
They were both right in their own way. I needed to show Rose I cared not just about her but also the farm and its future—and Pappy. But I knew I couldn’t force her hand. I wanted her to want it as much as I did.
“Seriously, can we go now?” Sam’s patience finally broke, and he stood up from the table. “If we don’t get a good night’s sleep, tomorrow is ruined.”
Noah pushed himself up, too. “Wondered how long you’d last,” he said, laughing.
I pulled the phone from my pocket and checked the time as I got up. “A whole twenty minutes! Just wait. We’ll get you on island time yet,” I told Sam. I waited for the blood to flow through my leg. “Let’s do it.”
With a long look at Fern behind the bar, Sam led us up the three steps to the lobby. “She’s pretty, all right,” he said as we waited for the elevator under the lifeless eyes of a taxidermy deer hanging above the door. “But how could you take things seriously if you work at a bar? Life isn’t all cocktails and late nights. Sooner or later you have to get serious.”
“Oh, right. Tick tock.” Noah referenced the schedule Sam had in his mind for how—and when—things were supposed to happen in his life. According to his calculations, he had only a year before he reached the age he planned to marry.
The elevator door slid open. “All I know is this movie better wrap on time so I can get off this island and find the woman of my dreams.” He boarded the car in front of us. Noah and I eyed rolled eyes at each other as we stepped in behind him.
The next morning, on my way to Grind House, I thought about Shore Thing. It might have big-name stars, but as Domino’s first producing project, she’d taken it on with a smaller budget and fewer resources so she could get the hang of things. It was why she’d agreed to hire three underwater cameramen who weren’t that experienced in film. And it was why I hadn’t raised any questions about the “accident” that had claimed Chip Thurlow’s narrowboat.
Sam, Noah, and I were united in our commitment to the project. We showed up on time and prepared, happy to take direction and willing to offer opinions when asked. I was also conscious of making the shoot a positive experience for Orcas Island; even though I no longer lived here, the last thing I wanted was to give anyone from my past more reason not to trust me.
Today we were filming an underwater sequence—the most important sequence of the movie. I mentally scrolled through the shot list as I walked past the now-familiar shops and restaurants on Water Street. I’d grown fond of seeing Ginger every day. In high school she’d been the smartest kid in our class. Everyone had expected her to leave Orcas Island and never come back. She’d excelled at science and math and even won an award for her grades. Since I’d been here, I’d learned she did go away to school—to Stanford, to study geophysics. But after a few years at a tech start-up in Silicon Valley, she’d left sunny California with an ache in her heart to return to her old community. She wanted to do something at home, she realized, where she could make a difference to people’s lives every day.
It’d seemed like an odd choice when she first told me, but now I’d been here a few weeks and seen how she lit up with every customer she served, I had a sense Ginger was right. I admired that about her; she’d found out what she didn’t want to do, taken the time to explore it, and decided on a career that aligned with her personal values. I couldn’t find fault in that. She infected everyone around her with joy and positivity, always with a friendly smile and a skip in her step. Today she and Julian Cooper, a kid of about eighteen who worked with her most mornings, were talking about where they could find fans for the café.
“Hardware store?” I named what I thought was the obvious answer.
“Sold out,” Julian said as he slid a coffee across the counter to me.
I shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll find one somewhere. See you tomorrow,” I told Ginger, picking up my espresso and doughnut. On my way to the door, Angela Fletcher waved from her stool by the window.
“Hello, August?” A bicycle helmet rested on the counter beside a small black notebook, a pen clipped along its spine. When I was a kid, Angela Fletcher was known for riding her bike all across the island, in all kinds of weather. It looked like that hadn’t changed.
“Hi, Ms. Fletcher.” I stopped at the door and nodded, hands full with the pastry and my cup.
“Please, it’s Angela now.” Her short red hair had faded to auburn, and her face was creased with lines, but her round green eyes were just as lively as I remembered them. “So you’re here for the movie, are you?”
“Yes, ma’am— I mean, Angela.”
She slid the pen out of the notebook and flipped it open. Pages and pages were filled with neat handwriting. “Tell me, what happened with Chip Thurlow?”
I squirmed under her inquisitive gaze. She held the pen above the page, ready to take notes on whatever I told her. I cleared my throat, stalling while I figured out what to say. Was she hoping I’d incriminate him somehow? Or was she implying I was in cahoots with him? A bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. “I’m afraid I can’t say, Ms. Fletch—I mean, Angela. Why, what have you heard?”
Angela’s lip twitched to one side, and she tsked with disappointment as she flipped the notebook closed. “Oh, you know. Everyone’s got a different story. Just thought since you were there, you might have—”
“Well, I don’t. Sorry.” I looked at my wrist where there would be a watch if I wore one, clasping my doughnut in its wax-paper bag. “Anyway, Angela. Nice to see you again. I have to be going.”
Before she could even say goodbye, I elbowed the door open and stepped outside. A seagull squawked on the wind above, and the sun glimmered off the water in the bay. Leo Wolffe lifted a wave as we passed on the sidewalk. It was a normal morning on Water Street. So why was my heart racing in my chest?
Calm down. She didn’t mean anything by it, I repeated in my mind on the way to the production office. But the acceptance I’d gradually convinced myself I felt here turned shaky with fear the community still didn’t trust me.
I stopped just inside the doors of the production space, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. Sam was bent over a table on the left side, checking the equipment we needed today. Noah hadn’t arrived yet.
“Hey, you’re from here,” Sam said as I set my coffee on the table. “What do you know about this heat dome that’s coming?” He seemed even more fidgety than usual this morning, checking and rechecking the cameras and their underwater housing.
“Heat dome?” Being on a team with someone as prepared as Sam over the years had meant learning about every new meteorological term—which seemed to be increasing in number. We’d worked through a polar vortex, thundersnow, even a weather bomb. But heat dome was a new one.
He slid the phone out of his pocket and called up a weather app. When he turned the screen to face me, I was shocked by the blocks of bold text I saw. I moved closer, squinting to see what it said. “Extreme heat warning,” I read aloud. A map of Washington State was overlaid with varying shades of red, from bright orange to angry-looking burgundy, indicating predicted temperatures over the next three days.
“Jesus. What does that say, a hundred and four degrees?” I shook my head. “Not around here, it won’t be.”
“It’s all over the news. You haven’t heard?”
“Nah, man. Although that’s probably why they were talking about fans at the coffee shop.”
The big barn doors opened, and light flooded the space. Once inside, Noah shut them again, sending us back into darkness.
“Hey, you hear about the weather?” He set a large stainless-steel water bottle on the table. “Think we ought to change out any gear?”
“I was just thinking that,” Sam said. “I mean, while we’re under, everything will be fine. It’s keeping the equipment cool on the boat we need to worry about.”
I held up a hand. “Listen, guys. I know I haven’t lived here in a while, but I can tell you one thing. I know the Pacific Northwest. And heat bombs, or heat domes, or whatever you want to call it—they just don’t happen here. Hell, we barely get anything close to a heat wave.” I gestured to the rolling shelf that held all our camera equipment. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine. Trust me.”
“But—” Sam started.
“Don’t worry about it. I mean, beyond your usual level of concern.” I chuckled as I tore open the bag that held my doughnut and took a seat at the table. “All right, should we go over today’s scenes one last time?” I said. I bit into the soft, fluffy pastry, glazed in sugar syrup that looked like a layer of ice. “Guys?” I prompted when they didn’t join me.
Noah was glued to his phone, uncharacteristic worry wrinkling his forehead. “Okay, yeah,” he said, glancing up at me. “But it says here to expect the hottest temperature in history on Monday. Listen to what the Washington Post says: ‘An exceptional weather pattern and climate change have cooked up a heat wave unmatched in regional intensity.’ I dunno, August. I’m with Sam on this one. I think we oughtta be careful.”
Sam finally stopped fidgeting with the equipment and pulled out a seat at the table. “Take it from me. I know heat—I’m from San Diego, remember?”
“Hmph.” I wasn’t convinced there was anything to panic about.
“Except in San Diego we’re used to it,” he added. “Everyone has air conditioning.”
I shrugged. “Well, either way I guess, we need to be ready to shoot. If it gets that hot, we can worry about things then.”
CHAPTER 13
I dried the sweat on my forehead with my shirt sleeve as I packed up my table at the close of the market. It was a hot afternoon, the brown grass beyond the rows of stalls alive with cricket chirps and the warbling songs of the purple finch. All anyone had talked about today was the weather. “Thousand-year record event” and “unprecedented heat” were phrases I’d heard repeated all afternoon.
Even without the heat wave, I had enough to worry about, not the least of which was the certification agent’s visit on Thursday.
Next to me, Ida’s husband, Bob, began dismantling the Pies & Otherwise tent while Ida collected her few remaining jam jars and paper-wrapped bundles of chocolate-chip cookies. “Think it’ll get as hot as they say?” Bob said when he saw me watching him.
“Sure hope not. But keep an eye on this one, will you?” I pointed at Ida. “We’ve already had one scare. Let’s not have another.”
“Oh, stop your fussing,” Ida said. “Here, take one of these.” She tucked a bundle of cookies into one of my baskets.
“Normally I’d say no, since you know I can’t eat just one. But I need to stress eat.”
She laughed, squeezing my hand.
“If only I were kidding.” I took a cookie from the package, holding it between my teeth while I wrapped the rest back up. “The certification agent is coming this week. Even my usually unflappable pappy is…well, flapped.” I bit into the buttery chocolate-chip cookie and closed my eyes in bliss. It was perfect: crispy on the outside, soft and dense inside, with creamy chocolate chips and a hint of crunch from toasted pecans. I opened my eyes to find Ida smiling at me. “The chocolate is just soft enough it’s like it’s warm from the oven. Delicious. Thank you.”
“I’m a phone call away if you want more,” she said. “If it’s chocolate-chip cookies you and Felix need to power you through this week, I’m ready.”
I brushed a loose strand of hair from my eyes and pulled Ida in for a sweaty hug. Bob waited patiently, munching on a cookie of his own.
Ida held my shoulders at arm’s length. “You got this.” She gave me a gentle shake. “Go on. Tell that sweet grandfather of yours we say hello.” She backed away to where Bob waited.
Bob tipped an imaginary hat in my direction. “Until next week.”
Minutes later they drove off, their tires crunching as the car hit the gravelly road that led out of the grounds. I sat cross-legged in the dry grass by the van and ate another cookie. It was getting warmer, but things would cool down the way they always did at night by the ocean. I peered over my table at the remaining vendors. Everyone seemed to be moving more slowly than usual as they closed down their stalls.
“Cold brew?”
I jumped in my spot, nearly tossing the cookie I was holding. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see anyone passing by. I pushed the ground behind me and stood, peeling the damp shirt from my back.
“Ooh, yes please. Wait—let me get my cup.” I bent down to fumble around in my baskets for the thermal tumbler I’d emptied of water. I held it out to Ginger.
My red-headed friend filled it from a large carafe, the sides of which were dripping with moisture from all the ice it held. I took a sip, turning to Ginger in surprise. “Wow, that’s different!” It was slightly sweet, with an added jolt that made it especially refreshing.
“Glad you like it. You do like it, don’t you?”
“I’ve never had anything that tastes even remotely like this does.” I took another sip of coffee, trying to identify the flavor on my tongue. “So great. What’s in it?”
“I’m trying something new. It’s called kopi jahe. It’s Indonesian coffee with ginger. I’ve only seen it served hot before, so I wanted to get people’s opinions before I put it on the menu at Grind House.”
“Coffee with ginger? What a great idea.” I reached for the package Ida had given me. “Here, you have to have one.” I handed a cookie to Ginger.
She rested her carafe on my table and bit into it, closing her eyes like I did when it melted in her mouth. “When I make chocolate-chip cookies, they never taste like this.” She chewed another bite and swallowed, then tapped the cookie against the cup of cold brew in my hand. “So what do you think? Too on the nose with the ginger?”
“No, no. Just the opposite. I say go for it.” I tasted it again. “What else is in there?”
“The coffee and ginger, plus crushed cardamom pods, coconut milk, a little brown sugar.” She smiled. “I love TikTok. I always learn the coolest things.”
I barely managed to have Instagram and Facebook profiles for Big Oak, which my customers were always begging me to update. It never failed to drop to the bottom of my to-dos. “You’re amazing, Ginger. Seriously. I’m so proud of Grind House—and how you somehow knew just what you wanted to do. Just what the community needed.”
Pink colored her cheeks like sun-blushed apples. “Are you kidding? You inspire me. Big Oak Farm has the best produce on the island. And you manage it all by yourself, with your grandfather? All the farms around here have teams of men doing all the hard work. It’s kinda unbelievable, really. It’s the best way to honor your mom.”
Now it was my turn to blush. “Well, will you look at us—a real mutual-admiration society, aren’t we?” I slung an arm around her shoulder. “Now, about your plans for this coffee. Need ginger root on the regular? ’Cause I happen to know someone who grew a bunch last year.”
She clasped her hands together. “That’d be a dream! Aren’t I the lucky one. But isn’t ginger a fall plant?”
“It is, but last year was our first time growing it, and we didn’t plant enough to sell. So I peeled it, chopped it into knobs, and threw it in the freezer. I’ll bring some by this week, and you can make sure it works for you. On the house.”
Ginger, too, was one of the girls on the island named for a native plant. When she was born with a shock of red hair, Ginger had been the obvious choice. The wild ginger native to the Pacific Northwest was different from the Asian kind most people used for cooking, though. Local ginger was an evergreen plant with thick roots, trailing stems, and heart-shaped leaves that smelled like spicy lemon when you crushed them between your fingers. It was important to me to plant and nurture native plants wherever I could on the farm; some of Ginger’s namesake grew in the shady, wooded area at the western edge of the property.
