My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (8 page)

“And where do you play?”

“Costa Rica, the Bahamas, someplace warm usually.”

“No school?” I was mothering.
Stop it, Cammy.

“I went for two years. I’m taking a break.”

“A break is good,” I said, trying to sound supportive of Jeremy’s choices as if he cared what I thought.

Paul wanted to take a break after his junior year of college, but Race encouraged him to finish and take a break after graduation. Race has this way of getting his son and daughter to consider their options from all angles, until they finally settled on his angle. Sounds controlling, but I appreciated how Race took the time to impart wisdom to our children. I had always thought Race was wise, which made his destruction of our family even more confusing.

When I say he encouraged Paul, what he did was play a little game I like to call, Have You Thought About? I, on the other hand, tend to preface my parent-child discussions with statements like, “I just hope…,” “I can’t believe…,” and “Why would you…?" Not nearly as effective I’ve found.

After Race talked to Paul, and Paul thought about it, he did finish school but then he did not take a break after graduation; instead, he took a research job and began working on his Master’s degree, which for our free-spirited son was quite a commitment.

When we left the inn that first morning on St. Gabriel, we were greeted by a petite older woman at the sidewalk. She was riding a bright red three-wheeled bike with a large metal basket mounted behind the seat that was filled with flowers. With the joy of a little girl at play, she was about to cruise on by until she saw us walking down the path from the inn, and then she hit the brakes.

“Hi, I’m Lucy.” She grinned and her blue eyes sparkled on her delicate little face that had just the right number of soft creases. Lucy wore a blue and red calico print dress with white bobby socks and Nikes. On her head sat a wide-brimmed straw hat that looked as old as she was; it was pulled down over a waist-length gray and blonde braid of hair.

“Hi, Lucy, I’m Cammy and this is Sandi, Marni, and Loretta. How are you?”

Lucy reached behind her and swept her hand over some pink blooms. “The peonies are pretty today.”

“That’s good. Do you grow all these?” I asked.

She opened her eyes wide and nodded.

“On the island?”

“Uh huh.”

“They’re beautiful, Lucy.”

She walked around to the back of her bike. “Do you want to buy some?”

“Why, yes, we do. Don’t we ladies?” I looked at the girls and nodded.

“I know I want some flowers,” answered Marni.

“Me too,” added Sandi.

Lucy got us all fixed up. As she drove away whistling, Loretta asked me, “What are we going to do with these?”

“Take them upstairs and put them in water. Come on, it’ll only take a minute.”

Twenty minutes later, we had four ice buckets overflowing with Lucy’s island grown flowers and they were fabulous. Our next attempt to leave The Willows Inn took us all the way to the center of Main Street. The first order of the day was to check out the shops. Sandi immediately took to the task of buying something for all of her children and grandchildren who were sucking the life out of her.

We found a dozen different headscarves for Marni, solids and prints in every imaginable color. Dawn turned her nose up at every shop we went in, until we found a little boutique that carried Chanel handbags.

Loretta bought us all matching zippered sweat jackets that Dawn would never be caught dead in. They were white with St. Gabriel appliquéd across the front, the letters cut from a calico print jersey. Mine is currently hanging in my closet among my favorite jackets.

I lost an hour wandering around Harper’s Antiques, which was more of a museum than a retail operation.
Not for Sale
was tagged on at least half of the merchandise. When I asked Trudy Harper, the older woman behind the counter why, she answered, “Because it’s not for sale.” Well, of course, how silly of me for asking. I did find a box of vintage postcards of the island that actually had a price on it. I bought the cards and a little metal picture frame with bubble glass.

Marni had learned that you could not only go for a buggy ride around the island, but you could rent one and drive it yourself. And she couldn’t wait to get to the Island Livery Stables. While we were shopping, she would ask one of us, every ten minutes or so, “Are you ready to go for a buggy ride?”

Dawn’s response was, “Why would we want to spend the afternoon riding around behind the butt of a horse?”

“It’ll be fun.” Marni wasn’t deterred by Dawn’s lack of enthusiasm.

When we got to the stables, Dawn got quiet until we were about to climb into the buggy and then she asked Charlie, the stable guy, “Couldn’t it just run off, out of control?”

“No, ma’am, the horses are trained. They either do the inside loop or the outside loop.”

“See, this will be fun.” Marni beamed as she climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins from Charlie.

We rented a two bencher, Loretta up front with Marni, and Sandi, Dawn, and I in the backseat. Marni sat up straight with an intense look of concentration on her face, the reins firmly in her grasp even though the ride was the equivalent of driving the Autotopia cars at Disneyland.

Just like Charlie said he would, the horse stuck to the loop. What Charlie forgot to mention was that the horse might stop for no apparent reason and not want to go again.

We had chosen to take the loop that went up to the center of the island. We drove past Fort Gabriel and into the woods, through a natural tunnel in a granite hillside appropriately named Tunnel Rock, and back down the hill past the historic View Point Hotel and Golf Course before returning to the stables that were a block off Main Street.

We had just gone through the tunnel when the horse, I’m sorry I don’t remember his name, decided he was done. He just stopped.

Marni wasn’t disappointed. She was thrilled. It was her opportunity to do some real wrangling, and she gave it a valiant effort. She snapped the reins, clicked her tongue, and yelled, “Yee haw!” and “Giddy-up!” until she became hoarse, no pun intended.

“Maybe we could lead him,” Loretta suggested.

“I’m not pulling on any horse.” Dawn folded her arms and clenched her jaw.

“Fine, stay here,” I said, and Loretta, Sandi and I got out of the buggy.

Sandi held the strap of the bridle and tugged on it while she coaxed, “Come on, horsey.”

Nothing.

I took the bridle from the other side, and we both pulled while Marni went back to shaking the reins and giddy-upping.

Nothing.

Loretta joined in and was standing out in front, clapping her hands and pursing kisses at the horse, calling for him to come to her as if he was a puppy. That was it. We lost it and laughed hysterically. Sandi trotted back and forth to demonstrate to the horse what he should be doing. And Loretta did more of a fashion runway thing, singing, “Walk this way.” I just peed my pants, yes, I did.

Then from a stock-still stance, the horse took off at a pace that seemed significantly faster than his previous clip-clop and left us standing in the road. Marni was pulling hard on the reins, trying to stop the horse or slow him down so we could get back on board. But he was on track again and we had to run to catch up and jump in.

When we got back to the stable and made our report to Charlie, his response was, “Happens.”

Back at the inn,
we changed for dinner and then we walked down Main Street to the Island House Restaurant. I had a sensible salad and a couple bites of Loretta’s Tournedos of Beef. I wasn’t sure what a Tournedos was, but it was delicious. For dessert we stopped at a German bakery. The bell jingled on the door as we went in. A young woman was sweeping the floor and pulled headphones from her ears when she saw us.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked with a big smile.

Blonde dreadlocks were tied in a ponytail on top of her head. She had rosy cheeks that didn’t come from a compact and the lightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. A teeny-tiny blue stone was pierced through her upper lip, off to the side, right where you might want a beauty mark. Her flouncy floral skirt was swishing back and forth and her light pink lace top was just sheer enough to see her purple bra. She reminded me of Lisa Reesa, a carefree, colorful character in one of Janie’s favorite book series when she was a child:
Lisa Reesa Jumps for Joy, Lisa Reesa Gets Lost.
Lisa was always entangled in an exciting venture or calamity. I sensed this young woman might possibly have a lot in common with Lisa Reesa.

From behind the counter the woman described the jewels behind the glass, “This is Quark-tasche, a cheese pastry. This is Beinenstich, yeast dough with Bavarian cream filling and honey and almonds on top. And this is Breschberger Kepla, a cookie-sized pastry filled with walnuts, sugar, and butter.”

After we had all made our selections and were handed our white paper bags, I began my
island interview
as Loretta called it. My companions, not wanting to stay for the Q & A, said they’d meet me back at the inn.

“Are you from St. Gabriel?” I reached in my bakery bag and broke off a piece of Beinenstich. Butter, butter, butter and vanilla—the smell wafted from the bag the moment I opened it, intensifying as I brought it to my lips and put it in my mouth. “Mmm.” I licked the cream and honey from my fingers. The pastry melted in my mouth as I chewed—light and flakey with a big buttery taste. The filling was thick and creamy, at the same time not too heavy and not too sweet, bursting with flavor—vanilla and citrus maybe.

“Good?” She asked, with a smile of satisfaction, appearing truly pleased that I was having a culinary orgasm right there in front of her.

“Mmm, very good.”

It was so good, that I was surprised at how delighted she was that I liked it. She acted as if it was the first pastry she had ever sold. She was watching me, still smiling when she answered, “No, New Mexico. I came to work for the summer nine years ago and never left.”

“Not even in the winter?”

“Nope, I stay all year.” She sat on the stool behind the counter and hooked her feet on the side rungs.

“Really, what’s it like?” I ate another piece of pastry, trying not to moan as I chewed.

“Cold but gorgeous and peaceful. There’s only about five hundred of us who stay in the winter. Gabies, that’s what the locals call us. It’s a big contrast to the hundreds of summer residents and thousands of tourists that come through during the season. And a lot of the summer workers live on the mainland and take the ferry over to work every day. There’s a lot of coming and going.”

“No tourists in the winter?”

“A few but not many. They come by ferry until it doesn’t run anymore because of the ice. Or they come by plane to the island airport. Snowmobilers show up from the mainland when the ice crossing forms, if it does.”

“Ice crossing?”

“Most winters the lake freezes, and a path is marked along the ice crossing with old Christmas trees. You can walk, ski, or drive a snowmobile to the mainland. It’s about three miles. This is cross-country ski heaven. Do you ski?”

“Downhill, but I’ve never tried cross-country. I’d love to learn. Do you work in the winter?”

“No. Most of the businesses close down in the winter. There’s not much employment in the off-season. I paint.”

“Really, what do you paint?”

“Landscapes mostly.”

“What medium?”

“Oils. Do you paint?” she sat up with hopefulness that the answer would be yes.

“Just a little, watercolor, I’d love to see your work.”

Her eyes lit up. “Would you, honestly?”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll be right back.” She hopped down from the stool and, taking them two at time, sprinted up the wooden steps behind the counter. After a minute or two, she ran back down the stairs carrying what looked like a large fabric purse, which was actually a portfolio she had sewn from a piece of vintage broadcloth.

At the counter she unzipped the top, pulled out three canvases, and laid them in front of me. She set one up on its edge and said, “This is looking down from the top of Grayson’s Meadow. Have you been there?”

“No.”

“You should go up there. It’s beautiful. Just about every flower that grows on the island has found a home in Grayson’s Meadow.”

“I’ll make sure I see it.”

She held up the next. “This one is a little cottage that sits at the bottom of Gabriel Creek.” Laying that one down and lifting up the third, she said, “And this one is looking right out that window…” She pointed across the room. “…in the middle of January.”

“They’re wonderful.”

“Honestly?”

“Really, I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You’re very talented.”

Her smile pushed out her rosy cheeks and they got redder.

“I’m Cammy.”

“I’m Sara.”

I felt my stomach knot up. Why did that sweet ball of energy have to have that name? Why couldn’t it have been Tallulah, Gertrude, or Helga? Anything but that name.