Winnie's Web Page 6

  “Maybe we could persuade her to take a trip.”

  “Not a bad idea. She’s always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

  “But will she go alone? And for however long it will take for this business with the skeleton to blow over.”

  “I don’t know, but it’s definitely worth a try. I’ll talk to her tonight.”

  “Good. Let me know how she reacts.”

  “I will. I just wish—”

  “I know. Why did that woman ever come to this island?”

  That woman. Did they mean Winnie or me?

  “And now that niece of hers is here, sure enough stirring up more trouble. That family certainly loves scandal.”

  Stirring up trouble? Finding a skeleton on my property wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.

  “Well, if I have my way, she’ll be feeling so unwelcome here that it will only be days before she leaves and never returns.”

  “Make that minutes!”

  I heard footsteps, going in opposite directions. When it was silent for a couple long deep breaths, I peeked out from behind my newspaper. So they were worried about someone. Who? And why didn’t they want her knowing about the skeleton in my backyard? Or seeing my aunt’s name in print?

  Now I was more determined than ever to find some answers. But short of buying a wig and some dark glasses, I didn’t know how I was going to continue eavesdropping on the two women on this island who wanted to get rid of me the most.

  I was relieved to get back to the cottage. Enough eavesdropping for one day. I was feeling more than a little vulnerable. Usually I was thicker skinned than this. I supposed that having gone through a recent divorce made me more sensitive than usual.

  I built a fire, lit some beeswax candles, brewed a cup of homemade blackberry and mint tea, and curled up in the overstuffed chair with the wonderful lavender and pink lap blanket Aunt Winnie had knitted for me.

  “Is it time?” I asked Winnie, rather Winnie’s ashes. “Do you want your ashes to be spread yet?” No sign. No chills. I would wait.

  When I finished my tea, I took a walk over to the lighthouse. It was a rustic old one, grand in its day, I was sure. Built many years ago, in the late eighteen hundreds, I think Winnie had told me. It wasn’t a public lighthouse. The man who owned most of the island at the time had built it. He’d seen too many accidents in the Strait. He wanted to protect the boats and guide them safely to shore. But after he died, no one had kept the lighthouse going. And eventually a more modern one had been erected further north on the point that jutted out into the Strait.

  I hadn’t been inside Winnie’s lighthouse for years. I pushed open the old wooden door and entered the cold room that sat empty but for a chair and a pile of old rope. I expected cobwebs but there were none. I wondered if Winnie had looked after the lighthouse. How could she when she was ill? Perhaps she had hired someone.

  I turned on the light so I could find my way to the stairs. I climbed them slowly, expecting a critter or two to come flying out at me. I was not disappointed that there were none. When I reached the top of the stairs, there was the Fresnel light, still intact, staring out at the sea. I slid my hand across the lever, archaic now. When had it last been touched, I wondered. I looked in the direction that it once shone. How many years had it been here? How many stories could it tell? And why in the blazes did it look as though a custodian had washed its windows and waxed its floors only days before?

  I found my way down the spiral staircase and headed back along the stone path to the house. I wasn’t afraid, really. I just suddenly felt odd. Someone’s energy was very strong here, and it wasn’t mine or my aunt’s. I forced myself to stop and look up at the lighthouse. Then I closed my eyes. It was not hostile energy. I just would have liked to know whose it was.

  As I reached the house, a small pickup truck came ambling up the driveway. It stopped at the mailbox and shoved a newspaper into the holder beside it.

  “But I don’t subscribe—” I told the boy who was barely driving age.

  “The boss put you on my route. Said I should comp you.”

  The boss? Seth? He actually wanted me reading his newspaper. I stoked the fire, and settled down with a fresh cup of tea—jasmine this time—and Seth’s newspaper. My third day on the island and my third newspaper. Hopefully I would find something to read that would make me feel better than the two previous papers had.

  I did. There was absolutely no mention of bones, skeletons, rose gardens, dead lovers or gardeners. Not only that, but there was a feature article about some boat bandits who were hitting the islands, untying boats from private docks. It was an amusing article, especially since it was three times longer than it needed to be. The editor had even gone so far as to include all the similar incidents over the past fifty years. It would have been dreadfully boring, in fact, but for the touches of humor that seemed to come easily to Seth’s writing. I couldn’t help wondering if he had embellished the story several times over in order to take minds off other matters, such as dead bodies discovered in rose gardens.

  When I finished reading the newspaper, I opened the old hatbox filled with letters and diaries. How different the penmanship of that era was from today’s handwriting styles, yet all the letters bore a resemblance to one another, although written by different people. It must have been the result of grammar school lessons in penmanship or perhaps the result of using fountain pens as dictated by the era. Handwriting today lacked the grace and patience of yesteryear’s, no doubt due to the frantic and impatient pace of our lives and the creation of computers.

  The letter I pulled out was on white linen paper. I immediately assumed it was written by a man. It had that look about it like a starched linen shirt.

  Dear Winnie,

  I have but a moment to post this letter so it shall be brief. She has asked me to write. She has no way of writing to you herself. She has been locked in her room for days, but plans an escape tonight. I hope this letter arrives before she does, so that you will be prepared.

  She is coming to you directly. By train, then boat. I believe she shall arrive by week’s end. Please don’t judge her harshly. Silly of me to say that. I know you never would.

  With love and gratitude,

  N.

  What an intriguing life my aunt had lived. The letter had no date and no signature. Only an “N.” I looked at the envelope. A faded name. N. MacBride. I had no way of knowing if it was written by a man as I had originally guessed. After having read it, I did not think so. But the author of the letter was not of as much interest to me as was the person who came to see Winnie—if she did indeed escape that night.

  I read a few more letters, not nearly as interesting, with no mention of anyone with the initial N. I laughed at my disappointment. You’d think I was reading a mystery with some of the pages torn out.

  The telephone rang, startling me. I was either going to have to get a new phone or figure out how to soften the ringer on this one.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Holly! How are you, honey?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Not so okay, hunh?”

  “Not really. I mean, the classes are good. But I’m kind of, you know—”

  “Homesick?”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you want to come home after your dance workshop, before your first semester?”

  It was quiet for a minute, then she said with one of those sarcastic laughs, “Home?”

  “Oh.” Of course. The only home she had ever known was being sold out from under her. “I’m sorry, Holly. It must be hard for you to imagine coming home to a different house.”

  “I don’t even know where Dad lives. It’s so strange. I can’t picture my own father at home. Not that I’d want to.”

  The hostility in her voice gave me some sense of satisfaction. But my more compassionate side remembered that this was her father we were talking about. This was devastating for her.

  “He loves you, Holly, you
know that.”

  “I guess. But how—?”

  “Relationships are complex, honey. It’s never just one person to blame for something.”

  “You mean, you don’t blame him?”

  How was I supposed to answer that? “It’s not so much about blame. It’s more about realizing that someone is not the person you thought they were, and that you no longer belong with them.”

  She laughed. “Good try, Mom.”

  I laughed. It was good to hear us laughing.

  “I really don’t want this to harm your relationship with your father. He is a good father.” That was true. I could give him that much. “Just give it a while, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And in the meantime, if you want to come here, you know you’re always welcome. Winnie’s cottage was always like home to us, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it was. And I will. But I feel like I should stick this session out. There’s only a week left. And it cost enough.”

  “But that’s not as important—”

  “Thanks, Mom. But I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad Charlie was the one to tell me though.”

  “Me too.” I knew that if I had, she might have thought I was distorting things to make her father look bad. After all, she had always taken her father’s side over the years. Yet I knew if she’d heard it from Joe, it would have damaged their relationship even more. “Have you talked to your father yet?”

  “No. He’s called, left messages, but—”

  “You’ll call him when you’re ready.”

  “Yeah. I’d better go. It’s getting late and I need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Charlie kept you up partying, eh?” Too late I realized that was a stupid thing to say.

  “No, not partying. It was nice to have him here, only it did make me miss you more.”

  “You know you can call anytime you feel like it.”

  “I will. Good-night, Mom.”

  “Good-night, sweet girl. I love you.”

  I knew what she meant. As soon as I hung up the phone, I missed her more than ever.

  * * *

  The next morning Sam and his crew arrived bright and early. He must have known Frankie and Sasha had stopped by with French roast coffee and lemon muffins. Knowing the Anamcara grapevine, he probably had heard it from someone in line behind them at the bakery.

  He had two men outside taking samples from the dirt. When Sam invited himself inside and joined the three of us for coffee and a muffin, I was pretty sure it was an excuse to be around Frankie.

  “Why doesn’t the man just ask you out?” I asked Frankie after Sam had reluctantly left with his impatient crew.

  “Too scared,” Sasha offered.

  “Seriously?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Look at it this way, if he doesn’t ask her out, he can keep dreaming about asking her out. If he does and she says no, the dream is destroyed,” Sasha explained. “I suppose there’s some logic in that. So, how do you feel about him, Frankie?”

  She shrugged.

  “Mildly interested,” Sasha interpreted. “If she doesn’t go out with Nigel first.”

  “Nigel?” I asked when Frankie punched Sasha in the arm.

  “This old man I met a couple weeks ago. Sweet guy.”

  “Yeah, she has a thing for these older men,” Sasha teased.

  “Do not. He was just friendly, that’s all—unusual around here. So when I see him in town, we talk, that’s all.”

  “About what?” Sasha asked.

  Frankie took off her baseball cap and ran her fingers through her long black hair before putting the cap back in place. For the Pacific Northwest, this was a hot day. “Nothing. Anything. My work mostly. I like talking to him. He’s interested in anything I have to say. I think he’s lonely. He’s gotta be in his eighties!”

  “Nigel, you said?” Wasn’t that the name Pen had told me belonged to the man at the bar who had smiled at me?

  Frankie nodded. “You know him?”

  “That’s the name of the gentleman who smiles at me on occasion.” What were the odds of finding two Nigels on this island—two friendly Nigels. Maybe he had a thing for younger women.

  “So, back to the original subject—are you interested enough to go out with Sam?” I asked.

  “If he asks.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “You think I’d go out with a man who’s too scared to ask me out?”

  Sounded like a Catch 22 to me. At the rate it was moving, this romance could last a long time.

  “Speaking of going out,” Frankie said. “We heard you’re going out with Seth tonight.”

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Anamcara grapevine,” Sasha said.

  “I can’t believe he would blab—”

  “Don’t assume he did. All it takes is one ear to overhear a conversation and the whole island knows,” Sasha said.

  Right. Silly me. “Where did you hear it?” I asked.

  “Frankie.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  Frankie finished off her lemon muffin, washed it down with a gulp of black coffee, and said, “If my memory is accurate—Roxie who heard it from Max who heard it from Myrtle who heard it from Seth’s assistant who heard it from his brother who works at the cafe next to the newspaper office.”

  “Truly amazing this town is.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” Sasha said, “And no doubt decide to become a hermit by the end of the month.”

  Chapter 7

  I arrived at the pub at 7:18. Seven would have made me appear anxious. Seven fifteen would have made me appear calculatedly late. Seven eighteen was just right.

  He was sitting at the bar, sipping a pint and chatting with Pen. He was handsome. Despite the fact that he had blue eyes. And he was blond. I preferred brunettes. And anything but blue eyes on men. But his hair was thick and more a dirty blond. My guess was, he was close to six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Muscular. Early forties maybe? And he did have a square jaw line that said he was a man of character—at least I had read that somewhere. I hoped it wasn’t in some romantic novel.

  He had changed for the occasion. Not that I had really noticed what he was wearing that afternoon. A different pair of jeans, darker blue than the ones he was wearing earlier. And a corduroy sports jacket instead of the fisherman’s knit sweater.

  We must have been thinking the same thing. I too had changed from my jeans and fisherman’s knit sweater into a pair of brown cords, a brown turtleneck and a tan Pringle cardigan. If we’d both shown up dressed as we’d been earlier, it might have appeared as if we’d purposely coordinated outfits.

  He turned when Pen looked up at me. “You came,” he said, with only a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “I was hungry. Craving shepherd’s pie actually.”

  “Mmhm.”

  I climbed onto the barstool beside him before he could suggest we get a table. I liked having company and the bar would guarantee that.

  “Hello, dear, a Belhaven?” Pen asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “Mickey! Come here a minute, would you?” Pen called out.

  Her husband left the end of the bar where he was chatting and came over to stand beside her. He was wearing well worn jeans and a frayed maroon colored rugby jersey. Gala Shiels Rugby Club as I recalled from one of Charlie’s old rugby magazines. He was grinning, his cheeks round and ruddy like an overgrown kid’s.

  “You must be Jenny?” I was right. He was definitely the Scotsman in the family. His accent outdid Charlie’s, and calculating the information Pen had given me, he had been in this country for at least thirty years.

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” I reached over the counter and shook his hand.

  “Lovely to meet you, Jenny. If you need anything, you just ring us here at the pub.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that.”


  “Would you prefer a table?” Seth asked when Pen went to fetch my beer and Mickey took our dinner order to the kitchen.

  “This is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Mmm.”

  After a few seconds of silence that felt like minutes, I said, “Interesting article in yesterday’s paper.”

  He laughed. “Ah, yes, the troublesome boat bandits.”

  “For a moment there, I thought it might have been intended as a distraction from the mysterious skeleton.”

  “Could have been.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Can’t please everyone all the time.”

  “Especially on this island.”

  “Maybe pleasing yourself would be more productive?” Reverend McNair back in full swing.

  He sighed and took a long sip of his beer. “After a while, we forget how, I think.”

  “Unless we work at it.”

  “Sounds like a full time job to me.” He climbed off his stool. “Speaking of pleasing oneself. Come on, let’s get a table. I think it would be more comfortable.”

  Me and my preachy mouth. Reluctantly I climbed down from my barstool and followed him and the two beers he was carrying to the table by the fire. I had to admit, it was more comfortable. But I did like the protective shield of Pen and Mickey’s company, to say nothing of having to eat a meal facing the man. At the bar I was facing myself in the mirror. Not my favorite choice, but better than chomping on food, face to face with Seth Williams. When I took my first bite of salad and felt a chunk of lettuce wriggle its way between my two front teeth and up to my gum line, I knew I had wanted to stay at the bar for a reason.

  “So, what made you decide to move to the island?” Seth asked.

  I had to open my mouth to answer. I swallowed my food, grabbed my mug and gulped down some beer, praying that it would wash away the wayward lettuce. He didn’t grimace when I spoke, so I figured it must have.

  “I needed a change.”

  “From?”

  “Seattle.”

  He nodded. He wasn’t buying it. He was a newspaperman, not unlike a detective in his observation of people.

  “And you? How long have you lived here?” Change the subject when all else fails.