Seven

With the arrival of October, whale watching and kayaking were over for the year. Although tourists still came to San Juan Island, it was nothing compared to the deluge during the summer months. The question most often asked by tourists was how Friday Harbor had gotten its name. Maggie had quickly learned the two standard versions of the story. The one everyone preferred was the local lore that a sea captain, upon entering the harbor and seeing a man on shore, asked, “What bay is this?” The man, mistakenly hearing the question as “What day is this?” had replied, “Friday.”

The truth, however, was that the harbor had been named after a Hawaiian, Joseph Friday, who had worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company, tending sheep about six miles north of the harbor. When sailors came along the coast and saw the column of smoke rising from his camp, they knew they had reached Friday’s bay, and the British had eventually charted it that way.

The island had transferred to American possession in 1872, and from then on industry had flourished. San Juan Island had been the fruit-growing capital of the Northwest. It had also been home to lumber and shake mills, and salmon-packing companies. Now the water-front was crowded with upscale condominiums and pleasure craft instead of canneries and scows. Tourism had become the mainstay of the economy, and although it peaked during the summers, it was a year-round industry.

With autumn in the air, and the leaves in full color, the residents of San Juan Island began to prepare for the upcoming holidays. The island bustled with harvest festivals, farmer’s markets, wine tastings, gallery events, and theater performances. Maggie’s shop showed no signs of slowing down, as local customers came to buy Halloween costumes and accessories, and to take care of some early Christmas shopping. In fact, Maggie had just hired one of Elizabeth’s daughters, Diane, as a part-time sales clerk.

“Now maybe you can ease up a little,” Elizabeth told Maggie. “Taking a day off won’t kill you, you know.”

“I have fun at the shop.”

“Go have fun away from the shop,” Elizabeth said. “You need to have a conversation with someone who’s over four feet tall.” An idea occurred to her. “You should get a massage at that spa in Roche Harbor. They have a new masseuse named Theron. One of my friends says he has the hands of an angel.” Her brows waggled significantly.

“If it’s a man, I don’t think it’s a masseuse,” Maggie said. “But at the moment I can’t remember what you call a man who massages you.”

“A weekly appointment is what I call him,” Elizabeth said. “If he’s single, you could ask him out.”

“You can’t ask a massage guy to go out with you,” Maggie protested. “It’s like a doctor-patient relationship.”

“I dated my doctor,” Elizabeth said.

“You did?”

“I went to his office and told him that I had decided to switch doctors. And he was very concerned and asked why. And I said, ‘Because I want you to take me out to dinner on Friday night.’”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Did he?”

Elizabeth nodded. “We were married six months later.”

Maggie smiled. “I love that story.”

“We had forty-one years together, until he passed away.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.

“He was a lovely man. I wanted more years with him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy spending time with my friends. We travel together, e-mail each other…I couldn’t do without them.”

“I have wonderful friends,” Maggie said. “But they’re all married, and they were such a big part of my life with Eddie that sometimes…”

“The old memories get in the way,” Elizabeth said perceptively.

“Exactly.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You have a new life. Keep the old friends, but it doesn’t hurt to add some new ones. Preferably single ones. Which reminds me…have the Scolaris introduced you to Sam Nolan yet?”

“How did you know about that?”

The older woman appeared vastly pleased with herself. “We live on an island, Maggie. Gossip has nowhere to go except in circles. So…have you met him?”

Maggie busied herself with rearranging some fresh lavender stalks in a vase shaped like a milk jug. The idea of going out with Mark’s younger brother was intolerable. Every small resemblance—the shape of his eyes, or the pitch of his voice—would make the entire experience an exercise in misery.

And that would be unfair to Sam. Maggie would never be able to appreciate everything that he was, because she wouldn’t be able to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

Specifically, that he wasn’t Mark.

“I told Brad and Ellen that I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now,” she said.

“But Maggie,” Elizabeth said, perturbed, “Sam Nolan is the most charming, good-natured young man in the world. And he’s between girlfriends since he’s been so busy with the vineyard. He’s a winemaker. A romantic. You don’t want to miss out on an opportunity like this.”

Maggie gave her a skeptical smile. “Do you really think this young, charming single guy is going to want to go out with me?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I’m a widow. I have baggage.”

“Who has no baggage?” Elizabeth clicked her tongue in chiding. “For heaven’s sake, being a widow is nothing to feel awkward about. It means you’re a woman with the spice of experience, a woman who has been loved. We know how to appreciate life, we appreciate humor, we enjoy our closet space. Believe me, Sam Nolan won’t mind in the least that you’re a widow.”

Maggie smiled and shook her head. Picking up her bag from behind the counter, she said, “I’m going to walk over to the Market Chef and get some sandwiches for lunch. What do you want?”

“Pastrami melt with extra cheese. And extra onion.” As Maggie reached the door, Elizabeth added cheerfully, “Extra everything!”

The Market Chef was an artisan deli that made the best sandwiches and salads on the island. There was always a crowd at lunchtime, but the wait was worth it. Looking into a glass case filled with fresh salads, pasta, perfect meat-loaf slices, and thick wedges of vegetable quiche, Maggie was tempted to order one of everything. She settled on Dungeness crab, artichokes, and melted cheese on toasted homemade bread, and ordered the pastrami melt for Elizabeth.

“For here or to go?” the girl behind the counter asked.

“To go, please.” Seeing a stack of slablike chocolate-chip cookies in a glass jar near the register, Maggie added, “And under no circumstances should you add any of those.”

The girl smiled. “One or two?”

“Just one.”

“If you want to sit over there, I’ll bring the sandwiches to you in just a minute.”

Maggie sat by a window and people-watched as she waited.

In no time at all the girl approached with a white paper sack. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and…” The girl handed her a napkin. “Someone asked me to give this to you.”

“Who?” Maggie asked blankly, but the girl had already hurried away to help a customer.

Maggie’s gaze fell to the white paper napkin in her hand. Someone had written on it.

Hi

Looking up in bemusement, Maggie scanned the small seating area. Her breath caught as she saw Mark Nolan and Holly sitting at a bistro table in the corner. His gaze held hers, and a slow smile curved his lips.

The message on the napkin crumpled into Maggie’s palm, her fingers tightening reflexively. A responsive ache of happiness awakened in her chest, just at the sight of him. Damn it. She had spent weeks trying to convince herself that the interlude she’d had with Mark had not been nearly as magical as it had seemed.

But that didn’t explain the new habit of her heart to skip or stutter whenever she saw a dark-haired man in a crowd. It didn’t explain why, more than once, she had awakened with the sheets tangled around her legs and her mind filled with the pleasant haze of having dreamed about him.

As Mark stood up from the table and walked to her with Holly in tow, Maggie was filled with a terrible, giddy rush of infatuation. Hectic color spread everywhere, right up to her hairline. Her heartbeat throbbed in every limb. She couldn’t look directly at him, couldn’t look fully away from him, just stood in unfocused confusion, bag in hand.

“Hi, Holly,” she managed to say to the beaming child, whose hair was plaited in two perfect blond braids. “How are you?”

The child surprised her by darting forward and hugging her. Maggie automatically closed her free arm around the small, slender body.

Still hanging around Maggie’s waist, Holly tilted her head back and smiled up at her. “I lost a tooth yesterday,” she announced, and showed her the new gap in the bottom row.

“That’s wonderful,” Maggie exclaimed. “Now you have two places to put your straws when you drink lemonade.”

“The tooth fairy gave me a dollar. And my friend Katie only got fifty cents for hers.” This comparison was relayed with a hint of concern at the vagaries of such a pricing system.

“The tooth fairy,” Maggie repeated, casting an amused glance at Mark. She knew how he felt about encouraging Holly to believe in fantasy creatures.

“It was a perfect tooth,” Mark said. “Obviously a tooth like that deserved a dollar.” His gaze swept over Maggie. “We were heading to your shop after lunch.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“I need fairy wings,” Holly told her. “For Halloween.”

“You’re going to be a fairy? I have wands, tiaras, and at least a half-dozen different pairs of wings. Would you like to walk to the shop with me?”

Holly nodded eagerly and reached for her hand.

“Let me carry that stuff for you,” Mark said.

“Thank you.” Maggie gave him the paper sack, and they left Market Chef together.

During the walk, Holly was talkative and lively, telling Maggie about her friends’ Halloween costumes, and what kind of candy she hoped to get, and about the Harvest Festival she was going to after the trick-or-treating. Although Mark said little and walked behind them, Maggie was intensely aware of his presence.

As soon as they entered the shop, Maggie guided Holly to a rack of fairy wings, all beribboned, glittered, and painted with swirls. “Here they are.”

Elizabeth approached them. “Are we shopping for wings? How lovely.”

Holly stared quizzically at the elderly woman, who wore a veiled cone hat and a long tulle skirt, and carried a magic wand. “Why are you dressed like that? It’s not Halloween yet.”

“It’s my outfit for when we have birthday parties at the shop.”

“Where?” Holly asked, casting an eager glance all around the shop.

“There’s a party room in the back. Would you like to see it? It’s all decorated.”

After looking to Mark for permission, Holly went happily to the back with Elizabeth, skipping and hopping.

Mark looked after her with a wry, affectionate grin. “She bounces all the time,” he said. His gaze returned to Maggie. “We won’t stay long. I don’t want to keep you from your lunch.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. How…” It felt like she had just taken a spoonful of honey, having to swallow repeatedly against the sweet thickness. “How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“I’m doing great,” Maggie said. “Are you and Shelby…” She had intended to say “engaged,” but the word stuck in her throat.

Mark understood what she was trying to ask. “Not yet.” He hesitated. “I brought this for you.” He set a tall, narrow-bodied thermos onto the counter, the kind that was capped by a drinking cup. Maggie hadn’t noticed him carrying it before.

“Is that coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, one of my roasts.”

The offering pleased her more than it should have. “You’re a bad influence,” she told him.

His voice was husky. “Hope so.”

It was a delicious moment, standing there with him, imagining for one forbidden second what it would be like to take one step forward and erase the distance between them. To press up to him, against hardness and heat, and feel him gather her in.

Before Maggie could thank him, Elizabeth returned with Holly. The little girl, excited by the decorated party room and a big castle cake with candles on all the turrets, went immediately to Mark and demanded that he come see it, too. He smiled and let himself be towed away.

Eventually Mark and Holly piled up their purchases on the counter: a set of fairy wings, a tiara, and a green and purple tutu. Elizabeth rang them up, chatting amiably, while Maggie was busy helping a customer.

Maggie climbed a folding step stool to reach some figurines that had been stored in a cabinet above a display case. After retrieving Dorothy, the Tin Woodman, the Lion, and Scarecrow, she told the customer that the Wicked Witch was out of stock. “I can reorder and have her here in about a week,” Maggie said.

The customer hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to buy the others if I can’t get the whole set.”

“If you’d like, we’ll call the distributor and make certain they can send the witch.” Maggie glanced toward the cash register. “Elizabeth—”

“I have the number right here,” Elizabeth said, brandishing a laminated list. She smiled as she recognized the customer. “Hello, Annette. Is this going to be a present for Kelly? I knew she would love that movie.”

“She’s watched it at least five times,” the woman replied with a laugh, and went to the counter as Elizabeth dialed the phone.

Gathering up an armload of extra figurines, Maggie climbed the step stool and began to replace them in the cabinet. She began to struggle with her balance when some of the boxes shifted in her arms.

A pair of hands came to her waist, steadying her. Maggie froze briefly as she comprehended that Mark was standing behind her. The pressure of his touch was firm, capable, respectful. But the warmth of his hands sank through the thin cotton layer of her T-shirt, and it sent her pulse rocketing. She tensed against the compulsion to turn in the compass of his arms. How good it would feel to sink her fingers into that dark, heavy hair, and pull him closer, harder—

“Can I put those away for you?” he asked.

“No, I…I’ve got it.”

His hands lowered, but he stayed nearby.

Maggie fumbled with the remaining boxes, pushing them blindly into the cabinet. Descending from the step stool, she turned to face Mark. They were standing too close. He smelled like sun, sea air, salt—the fragrance teased her senses. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “And thanks for the coffee. How will I get the thermos back to you?”

“I’ll come back for it later.”

Having rung up the other customers, Elizabeth approached them. “Mark, I’ve been trying to convince Maggie to meet Sam. Don’t you think they would have a good time together?”

Holly’s face lit up at the suggestion. “You would like my uncle Sam a lot,” she told Maggie. “He’s funny. And he has a Blu-ray player.”

“Well, those are my two requirements,” Maggie replied with a grin. She glanced up at Mark, whose face had gone expressionless. “Would I like him?” she dared to ask.

“You don’t have much in common.”

“They’re both young and single,” Elizabeth protested. “What else do they have to have in common?”

Now Mark was wearing a distinct scowl. “You want to be introduced to Sam?” he asked Maggie.

She shrugged. “I’m pretty busy.”

“Let me know when you decide. I’ll take care of it.” He gestured to Holly. “Time to go.”

“Bye!” the little girl said brightly, coming forward to hug Maggie again.

“Bye, Holly.”

After the pair had left, Maggie glanced around the shop, which had cleared out for the time being. “Let’s have lunch,” she told Elizabeth. They went to the room at the back of the shop and sat at the table, keeping their ears tuned for the telltale jingle of the bell on the door. While Elizabeth unwrapped the sandwiches, Maggie unscrewed the top of the thermos. An enticing scent wafted upward—toasty, rich, and cedary.

Maggie inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to concentrate on the heady fragrance.

“Now I understand,” she heard Elizabeth say.

Maggie opened her eyes. “Understand what?”

“Why you weren’t interested in meeting Sam.”

A breath stuck in her throat. “Oh…I…it has nothing to do with Mark, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I saw the way he looked at you.”

“He’s involved with another woman. Seriously involved.”

“It’s not over till the ‘I dos’ have been said. And Mark brought you coffee.” This was stated as if the gesture was of incalculable significance. “It’s probably the equivalent of Dom Pérignon.” Elizabeth cast a covetous glance at the thermos.

“Would you like to try some?” Maggie asked, amused.

“I’ll go get my mug.”

The brew was already creamed and sugared, a flow of light steaming caramel pouring into their cups. Silently they raised their coffees in a toast, and drank.

It wasn’t just coffee…it was an experience. Smooth, roasted, buttery notes gave way to a velvet finish. Strength and sweetness, no trace of bitterness. It warmed Maggie down to her toes.

“Oh my,” Elizabeth said. “This is delicious.”

Maggie took another swallow. “It’s such a problem,” she said dolefully.

The older woman’s face softened with understanding. “Being attracted to Mark Nolan?”

“He’s off-limits. But whenever I see him, even though we’re not flirting, it feels like we are.”

“That’s not a problem,” Elizabeth said.

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s when it stops feeling like flirting that it becomes a problem. So go ahead and flirt—it may be the only thing that’s keeping you from having sex with him.”