11
T
en minutes before I was due to open the shop on Saturday morning I was arranging a fresh batch of my signature clams in the display case when I heard the doorknob rattling. I looked up to see Raylene Samuels and let out a groan. God, this woman was so unpleasant. I hated to begin my workday with her, but I knew she'd continue to rattle that doorknob until either it fell off or I opened the door. I chose the latter.
“Good morning, Miss Raylene,” I told her while forcing a smile to my face.
“I've yet to discover what's good about it,” she said, following me inside.
“Well, maybe another supply of chocolate clams will perk you up.”
“I seriously doubt that, but I do want a pound.”
No please. No thank you. No manners whatsoever. Yup, Saxton had been right. This woman was a piece of work.
I slipped on a glove and began filling the box when the chimes rang and I looked up to see Mr. Carl walk in.
“'Mornin', Berkley,” he said, a smile covering his face. “And a good morning to you as well, Raylene.”
“If you think so,” she said, not even bothering to cast a glance in his direction.
“Oh, I do,” he told her. “I always say that any morning that I wake up on this side of the grass is a good one.” He chuckled, and I joined him.
I put the seal on the box and looked to see that the sour expression on Raylene's face hadn't softened at all.
“Here you go,” I told her, and repeated my phrase even though I knew that no nice reply would be forthcoming. “I hope you'll enjoy them.”
She passed the cash across the counter, took the box, turned around, and walked out the door.
I stood there shaking my head at Mr. Carl. “You'd think it would be much easier to be nice than nasty,” I told him.
“Oh, I don't think Raylene means to be nasty. It's just her way, ya know. I think that deep down inside . . . why, she might be just as sweet as those chocolates.”
The man was joking, right? Either that or he just liked to see the good in people. Even if they didn't harbor one ounce of it.
Not wanting to get into a discussion on personalities, I shrugged and said, “So what would you like today, Mr. Carl?”
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I had another busy Saturday with both locals and tourists and by the time five o'clock came, I was more than ready to rush upstairs to prepare for my dinner with Saxton.
By six-thirty I'd managed to shower, change into a clean pair of shorts and tee shirt, put together a hamburger casserole that was now in the oven, and mix up a batch of coleslaw. The no-knead bread was tightly wrapped in wax paper waiting to be sliced.
I stood gazing around the living room and let out a deep sigh. Everything in its place. A tray with two wineglasses sat on the coffee table. I'd placed a platter of cheese and crackers beside it. Pillar candles flickered on the end tables and the sound of Enya's mystical Celtic music filled the room. My eyes strayed to the urn on the credenza.
“Yes, Mom,” I said. “We're entertaining tonight, so behave yourself.”
I had walked over to rearrange my cluster of crystals next to the urn when I heard the knock on the door; I opened it to see Saxton standing in the hall holding a bottle of wine in the air.
“For us,” he said, a huge smile covering his handsome face.
“Great, come on in.” I gestured for him to have a seat. “I have the wineglasses right there.”
“Nice place,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room.
“Well, it's a bit small but perfect for me. I have a bedroom, kitchen, and bath, and that's all I need. Dinner will be ready in about a half hour, so you can uncork the wine and we can have a glass,” I said, pointing to the corkscrew next to the wineglasses.
Saxton nodded as he continued to glance around the room. “I see you're a very neat person. You must have thought my place was a dump.”
I laughed. “Well . . . I can't live in clutter, if that's what you mean. I like everything where it belongs.”
Saxton began uncorking the wine. “So you're a rigid kind of woman.”
Rigid? What was that supposed to mean? That was the first time somebody had used that adjective to describe me. “Um . . . no . . . I wouldn't say that exactly.”
Saxton laughed as he filled the glasses. “I didn't mean that in a derogatory way. But you strike me as a woman who doesn't often let her hair down, if you know what I mean.”
I accepted the glass he passed me as I paused to consider this. “Well, I wouldn't say that. And no, I'm not sure what you mean.”
Saxton touched the rim of my glass with his. “Carpe diem. Here's to seizing the moment.”
I nodded and took a sip.
“Do you ever do something
just because?
Just because it strikes your fancy and might be a spontaneous fun thing to do?” he asked.
Sitting beside him on the sofa, I felt a bit of annoyance that what was supposed to be an enjoyable evening was beginning to feel like a session with a shrink.
“Well . . . ah . . . yes,” I replied as I racked my brain to try and recall such an incident. “Moving here. Moving to Cedar Key was pretty spontaneous.”
“Was it?” Saxton asked. “You said you came here mostly to find some answers about your mother. So you actually did have a specific reason for relocating here.”
I thought about this for a few moments. “Yeah, you could be right. But that doesn't mean I'm
rigid.
” All of a sudden that five-letter word sounded nasty to me.
Saxton reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I didn't mean to get you upset. It's just that sometimes it's good to let go, be loose, and enjoy the moment.”
“Oh, you mean like leaving piled-up newspapers around and having shoes and clothes everywhere? Would that make me less rigid?”
Saxton threw his head back as his laughter filled the room. “Touché! That wasn't quite what I had in mind.” He took a sip of wine. “Have you had any luck finding somebody who knew your mother?”
Smart man. Since we were obviously headed toward a tiff, better to change the subject.
I watched him reach for a slice of cheese and shook my head.
“No. I told the women at the knitting group my mom's name, but it didn't seem to ring a bell with anybody.”
“It'll probably just take time for somebody to remember her. This is very important to you, isn't it? Finding out why she came here?”
“It is. Even if I find some answers it won't change anything. I mean, my mother came here, stayed the summer, went back to Salem, and life went on. But I just feel, in here,” I said, tapping my chest, “that I need to know her story. It's like something has been missing all of my life in my relationship with my mother, and maybe by knowing why she left . . . it'll help me to understand better.”
Saxton nodded. “I see what you're saying. And I applaud you for having the strength to do this.”
“Strength?” I said with surprise. “Why would you think it required strength to try and find some answers?”
He took a sip of wine and then let out a deep sigh. “Well, many times the answers aren't pleasant. But you accept this and still, you're willing to forge ahead. That requires strength on your part.”
Okay, so this man had now redeemed himself. He might feel that I'm rigid, but he also complimented me by saying that I had a strength I wasn't at all sure I possessed.
“Thank you,” was all I said as I stood up. “That casserole's ready to come out of the oven. Give me five minutes and we'll be all set to eat.”
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Saxton took the last sip of wine in his glass and then smiled. “That was a delicious dinner, Berkley. Thank you. I really enjoyed all of it, and you're quite the chef.”
I laughed as I stood to remove the dishes from the table. “Not really. Just basic home cooking. Let me get these dishes washed and then we can have dessert and coffee.”
Saxton stood to help and followed me to the sink. “I'll dry,” he said. “Where's your dish towels?”
A man willing to help in the kitchen? He had definitely redeemed himself.
“Oh, right there,” I said, pointing to the closet. “Third shelf on the left.” I heard him chuckle and turned around. “Something wrong?”
“No. Not at all.” He had opened the closet door and stood staring inside.
My sight took in what he was seeing. Each shelf perfectly arranged with dishcloths, dish towels, tablecloths, linen napkinsâeach item perfectly folded, lined up, according to color and size.
I joined his chuckling. “Hmm, you mean to tell me that your linen closet doesn't look like that?”
In answer he came toward me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me. “You're special,” he said. “Very, very special.”
“And you,” I whispered, “are a very good kisser. Very, very good.”
Following the kitchen cleanup and a slice of my almond cake, we were sitting next to each other on the sofa enjoying our coffee.
“This was nice,” Saxton said. “Not just the dinnerâbut being with you. I enjoy your company.”
I smiled and shifted to better see his face. “Thank you, and I like being with you too.”
“I've been thinking,” he said as I saw his expression grow serious. “I've been giving some thought to maybe contacting my daughter.”
I remained silent to allow him time to continue.
He took a sip of coffee. “Resa probably doesn't even want to bother with me. Why would she? It's been thirty years, and not only did I make no attempt to contact her, I willingly allowed her to be adopted by Muriel's husband.”
“You thought you were doing the best thing,” I said softly.
He nodded. “True. But many times a child doesn't see it that way. She easily also could have considered it a rejection.”
He was right. Didn't I still feel a nagging sense of abandonment because my mother had left me with my grandmother that summer?
“So, I don't know,” he said. “I'm having mixed feelings about contacting her, I guess. How would you feel? What if your father hadn't been killed in Vietnam and he now tried to contact you?”
I blew out a breath of air. “Wow, I've never once considered that scenario. Well . . . ah . . . yes, I think I'd like to get to know him. You know, find out if we had any similar interests, did we look alike, that sort of thing.”
“Really?” He stood up and smiled. “That's good to know. So you're saying that you'd probably forgive him for being out of touch for so many years?”
I stood up and reached for the coffee mugs to head to the kitchen. “Well, I'm not sure about forgiving. That can be a difficult thing to achieve sometimes, but yeah, I do think I'd like the opportunity to at least meet him and try to get to know him.”
Saxton nodded. “Right. And maybe the forgiveness would follow.”
“Another cup of coffee?” I asked.
“That would be great. Excellent coffee, by the way.”
I smiled as I poured two more cups. “I grind my own beans,” I told him as I walked back into the living room.
Saxton laughed. “I should have known. What's this?” he asked, pointing to a circular stained glass piece hanging on my wall. “It's a Wheel of the Year, isn't it?” Removing a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, he walked closer to get a better look.
“I'm surprised that you know what it is,” I said, coming to stand behind him and passing him the mug of coffee.
“You seem to forgetâI'm from England. Where Wicca was popularized in the 1950s and early 60s. This is an exceptionally nice piece.”
I looked at the vibrant shades of blue, gold, green, and other colors depicting the annual cycle of the earth's seasons.
“It belonged to my mother. Except for me, it was one of the few things she brought back from being a student at Berkeley.”
“I once wrote a mystery novel about a stolen Wheel of the Year, so I did quite a bit of research about them. As I recall, these are the eight festivals throughout the year referred to as Sabbats. I believe that term originated from Judaism and Christianity and is of Hebrew origin.”
“That's right,” I said, impressed with his knowledge. “The festivals themselves have historical origins in Celtic and Germanic pre-Christian feasts.”
Saxton reached out a finger to touch the midsummer part of the wheel where
June 19â23
was etched into the glass. “The time of year that I came to earth,” he said quietly.