The Pike: Ships In The Night (2 page)

But her eyes always seemed so lonely to me, starved for human interaction.  Besides coming in for therapy, it sounded like the woman just hid away at her place on Gig Harbor.  So she was always chatting with Zoey and me between customers.

She needed someone in her life to break her out of her comfort zone.  I paused at the door as I remembered to grab another thermal mug to write Liya's name on it.  I stared at the mug as I got a mischievous grin.  Yeah...

Zoey muttered from beside me, “Great mother of all that is fluffy and right in the world.  You have that look.  Don't meddle Eve.”

I just gave her a smirk and headed back out into the bakery as I asked as innocently as I could, “Who me?”

I made my way through the Market, where vendors were starting to set up for the day, leaning more heavily on my cane than I cared to think about.  I was almost exhausted from my walk from the ferry docks then up almost endless stairs to street level, and it pissed me the hell off.

Just last year, I would have just run up them, two or three steps at a time and not been winded at the top.  It was amazing to me how much can change in such a short period of time.  I'd never be one hundred percent again and would probably always need the cane, but I told myself that at least I have improved enough to get out of the wheelchair I had been in since the accident.

I insisted on the rigorous physical therapy schedule I have been on the past six months.  Five days a week.  Though I knew that no amount of PT was going to get me back to Fire Station Five below Pike Place, where I belonged.  I was walking again, that was my first step into finding out what I could do in the world to help out, now that I couldn't follow my passion anymore.

I growled at myself, “Get with it Allison, self-pity is for the weak.”  I took a deep breath of the sea air coming off Puget Sound in the light breeze, and steeled myself, ignoring the aching pain in my left leg and headed toward my goal.  The Pike.

My driving need for coffee and a good breakfast, not to mention human interaction with someone other than my physical therapist was the carrot in front of the cart, moving me forward.

I slid the sleeve of my long sleeve pullover down over my left arm where some of the twisted burn scars were exposed then smiled at the city I loved so much.  I put one foot in front of the other and headed toward the Post Street Alley buildings.

I learned of The Pike just a couple days into my first posting as a Seattle Firefighter when I was assigned to the Five.  One of my crew introduced me to the culinary delights of the place.  I have been a regular since.  Whenever I had shifts at the Five, it would be where I fueled up for the day.  Now it is where I fuel up and rest my leg before finishing my trek to the Madison Avenue PT Outpatient facility, across from the Children's Hospital.

As I entered the building, I had to smile at the smell of fresh baked bread wafting down the corridor from the little bakery at the end.  It smelled like a little piece of heaven.  I paused and held the door open for a short dark haired woman who was walking absently toward the door, totally engrossed in what looked like some sort of advanced math book as she wandered, almost unaware of her surroundings.  She was holding a bag and cup from The Pike in her other hand.

I had this nagging feeling that she looked so familiar for some reason, but I just couldn't quite place her.

She wasn't a regular or I would have noticed her, but she had one of the special thermal mugs that the sisters here gave out to the regulars.  Or maybe she just came in earlier than normal today or something.

I almost chuckled when she stopped to look up after she was halfway through the door, under my arm.  The woman looked adorable with her big round glasses, and her dark brown eyes were expressive.  She blushed and then looked down at her old worn out canvas shoes that had odd doodles all over them.  She said in a small voice, almost meekly, “Sorry... thank you.”

I had to grin as she retreated quickly outside and hustled away.  Bashful is always cute in my book.  I called out, “Not a problem, Miss.”  At least she wasn't lost in that book now, walking the streets of Seattle while distracted is a recipe for disaster.  Our truck had been sent out on many calls because of such things since my partner, Trip, was one of the paramedics assigned to Station Five.

I chuckled as the woman disappeared around the corner heading up toward First, she seemed to be scurrying while trying not to look like she was.  I looked at the corner she had retreated around for a moment longer and grinned before heading down to the culinary miracle workers in the Pike, ignoring the ache in my leg and the pins and needles feeling in my hand on the cane.

The docs say that prickling sensation is the nerve damage and that there is a chance the damaged myelin sheath that surrounds the nerve fibers could repair itself.  It can take years or even decades, but not to count on it or get false hope.

I tightened my grip on the cane to fight off the wave of frustration building and exhaled as I looked back up and followed a man into the bakery as I plastered on my smile to hide my discomfort, my deflector shield.

The sisters, here at the Pike are always so happy, and I didn't want to drag them down.  They were another sort of therapy for me.  Joking around with the playful redheaded siblings had a way of making my forced smile turn into a real one.

I haven't really socialized with many people since the accident except the doctors, physical therapists and Trip, who insists I visit the station all the time.  He doesn't understand how much it hurts for me to be there and not be part of the crew anymore.  Firefighting and helping others was my life, now I'm no good to anyone.  Hell, I can't even stay on my feet for more than an hour without having to sit and rest for a bit.

So it is a breath of fresh air to talk with people who don't expect me to be who I was before.  And Zoey and Eve are a couple firecrackers... who coincidentally aren't hard on the eyes either.  I smothered a grin at that thought as I saw the short and bubbly sister, Eve look around the man in front of me and give me a smile.

She popped into the back room for a moment.  My leg muscles twinged, and I decided I'd just take a seat.  They knew what I liked.  I grinned.  Not like they ever gave me a choice.

I turned and found an open table and slid into a seat, trying not to show the immense relief on my face as I let my leg relax.  I exhaled slowly and centered myself then grinned and hung the black plastic handle of my cane on the edge of the little metal table I sat at.

I looked at it a moment, I had an odd love-hate relationship with the lightweight aluminum device.  I hated that it reminded me every day of my loss of mobility and was a constant reminder of my injuries and the fact that with I could never return to the job I loved.  But I was also extremely thankful for it.  It freed me from the wheelchair which limited my mobility even more.

I had never appreciated and just took for granted, being able to move around unencumbered.  Most of us never think about the freedom we have, when there are so many people out there with limited mobility.  I'm learning the lesson firsthand, and it has made me re-evaluate a lot of things in life that I took for granted before.

The cane got me out of the chair and helps me relieve some of the pressure on my leg so that I can stay upright longer.  So I'll give the simple aluminum stick my respect, however grudgingly.  I should make friends with it since I'll most likely have it or one of its kin for the rest of my life.

I was knocked out of my introspection by a grinning Eve Rand, the far too chipper and perky one of the sisters at the bakery.  “Hey-ya Sparky.  How's tricks?”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Can't complain shortcake.”  I gave her a wink, and she wiggled her eyebrows playfully as she set a mug down in front of me and poured some of that steaming hot black coffee which smelled like the ambrosia of the Gods to me.  The scintillating aroma was waking me up already.

I almost chuckled at the petite woman.  She was pretty in a way you wouldn't see on a magazine cover but in the overly cute in that undefinable way that makes guys line up to open doors for her.  But alas, as playfully flirty as the woman was, she was straight as an arrow.  Well, straight with maybe a little 'pan' around the edges as she seemed to reflect everyone's flirting right back on them without reservation.

She was fun to banter with, and sometimes caught me off guard with the array of topics she was surprisingly well versed in.  I've always wondered just what the woman did before she came up to Seattle from Vancouver to help Zoey out here.  She was well educated and had both a large vocabulary, and a grasp for sarcasm that was refreshing.

She looked up as a couple of people walked in, the little shop bell tinkling.  Then she exhaled in resignation that she wouldn't be able to trade gossip with me, and nudged me with her hip, saying in her sunny voice as she headed to the front counter, “Zo is whipping something up for you now.  She has the Times back there too.”

I nodded and watched her hips sway as she almost skipped to the counter.  What?  Just because she’s straight doesn't mean I can't look.  I took a sip of the tantalizing temptress of hot caffeine that I pray at the alter of.  Mmm... nothing like freshly brewed coffee to chase away the demons and the last vestiges of sleep that cling to you in the waking hours of the day.

I glanced back at the glass door and smiled at the memory of the brainy girl I had held the door for.  Then Zoey was there, blowing some of her dark red hair which had escaped from her hairnet, out of her face as she set a tray down in front of me.  My stomach gurgled at the sight of one of those sinfully delicious breakfast bread bowls, which were a Pike specialty, on it.

She gave me a smile in welcome, and I had to bite back a chuckle at the frazzled looking lady.  She, like her sister, had that amazing red hair they say they got from their mother.  But Zoey, unlike Eve, got the height.  She was head and shoulders over her sister and damn near as tall as me.  So I'd peg her at about five foot ten.  If her sister was too cute for a magazine cover, Zoey was too... too, something I just couldn't put my finger on.

Not model pretty, but easily model sexy.  Wait, I got it, she reminded me of a taller, redheaded Angelina Jolie.  She had this surety about herself that just made you sit up and take notice.  But at the same time, she could be damn cute like Eve at times.

She crinkled her nose in greeting and tilted her head as she squinted an eye. “What, Allison?”

I looked down at the food and the Seattle Times she had folded neatly beside my offering to the gastronomic deities.  Yes, I still read a newspaper instead of getting my news on the Internet like everyone else, so zip it.  I enjoy the feel of the paper, the tactile sensation of something physical in my hands as I learn about current events.

I looked back up, biting my inner cheek in humor as I said, “You have a little flour on your cheek.”  I pointed at the huge smear of flour that looked too damn funny.  She was always covered in flour.  Looking at her, I had to wonder if baking was a full contact sport at times.

She looked around in embarrassment then quickly wiped her face with the sleeve of her white chef's jacket that she preferred when she was back in her kitchen doing whatever witchcraft she did to create such mouthwatering dishes.

I just about exploded in laughter when she looked up and asked, “Better?”

Instead of telling her that now half her face was covered in the flour which most likely permeated deep into the fabric of her jacket, I said, “Better.”

She gave me a huge grin and sighed in relief as she blew her hair out of her eyes again, a habit both of the sisters had, then she sat down across from me while I tried not to chuckle.  She asked, “Any scandalous gossip from Gig Harbor today?”

I didn't have siblings, so I wasn't sure if it were normal or not, that two children from the same family would have such different tones of voice.  Zoey's voice was low and melodious while her sister's was high and chipper.  Listening to the two, you'd never know they were sisters until you looked at them.  Once you did, there was a striking resemblance, and you knew they couldn't be anything but related.

Especially the eyes.  They both had those same green eyes that sometimes made me nervous.  Like they could see right through my upbeat facade and see my demons inside.  That was a little unnerving at times.

I took a bite of eggs smothered in gravy from the bread bowl as I shrugged. “The most scandalous thing about Gig Harbor, is that there is never anything scandalous in Gig Harbor.  Unless you count the Thompson boys down the road blowing a hole in their rowboat when they thought they'd do some Dupont fishing.”

Idiot kids nearly blew themselves to kingdom come when they dropped the dynamite and had to abandon boat before it exploded.  I wondered where teenaged boys got their hands on the explosives.  Probably raided a nearby construction site.

I paused and savored the bite, closing my eyes for a moment to parse out the flavors and textures that competed for my attention.  This got a cocky smirk on Zoey's face, she loved that reaction when people tasted her cooking.  It made her happy to see that she could evoke a reaction like that and make others happy.

A squeaky, “Hey Stretch, a little help?”

We looked over, and there was a line to the door now, and Zoey bit back her own chuckle and said, “Gotta pause the convo for a bit and bail sis out.”

I nudged my head toward the front.  “Go.  I don't have anyplace to be for another hour.”

She hopped up and chirped out as she motored over to the counter, “I've got your six, Evie.”

I was grinning as I ate and read the paper.  It was good to forget about everything and just enjoy the morning.  I'm a people watcher.  I find it endlessly fascinating the different looks, personalities, and mannerisms of people.  With how popular The Pike has gotten after the original owner passed away, and the media shone a light on it, the variety of characters has grown almost exponentially, and I never get tired of seeing the mix.

For example, the couple ordering quiche and coffee to go.  The tall scarecrow looking white man with his small glasses perched on his nose in an attempt to look John Lennon-esque was maybe six foot six or seven-ish.  Cute in an awkward manner as he smiled crookedly as he ordered.