15

Cassie slowly pulled onto the ferry, following the signals of the deckhand who waved her into a new lane that put her first in line on the inside row. Signs posted on the bulkhead advised her to set her emergency brake and turn off her engine, so she did. Then she followed the example of the other passengers and left her car for the top deck of the ferry.

There was a large lounge on each end, with booths upholstered in green vinyl lining the walls and rows of matching chairs in conversation groupings in the middle. Huge windows gave an unobstructed view of the Strait, the islands and, far in the distance, the craggy, white-capped bulk of Mt. Baker.

Cassie made her way out onto the forward deck and found a seat in the sun. Within minutes she felt the vibrations of the engines and saw the pilings of the ferry dock slide away. They were out into Rosario Strait, and as the ferry picked up speed, the fourteen-knot breeze grew cool and sharp. Thinking she should have brought at least a sweater, Cassie retreated to the enclosed cabin, choosing a booth far away from a noisy group of teenagers.

Someone had discarded a copy of the Seattle Times on the seat after attempting the crossword puzzle. Glancing at it, Cassie could see at once that a mistake had been made and pulled out her pen. She worked at the puzzle for a minute, but her attention was soon claimed by the sight of a rocky island no bigger than a city block going by, followed by another only slightly larger, but with a stand of trees on it and a house sitting on a cliff above the sea.

They passed a sailboat pulling a dinghy, and as Cassie looked down from her seat high in the ferry, a trim, gray-haired lady dressed in a blue sweatshirt sitting on the back deck caught her eye and waved. Cassie waved back and then wondered if they really had connected. Had a stranger waved at her? But it happened again as another boat passed by, and Cassie began to wonder what there was about the sea that promoted such camaraderie.

They passed a tug pulling two barges piled high with containers, and on top of the containers were two trucks. A barge going in the other direction carried a small mountain of quarry spalls.

A large island loomed on the right and Cassie could see a harbor opening up onto the strait. Houses ringed the protected water, each with a dock and a boat moored there. It was colorful and picturesque, with the blue of the sky echoed in the blue of the little bay. The green of the forest that came down to the water had splashes of red vine maple and yellow alder, and the houses added other odd dashes of color. Most of the boats were white, and they stood out in relief against the darker colors, with the masts of the sailboats adding bold vertical lines. Cassie wished for a camera.

As they at last approached St. Mary’s Island, people began filing down to the car deck, and Cassie stood to go, too, carrying the crossword puzzle with her. From her vantage point at the front of the ferry as they pulled into the dock, she could see that the town of Shingle Bay was quite small. As she drove off the ferry and up the hill, it was obvious that tourism was a big economic factor and equally obvious that tourist season was almost over. Several restaurants and gift shops, an ice cream parlor, and a T-shirt factory were all closed for the season, and there were few pedestrians on the street.

As instructed by Mr. Jensen, at the top of the hill she turned right and drove through dense forest for ten miles, only occasionally catching a glimpse of the sea. After checking the odometer several times to make sure she hadn’t passed it, Cassie finally came to a sign that had an arrow pointing to the Quarry Harbor turnoff. Heaving a sigh of relief, she drove slowly along the winding road as it descended, passing the rock quarry for which the town was named. Immediately after the rock works, the road dropped sharply, giving a view of Quarry Harbor at sunset.

The town was small, with a population of perhaps five hundred. It consisted of two horseshoe-shaped roads, one slightly higher than the other, surrounding the harbor. There were houses on both sides of the high road and houses on the uphill side of the low road, all very much in the style of turn-of-the-century Washington when there was plenty of cheap lumber. They had high-pitched shake roofs, and most were painted white, with windows, fascia board, and gingerbread in a contrasting hue. All had the luscious green growth around them, grass, late blooming flowers, and shrubbery that Cassie had begun to expect. There was an added element here though—a tall, stately tree whose broad leaves were still shiny green and whose bark was pied in umber and brown, looking like a tattered garment falling away in shreds.

At the north end of the horseshoe sat the business district, such as it was, consisting of the Hickcox Hotel, the Hickcox store, and a boatworks.

There were no houses on the water. The whole of the harbor was taken with the docks and piers of the marina, which had slips for two hundred boats.

Cassie pulled off the road so she could take it all in. The village was certainly quaint, stacked as it was on the hillside. The forest of masts in the marina and the boats that were sitting at anchor farther out only added to its charm. Mare’s tails high in the sky turned pink with the setting sun, and the water made spun-sugar reflections as the light was fading. “I’ve got to buy a camera,” Cassie muttered.

Putting the car in gear, she descended to the lower road and turned right, driving a ways and then dead-ending in an almost-empty parking lot. The hotel was an imposing two stories with a verandah wrapping three sides on both the main and second floor. It was actually built on the same elevation as the houses on the upper street, and as the shadows deepened, the green of the gardens below falling down to the shoreline became indistinct and lent the impression of a great white mansion hovering in the air.

As Cassie watched, low lights came on all along the walkways, illuminating the stairs that had to be climbed to reach the hotel. Wondering who laid out such inefficiency, Cassie hoped there might be a bellhop who would fetch her luggage, so she gathered her purse and newspaper and made the climb.

Entering the hotel lobby was like going back in time. Everything, from the heavy wooden beams overhead to the wide plank floors to the figured carpet runners to windows with the odd imperfect pane, spoke of an era of artisans. After the chill of the evening, the real log fire burning briskly in the lobby fireplace was welcome. Cassie rang the bell at the registration desk, and while waiting for the clerk, she read the history of the Hickcox Hotel that was framed and hanging on the wall.

The hotel had been built in 1886 by Raymond Hickcox, who owned the quarry above the town. In a time when water was the cheapest transportation, granite from Quarry Harbor supplied the building needs for all the growing cities of Puget Sound. With the proliferation of railroads, the economic edge was lost, and the quarry shipped its last load of granite in 1930. The Hickcox family still controlled the destiny of Quarry Harbor, because they owned all the land in the town and surrounding area. Determined that the village retain its distinctive charm and not become a sprawling tourist Mecca catering only to the rich and famous, the family continued to operate the hotel and store and leased out the old, company-built houses on ninety-nine-year contracts.

Cassie looked around the deserted lobby and rang the bell again. A young woman came around the corner from the direction of the dining room, wiping her hands on a waiter’s apron. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.” Stepping behind the counter, she asked, “How may I help you?”

“I’d like a room. And do you have someone who can fetch my luggage?”

“I do,” the young lady assured her with a smile. The tag on her blouse identified her as Patty. Of medium height and build, she had short brown hair that turned up at the ends and curled charmingly around her ears. “Here you go,” she said, giving Cassie a paper to sign. “You are in 216. That’s close to the bathroom.”

“Close to the bathroom?” Cassie frowned.

“There are no private baths,” Patty explained.

“You’re kidding!”

“Yes. The Hickcox family wanted to retain the flavor of the late eighteen hundreds, when the hotel was built. So, when any updates were made, it never included private baths. We’re equal opportunity, though. Everyone has to walk.” There was no apology, just another smile. Cassie hesitated a moment before signing. Reflecting that there was no alternative and that she could rough it for a couple of nights, she put her signature to the paper.

Patty gave Cassie a heavy brass key. “Elevator is right over there. When you get out, turn right. I’ll make sure your luggage is brought right up. Which car?”

Cassie gave her the keys. “It’s the blue Sable. I parked as close as I could get.”

Riding the smooth and quiet elevator, Cassie judged that this must have been one of the acceptable updates. When the doors opened, she turned right as directed and walked down a hall that had a decided list to the left and a floor that creaked. “Part of the charm,” she muttered as she looked for Room 216.

The key turned easily in the lock, and as the door swung silently open Cassie turned on the light. The room was large and well-appointed in an old fashioned way, with a braided rug on the floor and a small writing table by the window. A dresser sat opposite a high double bed graced with mahogany head- and foot-boards. Instead of a closet, there was a tall wooden wardrobe. And on the west wall, French doors opened out onto the second floor verandah.

There was a knock at the door, and when Cassie opened it, Patty was there with her suitcase. “I didn’t mean for you to carry it up the stairs,” she said, fishing in her pocket for a tip.

“Been doing it all summer,” Patty said, wheeling it in. “Thank you very much. You’re very generous. Here are your car keys.” Pausing at the door, she said, “Do you want to have something to eat tonight?”

“Yes, I would.”

“The dining room closes at eight-thirty. You’ve got plenty of time, but don’t be any later than that, or we can’t serve you.”

“I want to make a phone call. When I’ve done that, I’ll be right down.”

“All right! I’ll see you then.” Patty flashed a smile and closed the door behind her.

Cassie heard the floorboards creak as Patty walked toward the elevator. Taking out her cell phone and the paper on which she had written the Edmonds First Ward telephone number, she began dialing, only to find that there was no service in this area. “Oh, no! And I told everyone I would have my cell phone on,” she groaned. “Well, I’ll just have to get my messages every day.”

Picking up the phone on the writing table, she asked for an outside line. As she dug in her purse for her phone card, she came upon the little red New Testament that Punky had given her. Glad for the connection with a friend, she put it on the table. With phone card in hand, she went through the tedious process of punching in numbers and then listened to the burring tone as the telephone rang in an empty bishop’s office.

Sighing, Cassie hung up the phone and went down to the dining room, where white tablecloths and flickering candles lent a gracious ambience. Two couples were lingering over coffee, but there was no sign of a hostess. Cassie paused at the entrance, and moments later Patty appeared.

“Here you are,” she said, with a confident smile. “Would you like to sit near the window? Follow me, please.”

Patty recommended the rockfish, saying it was fresh and quick. She was right. It was fresh, quick, and excellent. While she ate, Cassie gazed out the window at the running lights of fishing boats coming in to dock in the dark. Farther out in the harbor, the mooring lights of sailboats sitting at anchor shimmered in the water. It was beyond picturesque; it was something that needed to be shared, and Cassie felt very alone.

After finishing her meal, Cassie left a generous tip for Patty and went upstairs to get ready for bed. As she unpacked her suitcase, she found the little red Muppet, her gift from Ricky Torres. With it sitting on the table next to the New Testament, she felt less lonely.

She was in her pajamas before she remembered she had to make the trip down the hall. Using the robe provided by the hotel (cheaper than building a private bath, she thought), Cassie padded to the bathroom and back with a towel and her toothbrush in hand. As she set her watch on the table, she spied the New Testament with the Gideon logo on the front. Opening it randomly, she read the first complete verse at the top of a page. It was Matthew 4:19, where Jesus says “I will make you fishers of men.” Thinking that was appropriate for the locale, she knelt by her bedside and prayed that she would find the answers to her questions.

The sheets were damp and cold as she climbed into bed, and as she lay shivering, she ached with loneliness as she remembered how Chan had warmed her bed during those few chilly desert nights.

They had spent four nights sleeping together as man and wife. His shoulder had been her pillow and his arm her cradle. Cassie lay listening to the creaking timbers of the old hotel, and tears slid down her face as she grieved for the empty place beside her that never again would hold the warm body of her husband.

It doesn’t matter what answers I find, she thought. Nothing will bring Chan back.

It was in that twilight between wakefulness and sleep that she wondered how she could find any answers when she didn’t even know the questions.