As Waters Gone By Page 13

  With the flooring done, Emmalyn could start moving things in. The one small appliance already unpacked and plugged in—the coffeemaker—produced another layer of fresh fragrances to the cottage when Emmalyn brewed her first cup of coffee in her still-empty cottage. She took her mug to the porch. Dog followed. The wicker rockers needed new cushions someday soon. Or in the spring. How many more days would the weather allow her to sit in what had become her favorite spot? An unseasonably warm fall, they’d called it.

  From her jeans pocket, she pulled a letter she’d been working on for days.

  Dear Max,

  I was wrong to listen to you. I was wrong about a lot of things, but I shouldn’t have listened to you when you asked me to stop writing and not visit. Because you didn’t follow through with the divorce, I assume that means you’ve entertained at least a faint hope we can work this out. Mine hasn’t been as strong as it should have been. And of all times for me to listen to you, I picked the worst. Or maybe the best. My pain did a lot of the talking in the early months of your incarceration.

  She reread the description of the changes she’d made to the cottage, the people she’d met on the island, the sunrises and sunsets she’d witnessed, the smell of damp sand and sun-bleached sea grass, the baritone voice of the water coming in and soprano voice of it pulling back out to sea, its rubato rhythm . . .

  Dog nuzzled under her left arm and found a suitable position on her lap.

  I have a dog.

  She scratched out the “I.”

  We have a dog. It needs a name. Do you remember when I catered the gala for that international adoption agency? The memory of the regal woman who served as the contact person for the agency stayed with me all this time. Remember how she dressed in those elegant African gowns and headdresses? The yellow and purple kente cloth? When I asked the story behind her beautiful name, she told me her mother had four miscarriages before she was born, and a stillborn son not long before becoming pregnant with her. Her mother named her ‘Comfort,’ because the child comforted her mother in a time of deep grief. I’ve never forgotten her. I thought our stories intersected at the miscarriages. Now I see it was a different place altogether. Longing. And comfort.

  Our dog’s name is Comfort. I hope that’s okay with you.

  “And you,” she said, scratching behind Comfort’s ears.

  I know time has run out for us to consider trying again to have a child of our own. But I don’t think it’s any accident that I was introduced to a woman named Comfort through the gala for international adoption. Maybe we can talk about adopting or fostering when you come home. I know I was the one who stood my ground against those ideas. Vehemently, at times. I’m seeing things differently now . . . on many fronts. We have a lot to talk about.

  She paused, considering her final words. Nothing fit except:

  I miss you. I’m waiting here for you.

  Love,

  Emmalyn

  Courage helped her slide the note into the waiting envelope. Courage licked the envelope and sealed it.

  Courage was going to need a battalion of helpers to get Emmalyn to slip it through the “Outgoing Mail” slot at the post office.

  “Time for me to make a couple of calls to get the furniture delivered, Comfort.”

  The dog tilted its head toward her, but didn’t move. Emmalyn could almost hear a dog version of “Go ahead. You won’t bother me.”

  The beds for the master bedroom and spare room would be delivered the next afternoon from the store in Duluth. If Mr. Stockton could barter for the use of his brother’s retired UHaul, Emmalyn’s purchases could arrive in the morning. The couch and chairs she’d ordered online were scheduled for Friday delivery as well. She could be moved in and sleeping under her own roof before the weekend was over.

  Just in time to prep for the arrival of her mother and sisters.

  12

  How many inn guests drag their feet when it’s time to say goodbye to the innkeeper? Especially when the move is to a spot a couple of miles up the road? Bougie volunteered Pirate Joe to assist Nick with the manual labor of the move, but Emmalyn and Bougie had to say their good-byes at the threshold of The Wild Iris.

  “I owe you so much.”

  “It’ll all even out once you start working here.”

  “Bougie, like I said, I’m not looking—”

  “For a job. I know. But you will. And it’ll be waiting for you.”

  Emmalyn cocked an eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” Bougie said, “I’ve completely conquered my feelings of inferiority over your talents, M. You’d be a welcome addition here.”

  “I’d like to give the online cooking classes a try first. I just have to find a way to earn a living from them.”

  Bougie clapped her fisted hands together. “You can use the Wild Iris kitchen if you need photos, too. You have to have photos.”

  “Instead,”—Emmalyn sliced her words evenly—“what would you think about classes called The Cottage Cook? Making meals with more creativity than kitchen space?”

  “I love it,” Bougie said, elongating the L. “Are you thinking of selling ad space? Oh!”

  “What?”

  “Listen to us! We can talk business some other time. Right now you need to get out to the cottage before the furniture starts arriving. I told the men to meet you out there at eight.”

  “Thank you. The words sound so terribly inadequate.”

  “I’ll see if I can pull free to deliver lunch to your work crew myself. Otherwise, I’ll send it out with someone headed that way.”

  Emmalyn’s throat tightened at the overflow of Bougie’s generosity. “See you . . . soon, then.”

  “Soon.”

  * * *

  By seven o’clock that night, Emmalyn had a fire going in the fireplace. Of necessity. A cold front smacked an icy palm against the island. The south-facing cottage fared better than some others, no doubt. But the cold wind that wove its way through the pines and hardwoods at the cottage’s backside did an efficient job of cooling things off after the flurry of moving in. Too efficient.

  The finishing touches would need several rounds of rearranging. She’d allow herself a grace period. For now, it was enough to have a chair turned to offer her the warmth of the fire and a view of Lake Superior at the same time. Comfort twirled in circles before taking up her position near the hearth. With three small table lamps lit around the main living area, and the fire’s light, Emmalyn surveyed the transformation in its most charming evening attire.

  She sank deeper into the chair and grabbed a chenille throw from the arm of the couch to cocoon herself and her tired muscles. The beds needed linens. After coffee. And a moment of inactivity.

  Every window on the main floor rattled with the wind gusts. The bedroom windows had been replaced a few years ago when the small deck outside the master bedroom had been added and the French doors installed. When she could afford it, she’d have to replace the windows on the first floor.

  She’d resisted turning on the electric heat. Living in Wisconsin, though not this far north, had taught her the tenacity of winter. An affordable source of firewood—beyond what Cranky had left her—topped the new list she’d started.

  Comfort’s presence had all but eradicated the last of the squatter mice. It was pointless to think about keeping a free-spirited dog. Emmalyn vowed to be grateful however long the animal chose to stay. The dog food she put out wasn’t a bribe. No, not at all.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Comfort.”

  The dog lifted her head, bright eyes all the brighter in the firelight. She already responded to her new name. Good sign. When Emmalyn didn’t say more, Comfort tucked her muzzle under her furry shoulder and resettled.

  Emmalyn hadn’t used the word love often in the past five years. But she did love how the cottage had turned out. Simple. Clean. Cozy in its best meaning.

  Robin’s egg touches broke up the soft white, but with a gentle hand. The beadboard backsplash in the kitchen. The
aqua canning jars on the shelf above the sink. The robin’s egg satin ribbon circling the nubby muslin pillow on the cream couch. On the second floor, celery played the part of the robin’s egg blue.

  A designer’s version of shabby chic could read feminine. She hoped she’d pulled off shabby chic in a way that wouldn’t make Max uncomfortable when he—

  She reined in her thoughts. She still hadn’t heard from him. The temp of the coffee faded as fast as the dusk beyond the windows. Cloudy tonight. The skylight wouldn’t offer a star show or trace the path of the moon. Would she see anything through those massive windows in the bedroom?

  She envisioned Max attempting to ascend the narrow stairs while she descended. Someone would have to move. Someone would have to break rank and do the right thing. Yield to the other.

  A log spit and collapsed into the embers underneath it. One of Comfort’s ears twitched. Emmalyn debated between putting another log on the fire and warming up leftovers for supper before it got any later. The trunk serving as a coffee table and ottoman worked well as additional storage. But as she removed her feet from where they’d rested, she wondered if she’d need to pad the top. Her heels ached. An upholstered ottoman wouldn’t fit in the space. The trunk would have to do double or triple duty. A removable cushion for the top would help.

  The cottage’s diminutive size forced a reduction of clutter. The reduction of clutter forced an air of serenity reminiscent of the way she felt when Bougie first opened the door to Random Room 37 at The Wild Iris Inn.

  What was she missing? Nothing of significance. She wasn’t sure a trip to the storage unit in Lexington was necessary. She had everything she needed.

  Everything not human.

  God, I never wanted to be alone.

  * * *

  The rain started as Emmalyn picked up her Letters to Max journal and her favorite gel pen. The rain stopped before she’d written a word. What was there to say?

  Lightning flashed. No, not lightning. Lights. Car lights illuminating the driveway side of the cottage. She crossed the room and peeked through the side window, but whoever it was had reached the back door already and was knocking.

  Emmalyn’s watchdog looked up as if to say, “You got this? Good. I’m not done with my nap.”

  “Big help you are.” Cuteness covered a lot of faults in the dog world, she guessed.

  “M? It’s us.”

  Us? Multiples? Sounded like Bougie. Emmalyn took another glance around the room as she neared the back entrance. Ready for company? Ready for nonjudgmental friends? Definitely.

  “Bougie. Cora. Come on in. Oh, don’t worry about your shoes.”

  Bougie held up a pair of embroidered Thai slippers. “We come prepared. All you need is two wayfarers dragging in wet leaves and sand after all your hard—Oh!” She angled past Emmalyn into the kitchen. “Oh, I adore this! I’ve heard you talk about what you were doing, but I couldn’t imagine how it would all turn out.”

  Cora followed close on her heels. “Nice. Love the flooring.” She winked at Emmalyn.

  “Nick did the painting?” Bougie asked.

  “I did some of the trim work, but most of this is his doing.”

  Bougie surveyed the great room. “He does beautiful work.”

  Cora seemed almost embarrassingly proud of her son. For good reason. The ankle monitor did not represent who he really was as a person, the potential of who he was becoming.

  Emmalyn’s thoughts drifted many miles away to a prison cell echoing the same truth.

  “Come, sit down. Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?”

  Bougie nodded toward Cora, who toted a massive covered basket. “We brought treats. Some for now. Some for later.” Cora deposited the basket on the kitchen island and the two women unpacked it. “House christening apple cider. I recommend we have it hot tonight. Baked brie with apricot jam.”

  “Yum,” Cora said.

  “Fruit, because . . . ” Bougie paused. “You know. Healthy and all that.”

  Joy germinated from a seed no bigger than a flake of pepper, then grew as the women—her friends—expounded on the merits of each item they’d brought. Cora’s homemade caramel corn. Kitchen towels. Had Nick taken them a color swatch of the pale aqua-blue paint on the backsplash? How else would they have been able to match it that closely? A collection of Lake Superior rocks in a glass cylinder—each one inscribed with a wish for her: peace, serenity, joy, grace, hope, comfort.

  A white stone with your new name written on it, Comfort. Fun.

  She picked through the stones, reading the one-word messages, imagining the exercise becoming part of her morning routine in this new chapter of her life: delight, embrace, blessing, courage, endurance, renewal, breathe, ask, seek, knock, bow, kneel, rise, rejoice . . .

  And a mottled gray stone some local stonecutter had engraved with Max’s name. The letters blurred before her, smeared by the saltwater pooling in her eyes.

  “We brought bacon, too, if that helps your mood.”

  Bougie shot Cora a withering look, then pressed her fingertips to her lips as if she’d been the one to mention bacon.

  The moment christened the cottage with tears and a laughter chaser. “Smoked meat,” Emmalyn said between gasps, “fixes everything.”

  “The food world’s duct tape,” Cora added.

  Bougie planted her palms on her thighs, took several deep breaths, then stood upright with renewed decorum. Admirable. She dug into the basket and removed a cloth drawstring bag. “See what you think of these, M.”

  The bag was heavier than Emmalyn expected. She opened the drawstring, peeked in, then poured some of the contents in her hand. “Bougie! These are stunning.” In her hand lay a half dozen pale celery-green glass drawer pulls. Antique or flawless reproductions.

  “I have the same design in doorknob sets, too.” She pulled another larger bag from the basket. “If you’re interested.”

  “Perfect for upstairs. How did you—?” What was the point of asking? They’d found ways to discover what she needed, what would bless her. “Where did you get these?”

  “Would you believe the Dollar Store?” Cora opened the container of caramel corn and offered it to the other two women.

  Bougie’s smile sparkled with the same reflections of light that danced in the heart of the glass doorknobs. “Not the Dollar Store. Welcome home, M.”

  Had Emmalyn put that much thought into her friendships over the years? She was . . . What word captured how she was feeling? Blessed.

  Indebted.

  “Hey, Dog!” Cora headed toward the fireplace. “I heard you moved in. How are you doing, little one?”

  “Her name’s Comfort,” Emmalyn said.

  “Well, little Miss Comfort is making it clear she needs to go out. I’ll take her, if you want me to.”

  Emmalyn’s shopping list grew as quickly as her tasks list. “I don’t have a leash for her. Yet.”

  “Not a problem,” Cora said, opening the lakeside door. “I don’t think a leash makes much of a difference for this one anyway. Comes and goes as she pleases.”

  “I’ve heard that about her.”

  “We’ll be back in a few.”

  Bougie had apple cider heating in a pot on the stove already.

  “We need to settle my bill, Bougie. And there’s something else. It’s a good time to talk about these two things with Cora out of range.”

  Her presence filled Emmalyn’s kitchen with a soft but intense light. Bougie said, “Let’s start with the ‘something else.’ ”

  Emmalyn could stammer or she could come out with it. “What makes you so skilled at loving people you barely know?”

  “Not what,” she said, taking a deep breath over the pot of cider. “Who. Next question?”

  A sound like a breeze through birch leaves made her wonder if that were heaven laughing. She wished . . .

  She wished Bougie had been born to her.

  “Next question?” Bougie repeated.

  “How much
do I actually owe you? Be honest. How much?”

  “I’m always honest. Spoon?” Bougie pulled open one drawer after another.

  “Here. In the island.”

  “I haven’t been avoiding giving you your bill any more than you’ve avoided the topic of working for me. Two issues more closely related than you imagine.”

  Emmalyn leaned against the island. “You were serious?”

  “When have I ever not been serious? Don’t answer that. Yes, I’m serious. We have a good thing going at The Wild Iris.”

  “You do.” Emmalyn sampled the caramel corn as she listened.

  “I could use your help trimming our menu, making it fresher, more appealing. I don’t know, maybe we need an off-season menu that looks appreciably different from our high-season menu. Return customers are getting bored with our—”

  “Bougie.” Emmalyn studied her friend’s face. “More appealing? Are you kidding?”

  “I’m not a chef, or a professional caterer, like you.”

  “Years ago.”

  “I’m looking for an assistant manager, someone with the knowledge to help make menu decisions, an eye for style, willing to pitch in wherever needed, and with a heart for . . . ” She paused.

  “With a heart for what?”

  Bougie set the spoon aside and turned to face Emmalyn. She clasped her hands low in front of her. “For people the world writes off.”

  The Pirate Joes of the world? The Nicks? The people like Max? Her heart for them was grossly undersized. Bougie didn’t know what she was asking. “I don’t know . . . ”

  Bougie raised her clenched hands to a spot under her chin. “Someone like you. You’d be an answer to prayer.”

  There’s a first for everything.

  “You’ll probably want to try it out for a while, see if it’s a good fit for your talents. Six weeks, maybe? That would more than work off your bill for housing and meals.”

  Emmalyn chuckled. “It would not. Unless you expect me to work around the clock.”

  “Three days a week. Our busy days. We could figure that out. And you could still work on The Cottage Cook.”

  “You do know this is completely unfair to you. I probably owe you a couple thousand dollars.”