Blue Midnight (Blue Mountain Book 1) Page 9

  Regardless, I looked at the screen. “I know you’re thinking about backing out of this whole thing. But you are there. Just ask around town. No harm in that.”

  I started to write back but then thought better of it. I went back to the window. Purple wildflowers peppered the yellow hillside. Maybe I should get a few photos before I left town. After all, I had driven all the way here. The least I could do was take a few pictures. And there was the coffee shop owner Jackson had suggested I talk to. It couldn’t hurt to pop in there and ask her if she’d ever heard of Finn Lanigan. The answer would probably be no, which would mean I could go home. I almost smiled, thinking of Moonstone’s advice. “Just look for the signs.” If no one had ever heard of him, it was a sign. Go home. Start rebuilding your life.

  ***

  The small and rustic coffee shop featured distressed-wood tables and chairs and walls that looked like they’d been taken from an old barn. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon and was almost full but strangely quiet. Several people read in shabby-looking easy chairs, two young men worked at computers, and four teenage girls in the corner typed into phones. Several older ladies were knitting together in the corner, occasionally making a comment to the others. Behind the counter a white-haired woman made drinks with a large steel espresso maker. Her nametag said Bethany. Dressed in a long skirt and blouse, both of which looked like they were made out of hemp, she wore her wavy hair long with bangs. This was the second woman I’d seen in Peregrine, Idaho who could be a friend of my mother’s, I thought, opening my purse.

  The man in front of me, dressed in a suit, ordered a latte. As she made his drink, they chatted about the price of gas. I glanced behind me. No one waited. Good. It would give me a chance to ask my question. My sister was right. I was here. I might as well ask.

  The man in the suit took his coffee and turned toward me. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with thinning, gray hair and a trim physique. His eyes took me in. I was a stranger in a small town. This is what they did. Or maybe he recognized me as the woman throwing up in the bushes outside of the Peregrine Bar and Grill last night. I flushed just thinking about it.

  “Have a seat, Doc,” said Bethany. “I’ll bring out your scone in a minute.”

  “Sure thing.”

  When it was my turn, I ordered the most complicated drink I could think of: nonfat white mocha with a shot of caramel and whipped cream. I had no intention of drinking it but knew it would take a while to make, therefore allowing me time to ask questions.

  Before my marriage, I made only a pittance as a wedding photographer, so I filled in the gaps with a part-time job as a barista in a coffee shop four mornings a week. I lived in a studio apartment and struggled to make rent, living on noodles and water. The day I turned thirty, I walked Alki beach, counting my dreams against my actual accomplishments. Besides graduating from Cornish College of the Arts, nothing could be checked off the list, including my deep desire for marriage and children.

  Michael was one of my regulars at the coffee shop—an Americano with room for cream. He wore impeccably well-draped suits and reminded me of a character from a 1940s movie, sans the hat. The girls I worked with twittered when he came in, flushing and giving him flirty eyes when they took his order. But I was unmoved by him. He’s awfully sure of himself, I thought. A man who could pluck whatever women he wanted and put them in his collection, like the older florist across the street plucked flowers from her buckets of flowers to make bouquets for her customers. One of the girls at the shop gleaned he worked as an attorney at one of the firms in the high rise next door. This made sense, I thought, when I heard it. He radiated the aura of an old-fashioned gentleman with his newscaster brown hair and power ties and soft brown eyes. Of course he was an attorney. Even more reason to remain cold to his George Clooney eyes.

  After a time, I’m not sure when it started, he began to seem interested in me; sometimes he paid me a compliment on what I wore or noticed if I changed my hair. One day he slid a napkin onto the top of my machine. Written in all capitals. “YOUR NUMBER, PLEASE?” Bold. Confident. Like him. My hands shook as I prepared his drink. Should I give it to him? Why did he want my number? Surely there were hundreds of girls interested in him? Fine. If he wants it, I’ll give it to him but not expect anything. These were the kinds of things I told myself back then. No expectations. Live quiet. Be quiet.

  I wrote it on the side of the paper cup that held his drink. When he took the drink from my small hand, he raised his eyebrows and winked at me. He moved closer to the counter and gestured for me to lean toward him. I did so, gazing into the dish of used coffee grounds, the smell of them almost like home to me in those days. “I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted if you give me a chance.” I shivered, a shot of adrenaline coursing through my body that was a combination of desire, admiration, and excitement. I shifted my gaze to look into his brown eyes. This man was rock solid. This was a man to build a life with. A grown up, steady and successful. A man who would not fade into the wallpaper like my father had. Not a person who would promote and encourage chaos and instability so, like my mother, I could not eat or rest. No, this was a man to make a family with.

  A year later, we were engaged.

  Now here I was years later, back in a coffee shop, single again, asking after the man I’d let go along with my photography.

  Behind the espresso machine, Bethany wrinkled her brows at my complex order and shook her head. “All I’ve got is a regular old mocha.”

  “Okay, that’ll be fine.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Seattle.”

  “With the blond hair, I would’ve figured California.”

  I tugged on a lock near my ear, self-conscious of my new highlights. I should’ve stayed with drab blond, I thought.

  “What brings you to town?” Bethany said this loudly, to be heard over the foam attachment on her espresso machine, which sounded like the scream of a trapped animal.

  I waited for the sound to stop before answering, remembering how hard it was to hear customers from behind the machine. “I’m just passing through. I have an old friend I’m trying to find. Last I heard he lived here.”

  “Yeah? What’s the name?”

  “Finn Lanigan.”

  Her eyes widened, followed quickly by a mask, like the shutter of my camera. “Yeah, the Lanigan family’s from Boise but all the boys have second homes here on a big piece of property north of town they inherited from their father. But Finn Lanigan’s dead.”

  My chest tightened. What had she said? “Dead?”

  “It’s been about three years now. Killed in a car accident. Him and his brother’s wife.”

  “Was he married?”

  She stared at me, as if thinking about whether to answer or not. “No.”

  I felt rather than heard the entire coffee shop listening. Computer keys no longer tapped. Knitting needles stopped clinking. Dishes no longer clattered. No, the place had hushed to utter silence like in church when the preacher says something particularly poignant.

  Bethany set my coffee on the counter. “You know any of his brothers? Or his sister?”

  “No, I didn’t know him well and it was a long time ago.”

  “Their father, Edward, built a summer home here fifty years ago. Well, actually more of a rustic cabin. It was torn down when he died four years ago. His wife hated the old place and moved off to California. Awfullest woman you’d ever meet, that one.” She shivered, as if recalling an encounter with a ghost. Or a witch. “But the brothers all built their own homes here, which they come and go from, except the oldest. He lives here full time now. The sister—she’s the youngest—is the only one who didn’t build on the property. Not sure where she is. Anyway, the family has at least a hundred acres of land in the foothills of Blue Mountain, just north of town here. Lanigan Trucks, you know. Loads of cash.” After putting a lid on my mocha, she slid it across the counter. “Here you go. Hope it’s to your liking.”

 
“Lanigan Trucks?” It was out of my mouth before I realized it was best to keep quiet and pretend like I knew to what she referred.

  She tilted her head, a suspicious glint in her eye. “Yep. The family sold it after Finn’s death, if I recall correctly.”

  Lanigan Trucks? I’d seen their logo hundreds of times. Finn’s family was Lanigan Trucks? They were the largest maker of long-distance trucks in the world, like the John Deere of trucking. Finn must have been a millionaire many times over. He’d never mentioned it or even hinted at it.

  “You want anything else?”

  I shook my head, no, not trusting myself to speak, and put a five-dollar bill on the counter, then turned to go, forgetting my coffee. I walked outside and sank down on a bench in front of the shop, staring at my hands. Finn was dead. I repeated this fact several times in my mind. Finn was dead. Tears didn’t come. I was numb, I suppose, stunned, almost out of my body. I have no idea how many seconds or possibly minutes passed before I got up and headed back toward the Bed and Breakfast. Soon I felt, rather than saw, someone walking next to me. I stopped. It was a girl, no more than eighteen, with a long, blond braid. A scattering of freckles dotted her cheeks.

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said. “I’m Ashley. I heard you ask about Finn Lanigan.” She handed me a napkin. “Like Bethany said, his oldest brother lives here all the time. I wrote the address down for you. Just drive north out of town and turn left on Wilderness Way. Follow it about a mile—it’s a dirt road—and turn left again when you see the sign that reads Lanigan Estates. First house you come to is his.”

  She tugged on her braid. “They’re good people despite what folks say around here. Finn’s niece used to be my best friend.” Her gaze darted to the building across the street with an insurance office. A woman stood at the window with her arms crossed, staring at us.

  Before I could ask Ashley the name of the oldest Lanigan brother, she ran across the street to the woman who watched from the window.

  ***

  Back in my room, I sat on the bed, unsure what to do next. Was it right to pay my respects? Then, the fact came to me, entering and awakening grief. Finn was gone. Finn was dead. The man I’d thought of as my road not taken, was gone. It might seem ridiculous to cry over a man I hadn’t seen in thirteen years, a man I only knew for three days, but regardless of the facts, I was sad. Perhaps it was the lost opportunity, the wasted years, the idea of him that I mourned. I do not know. All I knew then and all I know now is that the man who had made me feel more alive than I’d ever felt in my life, was dead. I wept, brushing aside the tears with my fingers. Finn, I’m so sorry I didn’t have the courage to choose you.

  I felt this, too: he would not be dead if I’d chosen the other path, if I’d chosen him. There wasn’t a logical way to explain how I knew this but I did. If I’d taken the step toward him instead of retreated backward to what was safe and known, if I’d chosen a life of adventure and risk instead of the predictable, the expected, he would be here. He would be with me right now, sipping coffee in some faraway place or perhaps right in this very spot. My road not taken would have made all the difference to both of us.

  At this point in my life I was familiar with the feeling of regret, as are most of us who’ve reached middle age. It’s the bitterest emotion of all, overpowering even the sour taste of loss, grief, anger, and longing that linger in your dry mouth, your aching heart, because it encompasses all of them at once. Any courage we have to squelch the acrid taste of regret vanishes because there is no recovery, no way to fix it, no way to undo it. The “could haves” and “should haves,” they leech you of hope, love, and faith until you’re nothing but parched, raped land under an unforgiving sky.

  After my tears dried, I went to the bathroom mirror, staring into my red eyes, seeking answers from them. What was the thing to do here? It made no sense, of course, but I knew then I would go to the brother and ask the questions I needed to ask. So, I repaired my face and set out in the car, grateful that Moonstone was not at the front desk to either ask or discern my destination. I easily found the road from the main highway, turning left, as Ashley had instructed. After a few miles the pavement ended and became gravel. I slowed the car, bouncing along for several miles until there was an extreme turn, leading up a steep incline. I drove another quarter mile or so, uphill, until I saw a sign made of iron that said Lanigan Estates. The gate was open; I drove through. The valley stretched wide, with Blue Mountain jutting up dramatically behind. Beyond, a bank of trees swayed in the breeze. I saw no visible sign of a house until I’d traveled at least a half-mile down the driveway and turned a corner. A house nestled into the side of the mountain. At first glance it seemed part of the landscape, like an extension of Blue Mountain. The front of the house, covered with glass windows, reflected the sky. Wood siding mirrored the bark of nearby trees. A stream fed into a small lake just to the right of the house. The water, like the windows of the house, reflected the blue sky above. To the left of the house, a large gray barn sat next to a pasture with several horses grazing, their tails swaying. Once I’d reached the house, I parked near a separate garage and turned off the car, gathering my thoughts. What was my story exactly? I should just tell him the truth: my three days with Finn had been some of the happiest of my life and I felt great sorrow to hear of his death. Paying my respects seemed reasonable. I couldn’t do harm or interfere with his life.

  I got out of the car and stood for a moment, taking in the landscape. The meadow grasses, still green this time of year, swayed in the breeze. In the front of the house a seating area, made of stone the color of sand, held an attractive set of outdoor chairs and tables, arranged in a semicircle. Feeling like an intruder, especially given the way my heart thudded in my chest, I circled around to the side of the house and rapped a metal knocker on the front door, twice, holding my breath. I waited for a moment or two but heard no movement. Perhaps the brother was not home. I turned back toward the car, already imagining how my feet would take me to it and out of there. I imagined all the rest, too, collecting my things at the hotel and driving back home to my safe life in a container box. Yes, I thought, absently, I lived in a container box above the real earth, nurtured by sacks of premixed soil rather than this life here under the expansive sky and the dry air and this rich soil.

  Just as I made my first step, the door swung open. I turned back, like Orpheus turning back in the underworld to make sure his lover still followed. And there, matching his house that mirrored land and sky, stood Kevan.

  CHAPTER 9

  I GASPED. I took two steps back.

  “Blythe?” His eyes were question marks but he smiled. “How did you find me?” A medium-sized yellow Labrador, graying around his eyes and mouth, ambled up behind him. Kevan’s hand reached for the top of the dog’s head, scratching him in a habitual way.

  I couldn’t speak. I took another step backward. My mind scrambled and fluttered with thoughts. “I asked around. Small town.”

  “Right. Well, I’m glad you did. Although I was going to come find you later at Moonstone’s. You know, to make sure you were okay. Wasn’t certain I should leave you last night but staying seemed wrong too. A man you barely knew watching you sleep. Creepy, right?” He rubbed his forehead. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re all right.” He held out his hand like he wanted to touch me but then withdrew. The ropey muscles in his tanned arms twitched. “And you look considerably better than when I left you.” He wore long tan shorts with big pockets on the side and a blue T-shirt with the imprint of a band I’d never heard of.

  “Oh, yeah, that. Well, thanks for getting me back to my room in one piece. I’m truly mortified by my behavior.”

  “Don’t be.” He smiled again, his eyes gentle. “Did you come out just to apologize? Because it isn’t necessary.” The dog sat next to his master and cocked his head to one side, his brown eyes on me. The phrase “eyes of an old soul” came to me when I met his gaze. Kevan looked down at the dog and
then back at me. “This is Shakespeare. He doesn’t get around as fast as he once did, do you, old boy? But he’s still the best friend there ever was and that’s a fact.” Shakespeare turned his gaze to Kevan and wagged his tail in what could only be described as pure adoration.

  I watched Shakespeare for a moment, trying to figure out what I should say next. I’d felt better but the hangover rushed back. My stomach churned; the area under my eyes ached. I regretted the coffee and the scone.

  Kevan moved closer. “You all right? Want to come in? I could make you something to eat. Do you like French toast? I know how to make that.” He glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “My daughter’s sleeping. It’s almost noon, for Christ’s sake, but maybe she’d wake up if she smelled French toast.”

  “Kevan, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  His brows wrinkled and he twitched slightly like he’d received a shock from a kitchen appliance. “Okay, well, don’t look so serious. It can’t be all that bad.” He moved backward, opening the door wider. “You want to come in?”

  I nodded, swallowing hard, wiping my damp hands on the sides of my shorts.

  Shakespeare moved aside so I could come into the house. I followed Kevan, Shakespeare behind us, his nails tapping on the hardwood floors. The inside of the house felt like an extension of the outside. The windows spanned floor to ceiling and made it so one could not decipher where the living room ended and the outside space began. The front room, a mixture of concrete and timber framing, exposed steel beams, and Douglas fir beams; polished concrete floors, vintage Moroccan rugs, and pony-skin carpets; and distressed leather furniture, all conveyed rustic, simple, and masculine.

  “You want something to drink? Some water, maybe?” he asked.

  “Sure, yeah.” I followed him to the kitchen. Black appliances and cabinets gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the windows.