“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is . . . the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”
—MARK TWAIN
Sunrise brings with it Officer Dan and a police photographer. Mick and Niall are waiting for them. Mick’s emotions are roiling just under the surface. Niall offers fresh coffee and hot blueberry muffins.
They scour the grounds again. The light of day reveals the same thing the previous evening had—nothing.
After bagging the charred remains of the pipe bomb, the two men leave with a promise. “We’ll let you know if the lab is able to lift any prints.”
Mick joins the guest authors, sans Jason, at the tai chi pavilion where a session with Libby is already underway. After slipping off his shoes and taking a position in the back, he begins the form, transitioning smoothly from one move to the next. The steps—done in a rolling motion, placing his bare feet with balanced weight one in front of the other—are soothing. Mick welcomes the relief as tension drains from his body. If stress were liquid, there would be a pool at his feet.
During Mick’s recovery, Libby taught him that tai chi reduces stress, elevates moods, and opens the floodgates of creativity. In fact, many writers who stay at Pines & Quill resolve to continue the practice when they return home.
While putting their shoes on after the session, Libby hears Cynthia and Fran planning to meet at the bikes. They’re going to peddle into Fairhaven for a shopping adventure.
“I have an errand in town. I’d be happy to drop you off. Then just call me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”
“That would be great,” Fran says.
After glancing at her watch, Libby adds, “It’s not quite eight o’clock. If you meet me in the circular drive at twelve-thirty, you’ll still have the morning to write. Does that sound good?”
“It’s perfect,” Cynthia says.
That afternoon on the way to town, Libby shares with Fran and Cynthia the names of her favorite local clothing shops. After pulling up in front of the first one, she reminds them, “Just call me when you’re ready, and I’ll pick you up. I’m looking forward to seeing what you find.”
By the time the two women arrive at the fourth store, one with a lovely selection of footwear, they’d already acquired several bags. When they leave the shoe store, they had yet another—a large, handled-bag containing boots, sandals, and heels.
“Before we call Libby,” Cynthia says, “there’s one more stop we need to make. Every beautiful outfit needs jewelry. Are you game?”
“I most certainly am.”
Two hours later, as the exhausted women enjoy a celebratory glass of wine, Fran says, “I especially liked the last shop we visited. What’s the name of it?”
“I did too,” Cynthia says, while fishing a receipt from her purse. “It’s called Hyde and Seek. I love their assortment of handcrafted jewelry. And did you see all of the other unique pieces made by local artists? They’re gorgeous!”
“I agree. Do you think the tags on the pendants we purchased belong to our Mick? No one at Pines & Quill mentioned anything about it, but it says, ‘Sean McPherson, Bespoke Wood: Handmade—Lovingly Crafted—Unique.’”
Cynthia places the ebony pendant she purchased between her hands, closes her eyes, and becomes still.
After a long pause, Fran whispers, “What are you doing?”
“I’m reading the energy in this piece. Yes, the artist who carved these beautiful pendants is our Mick.”
Fran looks at Cynthia, hesitates a moment, and then continues. “You’ve been so kind, and not just in helping me shop for clothes. Thank you. I’m curious, and I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what is your faith background? Are you like the Dalai Lama? Is kindness your religion?”
Cynthia leans forward, puts her elbows on the table, and steeples her fingertips before answering. “I believe in the common ground of shared humanity. Life is my cathedral. I embrace the idea that everyone is an extension of source energy, that everyone is a living church, a breathing sanctuary. And you?”
After a short pause, Fran answers. “I wish I had your confidence.” She shifts her gaze to the table. “I don’t believe in God anymore. I’d like to. I used to. But not being able to have children changed my mind. I can’t believe in a God who would allow that to happen.” She looks back up.
Cynthia nods, letting Fran know that she heard her, while at the same time, understanding she wasn’t looking for a response. Fran was merely glad for the opportunity to voice what was weighing heavily on her heart and mind.
A short while later, Libby picks them up. The wind is whipping, and the sky is purple with near-certain rain as Cynthia and Fran dash for the car. Libby sees from the sheer number of packages that their outing has been a success.
“What did you buy?” Libby asks, with enthusiasm.
Fran repeats the old adage. “‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’ I’m excited to wear one of my new outfits to dinner tonight.” Turning to Cynthia, Fran continues. “I’m so appreciative of your help today. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for coming with me.”
“The pleasure was mine,” Cynthia says. “I had fun, too.”
At one o’clock, Mick knocks on the door of Austen cottage.
“Come in. It’s open,” he hears Emma call out.
When he opens the door, he sees her smiling face. His eyes can’t help but take in her lithe body. Her feminine shape is accentuated in a dark blue shirt that she’s paired with beige Capri pants.
After adjusting his collar and clearing his throat, Mick says, “You look lovely. Are you ready?”
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself. And yes, I’m ready. I’ve worked up a healthy appetite. How about you?”
“I didn’t get any heavy lifting done with my manuscript, but I’m hungry too.”
Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply through her nose, Emma says, “Whatever you’ve got in that basket smells delicious.”
“I can’t take the credit. Niall put this picnic together for us. We’ve got a basket of gold here—two of his world-famous panini sandwiches. If we hurry, we can enjoy them while they’re still hot.”
As they pass through the trees, sunlight dapples the walkway in front of them and wind whispers through the leaves overhead.
“The trees and smooth paving end soon,” Mick says. “If you don’t mind, I’ll set the basket on your lap and push you the rest of the way. I’m taking you to one of my favorite places. The terrain’s a bit bumpy, but doable.”
Emma takes in the new landscape, intrigued that it could change so quickly.
They stop at a spot on the bluff a few yards from the cliff overlooking Bellingham Bay. Mick locks the wheels on her chair. The clear expanse offers them a breathtaking view. Rolling steel-blue waves shimmer beneath a cloud-flecked sky, the dark water bulging against the shoreline.
A seagull lands nearby and tips its head to ogle them. After ruffling its feathers, it jabs at a stone with its beak, shakes it, then continues on.
Mick takes a folded blanket from the basket. As he bends to set it on the ground near Emma’s feet, a pendant on a black cord swings forward from the collar of his shirt. Before he can tuck it away, Emma says, “Oh, that’s beautiful. May I?” She leans forward to take a closer look.
Slipping the pendant over his head, he hands it to her.
“It’s a whale fluke,” she says. Turning it over on her palm, she continues. “The craftsmanship is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I enjoy carving.”
“You made this?” she asks, with admiration in her voice.
“Yes,” he answers, a little embarrassed. “After the accident, the only parts of me that worked for a while were my arms and hands. My surgeon suggested that I take up whittling as a way to work through my frustration and anger.”
Mick reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a knife. “This is called a deejo wood knife. I think it saved my life. I always carry it with me in case I have time on my hands—like waiting, and waiting, for Libby in town.” He laughs. I just find a stick, and I’m happy as a kid with a cookie.”
“This goes way beyond whittling,” Emma says. “This is a gorgeous piece of jewelry. You’re an artist. You could open a shop and sell these.”
“Actually,” he says, “there’s a store in town that carries my pendants. They carry my walking sticks, too.”
Astounded, Emma asks, “You mean like the ones with gnarly faces at the top?”
“Yes, that’s the kind. Wood spirits, sorcerers, hobbits, and elves. That type of thing. But I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
After slipping the pendant back over his head, he opens the picnic basket and from a towel-wrapped bundle extracts two paninis, each wrapped in aluminum foil, and hands her one.
Mick watches Emma’s perplexed face as she studies the delicious-looking grilled bread. He can see she’s deciding how best to attack this feast with its moist and brightly colored mélange of vegetables for filling. She peeks inside and sees that it’s filled with sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, grilled peppers, roasted eggplant, and spinach. She tries to bite into it without making a mess, but after a few seconds of dainty eating, she gives up and follows Mick’s lead. He plows into his sandwich with gusto, leaning forward to let the juices drip to the ground.
“You need to eat it while it’s hot,” he advises, between mouthfuls.
When they finish, Emma breathes a sigh of pure contentment. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. They sit in silence, letting the breeze sweep through their hair, breathing in the salty air.
Turning to Mick, Emma asks, “Why a whale fluke? Does it have special significance?”
“I like the symbolism. Whales represent emotion, inner truth, and creativity. They embody quiet strength. But the association I like most is physical and emotional healing.”
“That’s beautiful,” Emma says. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
An idea dawns on Mick. “Whale watching season just started. This month, May, they give narrated whale watching tours through the San Juan Islands each weekend. Starting in June, they give them daily. I take a tour at least once a season, usually not this early, but maybe you’d like to join me near the end of your writing retreat. I promise it’ll clear out any writing cobwebs that might be hiding in there,” he says, pointing to her head. She’s beautiful.
“I’d love that. What kind of whales will we see?”
“The San Juan Cruises are part of a local whale spotting network,” Mick says. “They look for resident and transient Orca, Humpback, and Minke whales. And on rare occasions, Gray and Fin whales. Not always, but many times, guests on the tour boats also see bald eagles, seals, porpoises, and sea lions. I’ve never been disappointed.
“After the cruise, we’d have plenty of time to wander around the seaside port. It’s filled with shops, art galleries, brew pubs, and it’s even got the largest whale museum in the Northwest. I hope I’m not overselling it. It’s just something that I enjoy, and I’d love to share it with you.”
“It sounds like a lot of fun, thank you. And thank you for such a lovely picnic. I’m thoroughly enjoying myself,” Emma says. Looking directly into Mick’s gaze, she makes him uncomfortable as he focuses on the color of her eyes. Tilting her head slightly, she says, “May I ask you another question?”
“You missed your calling. You’d make a great interrogator.” He laughs. “But seriously, you can ask me anything.”
With moss-green eyes that look as if they’ve pondered weighty matters with no conclusion, Emma looks into Mick’s eyes, and asks, “How is it that a handsome, eligible man like you isn’t married?”
“Well now,” he begins, his facial features contemplative. As Mick takes a minute to gather his thoughts, they sit and listen to the wind and the sound of the waves receding and crashing below the cliffs. It sounds sad and plaintive, as if in sympathy with him.
“I was married for two years before the accident,” Mick says. “We were happy. At least I was. After the crash when the doctors still didn’t know if I’d regain consciousness or ever be able to walk again, Victoria announced that she wasn’t up for the journey—the long hard road of my recovery.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emma says, sadness tinging her voice. Looking at her face, Mick sees tears fill her eyes, changing them from moss-green to shimmering peridot.
“I am too. But you know what? I’m glad I discovered the extent of Victoria’s commitment. ‘For better,’ worked. But ‘for worse,’ not so much.” Mick gets up and walks toward the cliff that holds Bellingham Bay captive.
Standing with his back to Emma, he wonders, Do I dare risk another relationship? Scratching his jaw, he realizes, Oh hell, I’ve already fallen.
After sitting down again on the blanket at her feet, Mick smiles. “Turnabout is fair play. How is it that a beautiful, eligible woman like you isn’t married?”
“Touché.” Emma laughs. “I enjoy dating, meeting new people, and having fun. But to be honest, I’m a little bit scared. One of my brothers was stunned to find himself in the middle of a divorce after two children and ten years of marriage. I don’t want that to happen to me. So I’m working on myself, doing everything I can to ensure that I bring the best version of me into a relationship. When the time comes, I’ll be open to someone who’s done the same thing.”
Mick sees a movement in his peripheral vision. He glances past Emma. “Oh boy, we’re in for it now,” he says.
Hemingway is racing toward them at breakneck speed.
From the crotch of a tree at the edge of the clearing, Jason, too, sees Hemingway. He’s stunned with disbelief. What the hell? I put enough poison in that goddamned dog’s water bowl to drop an elephant!
Emma watches Mick rake his fingers through his hair, then absently rub his left hip. She appreciates the masculine way he fills out his jeans and dark green shirt. He looks devastatingly handsome.
Hemingway stops on a dime at the edge of the picnic blanket.
Reaching out to pet Hemingway’s sizable head, Emma laughs. “Hey, handsome. It’s nice to see you again, big guy.”
“I bet Niall doesn’t know you’re here. Did you give him the slip?” Mick directs his question into big, brown, soulful eyes. Hemingway stands up and shakes his massive head to clear the dust. They both watch as the shake ripples down his enormous body, ending with a final flip of his tail.
Emma crosses her arms and rubs them up and down with the palms of her hands. “The wind’s picked up. It’s starting to get downright chilly.”
Squinting, Mick studies the horizon. “We don’t usually get summer storms, but I think one’s brewing. It’s rare for this area to get thunder and lightning, but when it does, it’s intense. A few years ago, we even experienced hurricane force winds. It was incredible.”
Emma watches as Hemingway noses the picnic basket—hinting. After unlatching the lid, Mick finds a tidbit to share and then the three of them start toward home.
A rabbit darts across the open expanse. Never one to ignore a good chase, Hemingway bolts in pursuit. They’re out of sight in moments.
When Mick and Emma reach the paved walkway, Emma looks up at the tree canopy.
Oh, shit! Jason’s rapid-fire mind scrambles for a cover story should he be seen.
The wind rushes through the leaves, making them ripple like an ocean of greenery.
Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Emma makes out the loamy smell of leaves decomposing in the rich, dark soil on the forest floor.
“I had a lovely time,” she says.
Kneeling, his face just inches from her, Mick draws Emma in for a kiss. Long, soft, and sweet, it brims with promise.
And though he suspected it before, now Jason has proof positive. Emma is Mick’s weakness, his vulnerable point. I’ll use her to get to him. I’ll make him watch as I kill her. And then I’ll kill him. He’ll die—twice.