|
Ruffling Feathers Chapter 20 - Quahogs and Columbines
Amy and Paul walked along Whiteside's main road toward the wharf in quiet conversation. Amy, chastened into respectful remarks, wanted Paul to see that she was neither brazen nor brash. Above all, she wanted him to know that she valued his company and friendship. Amy glanced up at Paul as he talked quietly, pointing out landmarks and telling her about the little village he called home. He seemed so calm, not like when she knew him in Colorado. Then, he had been edgy and high-strung. She knew now that his erratic behavior last summer stemmed from falling in love with her against his will, against the advice of his friends and advisors, against his better judgment. She knew now that he should have been focusing on resolving his parents' deaths instead of becoming entangled with a woman who kept on complicating the situation. She tried again to apologize for intruding, but he would have none of it. Her being there was the most natural thing in the world. Of course, she would want to see the prettiest spot on earth since her job brought her all the way to Portland. He was terribly nice. Too nice. Amy would have almost preferred a little agitation, but then, perhaps her ability to agitate him was past. "So what do you think of Maine?" Paul asked, a little smile skirting his lips. Amy remembered a similar question she had asked him a year ago. Was he smiling because he too remembered that conversation—that night? Or was he merely being congenial? "It's very...green?" Amy replied sweetly, hoping he would notice how she paralleled his own answer from last year. "It's all these trees—the pine tree state, right?" "Right you are. Although later in the summer, the tourism board insists that it becomes the blueberry state and then after that it becomes the lobster state and then..." Amy thanked him for his wit in her usual way, with sparkling eyes and a musical laugh that provoked any number of delightful images. To the casual observer, it was clear that at least one of them was very much in love. Paul's boat gleamed from the shadows of the boat shed. He had walked Amy through the boat yard, showing her different projects he had worked on during the winter, now ready for summer launching. And then, he led her to the boat shed. She blushed as his hand brushed the small of her back, guiding her into the building. She remembered one summer afternoon when he compared the beauty of a sail filled with wind to the small of a woman's back. She remembered him lazily outlining her back with his fingertips as he told her about the wind and the sky and the sea, and the physics of lift, and the beauty of a well-engineered airfoil. "I'm fitting her hardware now. A few more weeks and she'll be ready to sail." Amy ran her hands across the lustrous, satiny smooth wood of the pretty sloop. "What are you going to name her?" she inquired. "Oh, I'll let her owner name her." "You mean you didn't build this boat for yourself." Amy looked warily at him, as much surprised at his nonchalance as by his reply. "It's a gift, actually." Amy tried to keep her thoughts in check. Surely Paul wasn't building this gorgeous boat for her. Was he? Did she want Paul to offer her such a gift? No! But what if he did? "Oh," she said evenly, squeezing her hands behind her back in a valiant effort to keep them from shaking. "Remember the little girl, Addie, with the stopwatch..." "Yes, she was timing you, I think..." "This boat is for her mother. You see, "he stammered, "...we've become good friends..." "I see." Amy interrupted, suddenly not wanting to hear details of Paul's friendship with Addie's mother. Paul didn't seem to notice Amy's clipped tone, as he continued, "She's had a tough time of it this past year. And this boat is my way of giving her back the sea." She looked full into his eyes at this, and saw a sweetness there she had never noticed before. From the moment she had laid eyes on Paul Donovan at the press conference in Denver so long ago now, Amy had known that he was the most attractive man she had ever encountered. That he found her attractive was intoxicating. That she enjoyed his company was incredible. But she felt she had never seen the whole man before this moment. A thought, which seemed something like regret, was formed before she could squelch it. Paul turned away from Amy and started straightening his already tidy workbench. As he worked, he told her how Addie's father had died when his fishing boat capsized during a summer squall, leaving his wife a widow and his daughter with visions. He told Amy how he had accepted Addie's invitation to heal her mother's heart by becoming her friend. By now, Amy realized that Addie's mother was the self-same Ellen Crowe whose story had so captivated her in Portland that she had agreed to cover the MCP story for NPR. Paul went on to tell Amy how he and Ellen had spent the winter walking the cliffs above Whiteside Cove, wrestling with their demons. Paul discovered that Ellen, a woman raised at the tide-line, hated the sea that had stolen her mate. She didn't want another man, she wanted Darvin Crowe back and she cursed the water that had swallowed him. Paul told Amy about the black day when he walked alone above Whiteside Cove, worrying about Ellen. She often took off by herself, leaving Addie with her parents. This time, she had been gone three days, with no word. It was then that he decided to help her find a way to stop hating the sea and continue on with her life. "And I thought of you," Paul said, looking deep into Amy's swimming eyes. "I remembered how much you love your home and your mountains and the prairie and the animals and flowers and minerals and everything else that makes up your sweet old world. And no matter how much I hurt you with my misguided efforts to follow Dennis's plan, you always stood up to every challenge and would fight to protect your world. And just that fighting...against me or anybody who threatened your precious state...seemed to give you strength and purpose and...beauty." Amy softly let out the breath she was holding. "Are you the one who got Ellen involved with the Maine Coastal Project?" "Yes and no. When she finally got back, she had read an article on the MCP and I knew that getting her involved with the group would be her saving grace. So I called up Marion Chamberlain and twisted her arm until she hired Ellen..." "Twisted her arm with a donation, you mean?" "Something like that," he answered casually. "But she's earned her stripes. Marion's got Ellen in school, and she's all fired up about cleaning up Maine's waterways and not letting industry go unchecked. This baby here," Paul said stroking his hand built boat, "is just a welcome back gift." "Does she know it's for her?" "You think Addie can keep a secret? Yeah, she knows. She didn't like it, but then I needed to make it and give it away for my own reasons...which maybe I'll tell you about someday. So she's letting me give it to her." Paul reached out and gently pulled on one of Amy's now-short curls that framed her face. "I like your hair. Did you get it cut in London?" "Why does everyone ask that? Yes, I got a new do in London." Amy rattled on, feeling flustered at the intimacy of Paul's gesture. "I experienced hair loss—you know, like when someone has a hand amputated and they feel the ghost hand for years. Well, I still feel my ghost hair. You know, I feel so...exposed, with short hair. Anyway, enough about my Euro-coif." She concluded breezily. "Are you free this evening?" Paul asked. Oh, how I wish I was. "Sorry, I'm supposed to go a fund-raiser tonight to get background for a story I might do. Paul cocked his head, seemingly surprised, almost said something, then chuckled. "Another time," he said. "When you come back to Maine…" And then he paused before he continued quietly, "To cover another story." Amy bit her lip. Covering the MCP wasn't that big a deal—in fact, she didn't really think she needed to go to the fund-raiser to do the story anyway. Going out with Paul would be far more interesting... Before she could talk herself into blowing off her commitment, Paul continued with a knowing look, "Marion Chamberlain can be pretty bossy." "Oh yeah," Amy admitted. "She railroaded me into coming up here and has planned virtually every minute of my time. It's only because...because I ducked her back at the hotel did I get out of sightseeing with her this afternoon." "She believes in what she is doing...and so do I. I'm glad you're doing a story on MCP. Marion and her team are doing good work. You should go to the fund-raiser tonight. You'll be surprised. You'll find we're good folk up here, and you'll have a good time." Amy was annoyed. No getting around it. Marion Chamberlain had picked her up promptly at seven and had driven her around the bay to Carlisle Point until they were almost out of land. Sure enough, Marion pulled up outside Carlisle Point's Frank Lloyd Wright house, perched at the end of the peninsula. It was the house that Mrs. Ashley had pointed out to Amy from the deck of the Whiteside Inn, the Donovan house. Once again, Amy found herself intruding on Paul's space. She was annoyed at continuing to blunder into situations when she just wanted to tread lightly—what does it take to get control back of my own life? The house was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground. Its buff and tan stone walls followed the contours and colors of the cliffs out of which it rose. Layered balconies and cascading hip roofs smoothed its mass so that it seemed to flow up and out of the sea. The ground sloping down to the left of the house was bordered with evergreens, creating a mosaic of green, gold, and blue boughs. Dry stack stone terraces formed islands in which iris and poppy and foxglove, flox and roses bloomed in profusion. Amy soaked in the loveliness as she followed Marion up the winding stone path to the front door. Even above the roar of the sea, she could hear a party in full swing. As Marion rang the doorbell, a small island of blue near the house caught Amy's eye. There, rimmed in quahog shells almost like a shrine, grew a cluster of Columbines, their sunshiny yellow centers encircled by delicate white and purple petals. Colorado's flower here in misty Maine—as delicate as a butterfly yet hardy enough to thrive in high, dry, rocky soil. Amy looked up to see Paul looking at her intently—responding to Marion's hearty greeting in good form, of course—but looking beyond Marion to where Amy stood in confusion as she tried to understand exactly how she felt seeing her columbines nestled amongst his quahogs. He held her gaze as if he was trying to read her thoughts, or transmit his own. Marion began to introduce Amy to Paul, but then stopped, realizing that introductions were superfluous—not only did the man and woman before her know each other, they knew each other well. "Ahem, well then, Paul." Marion blustered. "Now I know why you volunteered to do the honors tomorrow." Marion turned to Amy, "Paul will take you out tomorrow so that you can see for yourself the condition of Maine's rivers and waterways." Marion strode into the house muttering, "Men! Honestly," leaving Paul to explain the situation to Amy, still standing awkwardly on his doorstep.
Back to JaneGS.com or Jump to Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 |