Three Dog Island Read online

  By choice, there was no microwave in this house. They were too easy to rely on and zapped the nutrition out of the food. Not that scones had much nutrition to offer, other than the psychological kind.

  When I found myself putting my hands over the kettle to warm, I realized how much the cottage had cooled down. It was mid-September now and was to be expected. I scrunched up some old newspaper and put it in the woodstove that sat in the corner of the country kitchen, then I added a few small pieces of firewood and finally some logs from the back porch. Certain that I had left enough air for the fire to breathe, I lit the match. The last sign of independence from my now ex-husband. I could build my own fire.

  I poked around the fire a little until the kettle whistled. I chose a combination of mint and chamomile tea, set the cups on a tray, along with the warm scones, and headed back to the living room.

  Josh was still in the entryway, looking around the living room of my craftsman cottage. I wondered if he was appreciating the character and quaintness of my home, the original wood windows, wide-planked wood flooring, stone fireplace with its wood mantle, or maybe it was the fact that he was warm for the first time in who knows how many days.

  “Napkins,” I mumbled, heading back to the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  When I returned, napkins in hand, Josh was sitting on the couch, his duffle bag at his feet, his jacket still hugging his body. It was a little tight in the shoulders. I wondered how long he’d had it. I also wondered how long it had been since he’d showered or had a hair cut. His dusty brown hair was creeping toward his shirt collar.

  I decided not to try to pry his jacket from him. Maybe he was chilled from his adventure on the island. Or maybe he was loath to part with his few worldly possessions.

  “What’s his name?” He nodded toward my dog whose snout was resting on his arm.

  “Rocky.”

  “Like the boxer?”

  “No, as in Rocky Raccoon.”

  He smiled, ever so slightly. “A Beatles fan.”

  “Definitely.” He knew his music, or at least his Beatles’ songs. I set a cup of tea and a scone in front of him. He looked up at me with the innocence of a five year old. His dark brown eyes resembled Rocky’s, filled with fear and a flicker of gratitude. Thank goodness they were brown. I’d had enough of blue-eyed men to last me a lifetime. More memories of Joe. The strings run far and enduring between ex-spouses. We had a history, after all, a twenty-two year history.

  “Go ahead, Josh,” I urged gently.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking a large bite of the scone. He devoured it in the time it took me to sit down in the chair across from him, pick up my cup of tea, and take one sip.

  I shoved the other scone over to him.

  “That’s yours,” he said.

  “There are a lot more where that came from. A lot.” Now I wondered if my recent penchant for baking scones had to do with Joe. And the divorce. And living alone for the first time in my life. And maybe even the bones I’d dug up the first day I had moved to the island. All of the above, I decided, with the divorce at the top of the list.

  “It’s really good,” Josh said, halfway through his second scone.

  “Thanks.”

  “You baked them?”

  I nodded. A hint of a smile crossed his lips. He hadn’t realized they were homemade.

  “How long were you on the island?” I asked.

  “A couple weeks.” Definitely a man of few words.

  “When did you run out of food?”

  “A couple days ago.”

  “Did you see my friends and me take the dogs?”

  “Yeah.”

  And yet he had not come with me the first time, and he had no way of knowing that I would come back for him. How scared was this kid that he didn’t speak up when we rescued the dogs? Nor did he come with me the second time he saw me with Deputy Dan.

  “What would you have done without food?”

  “My friend was coming back with a new supply. Probably tomorrow.”

  “Where does your friend live?”

  He shrugged. Too many questions.

  I set down my cup and stood up. “Would you like a sandwich?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.” It was the first time he’d called me by my name since I’d introduced myself.

  “Would you like to wash up while I make it?”

  He nodded.

  As I cleared the tea dishes, I realized I hadn’t thought through where he was going to stay. There was only one bathroom upstairs. That meant we’d be sharing. I decided quickly that both he and I would be more comfortable if he slept downstairs in the small room off the kitchen. It had a day bed and a television. I had put Winnie’s old set in there, more for storage than anything else. There was also a bookshelf filled with books. He would appreciate that since apparently he was a reader. Of course, when you’re alone on an isolated island, what else do you do?

  I motioned for him to follow me into the little room. “The bathroom is around the corner. Use any of the towels. They’re clean.”

  He nodded again. A nod and a shrug seemed to be his main method of communication. He set his duffle bag on the bed.

  “Is this okay?”

  His look was easy to read. I could almost hear him asking if I was serious. Then he said softly, “It will be nice to sleep in a bed again. With a mattress. And sheets.”

  I could hear the shower running from the kitchen. I wondered how long he thought he could survive on that island alone, with only the water and food his friend brought him once a week. And, I wondered, if he had friends around here, why was he hiding on a dismal island instead of with them? Why was he hiding at all?

  The next morning I left Rocky and Josh at home and headed into town. Obviously I was going to need to stock more food if I had a teenage boy staying with me. And I did have a hair appointment. Now that I was welcome at Cut, Curl and Color, and didn’t have to fear what Marilyn Burrows might do to my hair, I had made an appointment for my first haircut on the island.

  Marilyn motioned for me to take a seat. Quite a difference from the last time I’d come in and she’d treated me like an odious monster or Winnie’s niece. Now that I had made amends with Daisy and Eleanor Ewell and had restored my aunt’s reputation, I was in with the in crowd. I could go into the Main Street Market, the Crown and Anchor Pub, and the Cut, Curl and Color Hair Salon without worrying about suffering dire consequences.

  “I’ll be with you in a sec, Jenny,” Marilyn called across the room. “Burt, can you get Jenny something to drink?”

  Burt Burrows looked up from his boating magazine as though noticing me for the first time. He wore his full flock of silver hair gracefully. Unfortunately you couldn’t say the same for the tiny mustache above his lip. “What can I get you, Jenny? Coffee, tea, soft drink?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “How have you been?” Burt had been the friendliest of the Ewell crowd, even when Winnie was in deep disfavor.

  “Well, and you?”

  He nodded slowly, as though deliberating on how to answer. “Okay. Work is slow enough that my assistant can hold down the fort. But I have plenty to do helping Marilyn out here.”

  I looked around to see how busy he could possibly be. As I struggled to remember what other work he did, he answered for me. “If you ever need to rent a lawn mower or just about anything, I’m your man.” He handed me his card.

  “Ah, so you rent equipment.”

  “Specialize in anything with a motor,” he said.

  “Good to know. If I need a forklift, I’ll call you.”

  “Or a hauling truck, sewing machine, vacuum, boat, even snow mobiles!”

  I couldn’t help wondering if he had not let his wife color his silver hair and if it was a sore subject between them. Marilyn was definitely a result of her own livelihood, with her red-tinted puffed and frizzed hairdo. They were both
on the short and stout side, although Marilyn’s hair made her look taller than she was.

  “Okay, Jenny, I’m ready for you,” Marilyn said, sweeping up the last of the hair of her previous subject. “What would you like today?”

  I looked up at her well-sprayed hair and said, “Something simple. A trim maybe?”

  Smiling, she wove her fingers through my hair. It wasn’t a real smile. It was a smile that you put on for the public, for customers, even friends. The lack of luster in her eyes told the true story. They were dull and just slightly red as though she’d been crying. Or maybe it was from too much hair spray.

  “Any color today? Some highlights maybe?”

  I shook my head. As boring as my shoulder length brown hair was, I was rather fond of it just as it was.

  “Layered?” she asked. “It will give it a little more body and with your natural curl, you won’t have to do a thing with it.”

  Not that I ever did anyway, aside from brushing and washing it. “Sure, why not?”

  I was pleased to emerge forty minutes later from the hair salon with a new but somewhat conservative haircut. Nothing dramatic, nothing frizzy or poofed, and nothing but my natural wave and light brown color.

  I thought about picking up a book I’d ordered from the bookstore, but that would mean walking past the newspaper office. I was obviously still avoiding Seth Williams. I knew it was silly, particularly since we’d scarcely made it to “item” status before I broke it off, but still . . . Another week maybe. Or I could ask Sasha to pick it up the next time she was in town.

  I did make a quick run into the Main Street Market to pick up some supplies. Daisy Ewell greeted me with the same enthusiasm as Marilyn had. She actually hugged me. I thought it must be like hugging Dolly Parton. The resemblance was hard to miss with her robust build and her bleached blond hair—expertly poofed by her buddy Marilyn.

  “Uh, hi, Daisy,” I said when I came up for air.

  “Hi, Jenny, it’s good to see you. How have you been?”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “I see you got a new haircut.” She twirled me around so she could evaluate all sides. “I like it!”

  “Thank you.” I grabbed a shopping cart and made my way up and down the aisles, grabbing everything I thought a teenage boy would like.

  Daisy looked bewildered as she ran the items through the check out. “Expecting company?”

  “Uh, yes, my father and a friend are supposed to be coming to visit,” I said, proud of myself for thinking quickly.

  “They like Cocoa Puffs and mac and cheese?”

  Ah, life on a small island. “Uh, my son might be coming with them. I just wanted to be safe.” I smiled at the irony. Matthew was an athlete, and he was known to do swing dancing at times. He was very conscious of what he put into his body. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t eaten his share of cheese burgers and, I suspected, he’d indulged in plenty of fish and chips when he was in Scotland over the summer, but I had never seen him eat sugared cereal out of a box.

  Okay, so from now on I had to think like the stealth PI that I was supposed to be and do the bulk of my shopping for a teenager on Gael Island where they still didn’t know me well.

  Just as I was leaving the market, I spotted Penny and Mickey Heggie who had once been Winnie’s dear friends and were now mine. They were the ones who, besides Sasha and Frankie and Ned, had welcomed me to the island and made me feel at home. They’d also made me feel that my Great Aunt Winnie was beloved after all.

  Pen was wearing her trademark plaid wool pants and a lamb’s wool sweater. Mickey, as always, was wearing worn jeans and a rugby jersey. I wondered if I had ever seen him wearing anything but a rugby jersey or if I ever would. He and MacGregor and Charlie would do well together.

  “Jenny! We haven’t seen you in what, a couple weeks?”

  “A bit longer than that,” I conceded, basically admitting that I’d been avoiding The Flower of Scotland where Seth and I had shared so many meals. It had helped that I’d made a quick trip to Connecticut to see Holly before she started college, but apparently my favorite pub was still to be avoided for now.

  “Ah, Seth,” Pen said, reading my mind and hugging me. “If it’s any comfort, he’s been in every day for at least one meal—usually lunch.”

  Ironically, that was no comfort at all. But then Pen did not know what had happened between us. It was not a spat or even a break up, not that we had been going out that long. I had, after all, only met the local newspaper editor shortly after moving to the island in July. But it was a lot more involved than Pen realized. However I could not divulge what had happened to cause us to part ways. It involved others, whose privacy it was important to protect.

  Again, Pen read my mind, or more likely the look of discomfort on my face. “Okay, so do you want me to call you when Seth has come and gone from the pub one evening so you can join us for fish and chips and a Belhaven?”

  “That would be lovely.” But with a boy hiding out in my cottage, I didn’t expect to be eating out much.

  Mickey snapped his fingers, then hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Och! What a daft twit I am! I keep meaning to stop by and fix that broken faucet in your laundry room, Jenny. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to come by later this afternoon. I promise.” His Scottish accent outdid Charlie’s and he had been in America for over forty years.

  “Oh!” I’d completely forgotten about it myself. “That’s okay, Mickey. It’s good.”

  “You fixed it yourself, eh?”

  “Well, uh, yes, I found a book on Winnie’s shelf, all about fixing faucets and everything else.”

  “Sounds like our Winnie,” Pen said fondly.

  As much as I hated lying—especially to friends—what else could I do? Charlie or MacGregor had better be handy with a wrench. Okay, MacGregor had better be. I knew my father’s limitations.

  Mickey helped me load my groceries into the car and opened my door for me. “Thanks you two. It was good to see you.”

  “We miss you, Jenny. Promise you’ll start coming around again soon.”

  “I promise.” Maybe armed with Charlie and MacGregor on either side, I’d feel comfortable going to The Flower of Scotland again. Only that would mean leaving Josh by himself for an evening. Not that he wasn’t used to being alone. Still, he was a young boy and for now he was under my care. Little did I know that when I’d led Charlie and MacGregor on and had let them think that I was harboring a runaway boy instead of a dog, that the very next day it would be true.

  One more stop to make. It would be a quick stop to the artist co-op to put in my application to display and sell my pottery. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

  What was supposed to be a quick stop, considering that I had groceries in the car, ended up taking a half hour. I couldn’t resist looking at the new work by the local artists. I spotted Sasha’s paintings immediately. They were passionate and offbeat, just like the artist. Dante, the potter whom Army had mentioned to me, had a large display of beautiful brightly-colored pots. No wonder he needed more clay. He’d been busy. I recognized Army’s deep voice from across the room. He was picking up some of his pieces that hadn’t sold and replacing them with newer work.

  “I like these,” I told him, pointing to the ones he was removing.

  “I wish some of the islanders did. If this ever becomes more of a tourist island, I might sell some of this stuff.”

  “Have you tried selling them in Seattle?”

  “Just at some of the open-air markets. Haven’t found a gallery that would take them.”

  They were unusual with a combination of glass and clay. Definitely not everyone’s taste. “Did you try the gallery on West Orchard? Not far from downtown? They have more . . . unusual items.”

  “Is it new?” Army asked.

  “It’s been there for about a year. Check it out the next time you’re over there. I think it would be a good fit. Sasha’s uncle who owns the gallery on Gael Island placed some of h
er work there.”

  “Thanks, Jenny. I appreciate it.” He finished putting his new, more conservative work on display. Definitely should sell better to the islanders. “Hey, there’s Jasper,” Army said, nodding toward the back of the shop. “It’s good to see him out.”

  Although I had not seen Jasper Rosenthal for a long time, he looked the same, perhaps a little older. His face wore at least a week’s growth of beard. He was wearing beige slacks, stained with clay and glaze and his shirt was halfway tucked in. I wondered if it was a requirement of artists on the island that they wear sandals. At least they weren’t Birkenstocks like Army and Navy wore through four seasons. He did look thinner than when I’d seen him last. Was it the starving artist syndrome? Surely not with his success. More likely the focused artist syndrome of forgetting to eat.

  “Wow, these are incredible” I said, staring at his work when he went to fetch more from his car. There were only two stone sculptures, each with their clay models, on display. They both told stories as well as any words could do.

  Army nodded as he too studied the extraordinary artwork. “He’s the reason this co-op is still open, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He supports it. When the rest of us are having off periods, his work is still selling. He’s become world renowned.”

  “Has he really?” I wasn’t surprised, not while I was looking at his creations. It was then that I noticed the price tags on his two sculptures. One was priced at $35,000 and the other at $42,000. I gasped and Army chuckled, knowing exactly what I was thinking.

  “Does he sell his models too?” I asked.

  “No. Never. He just displays them so patrons can observe his process.”

  Maybe Jasper was the reason for the additional visitors and tourists to the island over the past few months, as mentioned frequently in the Anamcara Herald’s gossip column which seemed fixated on visitors to the island more than any other topic.