Spindrift Page 3
Her phone buzzed. She scanned the notifications. A missed call from her mother, and a text from her stepsister, Anna Maria. Both could wait, as could the emails mustering their forces in her inbox. At least one would be from a shelter director, reminding her that she had a job waiting whenever she was ready to return. Whenever. Not if. So far only her therapist had acknowledged the possibility that she might not be ready to return to any of it: Boston, her job, even the veterinary field. Remembering what her therapist, Shanti, had taught her about thought blocking, she redirected her mind away from her breakdown and the responsibilities she’d put on hold, and back to the present.
Tomorrow she would stop by the hardware store and pick up some paint palettes. While she was there, maybe she’d see about grabbing a fiberglass repair kit to fix the leak in her skiff. One day at a time as Ray Russo was fond of saying—not that he’d ever managed to stick with AA. No major decisions. She could do this.
Chapter Three
The hardware store in town boasted a slim selection of paint chips. Emilia eyed the palette, wondering if she should venture farther inland in search of a larger chain home improvement store. The thought exhausted her.
Maybe it’s good to have fewer options. She selected a handful of white, cream, and ivory chips and tried to visualize them on the rough pine walls. Should she leave the walls and just paint the trim? And what about the ceiling? No. Light walls. She’d play with leaving a few exposed beams, but the house needed a face-lift, and she couldn’t bear to think about her father sitting alone in the dark, smoking his pipe and drinking until his heart gave out. Fresh paint, fresh start.
“Need any help?”
The store clerk looked to be about sixteen. Hardly old enough to be an expert in anything, despite the Ask Me pin above his nametag.
“Fiberglass repair?” she said.
“Aisle six,” replied Ask Me Doug. He led the way, his work shirt rumpled and his hair that peculiar brand of disarray known only to teenage boys. “Boat?”
“Yes. Just a skiff.”
“Ever repaired one before?”
“I helped my dad once.”
“It’s super easy.” He grinned, apparently enthusiastic about the subject, as he launched into an explanation about the proper curing conditions for fiberglass that made her eyes glaze. Emilia amended her earlier assessment. Perhaps Doug was an expert in repairing leaky rowboats.
“Thanks,” she said when he finished.
“No problem. There’s lots of YouTube videos if you need more help.”
She would definitely need more help.
Laden with paint chips and a fiberglass kit, she left the store and stepped into the spring sunshine. Nell waited in the car with her long neck stretched out the window, tracking the progress of a squirrel in a neighboring tree.
“Oh no you don’t.” Nell had two gears: potato and full speed. Emilia would never catch her if she took off after the fluffy-tailed creature. She grabbed her dog’s leash forcefully as she dumped her supplies in the trunk. Nell gazed after the squirrel with longing, but did not attempt to give chase.
The idea of going home made her teeth ache with claustrophobia. To postpone it, she took Nell for a walk to see how much of the town had changed since she’d last been here.
The harbor town was small and slightly run-down in a quaint, coastal way that pleased the eye and attracted tourists in the summer months. Flower boxes offset fading paint and missing shingles, and the few boutiques open for business this early in the season carried the usual tourist fare. Emilia passed several seaside restaurants, the main wharf, a small lobster dock, and the town’s only hotel, which was little more than a large bed and breakfast.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee caught her attention, and she saw a small shop she didn’t remember from her youth: Storm’s-a-Brewin’ Coffeehouse and Brewery.
Another microbrewery. Just what the world needs, she thought, but the Pets Welcome sign took the edge off her cynicism. Keeping Nell in heel, she pushed through the glass door and into the warmth of the coffee shop.
“Good morning,” said a short woman with thick black curls, bright red lipstick, and an infectious smile from behind the counter.
Emilia blinked at her, then looked around. A wooden bar wrapped around one corner of the café, and a chalkboard advertised local beers on tap while another boasted various gourmet coffee beans. Exposed brick walls complemented the potted succulents and air plants that hung from the beams. She didn’t need to look to know that the case of artisanal products by the checkout was outside her budget. Tables occupied the floor space, although most of them were empty, and a small raised platform suggested the shop held live performances. The effect was too hip for Seal Cove, but the coffee smelled delicious.
“Good morning,” she said. “Just a cup of your dark roast.”
“For here or to go?”
Emilia considered her options. She could kill some time and think about painting, or she could get to work on the boat or the house. “For here.”
“And for your pup? Puppaccino?”
I’m a vet, so no, she almost said, her mind filled with images of obese dogs downing whipped cream. She settled for a “no thank you.”
“Dog biscuit?” The woman’s smile spread faster than the parvovirus in a puppy mill. Emilia felt her lips twitch in response.
“Sure. What do you say, Nell?”
The greyhound sat and swiveled her ears forward, her impossibly long snout waiting expectantly for praise.
“Well, aren’t you a perfect angel,” said the barista. Her nametag identified her as Stormy. Great, she thought darkly, recalling the name of the café. I just love puns.
“She certainly thinks she is.”
“Did you adopt her from the tracks? I heard they closed a bunch last year.”
“I did. Not last year, but a few years ago.”
“You speedy snoot of a doggo,” Stormy said as she handed Nell the biscuit. Snoot of a doggo? Nell, however, didn’t mind the gibberish and took the biscuit delicately. “Any treats for you?”
Emilia eyed the pastries. “Maybe a scone.”
“Definitely a scone. Blueberry is the best. Maine berries. Last year’s, of course, but they freeze well.”
Emilia paid and settled into a corner with her coffee and her scone. Both exceeded her expectations. The scone boasted the perfect combination of moist and crumbly, and the coffee tasted like coffee smelled, unlike the disappointing stale breakfast blend she’d found in her father’s cupboard. She rested her fingertips on Nell’s back. Food hadn’t tasted good for weeks. Months, if she was being honest. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation of her taste buds responding appropriately to stimuli and took another bite of the scone, then a sip of coffee. Perfect.
The little bell above the door broke her blissful reverie. Nell perked up, her tail wagging, and Emilia’s tenuous good mood burst.
“Stormy?” Morgan Donovan called as she pushed through the door, followed by a petite blond in matching Carhartts and polo. Emilia tried to shrink behind her mug and wished she had grabbed a copy of the local paper as a shield.
“Stormy, your boyfriend’s here,” said Morgan’s companion.
Boyfriend?
“Hey, babes,” Stormy said. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”
Morgan leaned on the counter. Emilia studied her shoulders, acutely aware of the muscles visible beneath Morgan’s shirt.
“Barely,” said Morgan.
“I can fix that. Drinks on me today.”
“You don’t need to do that,” said Morgan.
“I know.” Stormy smiled and blew the woman beside Morgan a kis
s. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Sunshine” put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and peered around her to examine the pastries. The casual touch made Emilia shrink further behind her cup.
“How’s business?” Morgan asked.
“Starting to pick up. Morning rush is over, as you can see.” Stormy gestured at the café.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, Emilia prayed. Morgan turned. Emilia stared into the depths of her mug, hoping Morgan would get the hint. Being reminded of her most recent humiliation held zero appeal.
Nell betrayed her. She felt Morgan’s gaze hone in on the dog, and she ordered Nell to stay out of the corner of her mouth. Nell shot her an all-too-human look, then wagged her tail at Morgan. Aware that feigning further indifference would border on rude, Emilia looked up.
Slate blue eyes met hers from across the room.
“Hey there,” Morgan said, an easy smile on her lips. Emilia’s stomach dropped just as surely as it had at age thirteen.
“Hi.”
“How’s the boat?”
“I picked up some fiberglass repair.”
“Sunshine” glanced back and forth between Morgan and Emilia, her forehead furrowed. Stormy rested her elbows on the bar, revealing her generous cleavage, and gave Emilia a considering look that turned the scone to a lump of cement in her stomach.
“Emilia Russo,” Morgan said to her friends.
Damn you, Emilia thought as Stormy straightened in recognition.
“You’re Ray’s daughter?” asked the woman Emilia guessed to be the café’s proprietor.
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry about your dad. He was a nice guy. Always tipped. He played for us a few times in the off-season.” Stormy nodded toward the stage.
The thought of her father playing guitar in this hipster hideout brought a surge of unexpected emotions. Jealousy, first, that he’d played for other people. Grief, of course. Pride, too, and gratitude that here, at least, he’d be remembered for something other than a failed marriage and a drinking problem.
“Ray?” asked Sunshine.
“Russo Construction,” said Stormy. “Real nice baritone. You remember him.”
Emilia found the small lump in Nell’s shoulder that had been there for as long as she’d had her and traced it with the pads of her fingers. Morgan stared at her, and she felt, rather than saw, the compassionate sympathy in her gaze.
“He has that beautiful house up on Pleasant Street. Are you putting it on the market?”
“Ease up, Stormy.” Morgan accepted the to-go cup Stormy handed her.
“Yeah. Ignore her. I’m Stevie, by the way.” Stevie approached Emilia with a slight swagger that set off her gaydar.
“Emilia.” She took the offered hand, noting the calluses. Stevie’s blue-green eyes—much lighter than Morgan’s—shifted to Nell. “And this is Nell.”
“Why hello there, gorgeous,” Stevie said in a surprisingly throaty voice. Nell responded without her usual reserve and stepped forward to present herself for adoration. “How long are you in town for?”
“I’m not sure. A month, at least, Maybe two.”
“Nice. Well, we’ll probably see you around. Small town. And I will be seeing you,” she purred at Nell.
Emilia smiled despite herself.
“You got my coffee?” Stevie asked Morgan.
Morgan slid another to-go cup down the bar and met Emilia’s eyes again. A shiver ran down her back. Morgan’s boyish appeal had matured into soft-butch perfection, and she remained unfairly attractive. Embarrassment gnawed at the scone in her stomach, producing unpleasant byproducts.
“See you later,” Stevie said as she headed for the door. Morgan followed after with a wave to the room, but she paused at the door with a crooked grin.
“Stay dry,” she said to Emilia.
Emilia clenched her jaw at the reminder about her unexpected swim. The doorbell jingled in Morgan’s wake.
• • •
“That’s who you pulled out of the ocean?” Stevie said as soon as the door shut behind Morgan.
“So?”
“So, she’s fucking gorgeous. Did you at least get her number?”
“Jesus, Stevie. That’s inappropriate.”
“How? You rescued her, didn’t you?”
“Pretty sure she didn’t want to be rescued.”
“See if she’s on Tinder.”
“No.”
“Give me your phone.”
“Absolutely not,” said Morgan.
“Fine. I’ll use my account.” Stevie pulled her phone out of her pocket and perused it for a few minutes in concentrated silence. “And nothing. She’s not on Hinge, either.”
“Maybe she’s seeing someone.”
“Or she doesn’t use dating apps because people who look like her don’t need technology. Either way, she’s definitely queer,” said Stevie.
“You just want her to be gay because she’s hot.” Morgan turned off the main road and onto a side street, swerving to avoid yet another pothole.
“Ah hah. You do think she’s hot.”
“I’m not blind.”
Stevie fiddled with the radio and settled on an ’80s station that made Morgan’s head throb. At least they only had three appointments scheduled for the day, plus she had gotten a full night’s sleep. No calls. With luck, they might even be done at a reasonable time. She knew better than to say the words aloud. The veterinary gods loved to fuck with their followers.
“Has Doctor Watson found anyone to hire yet?” Stevie asked as they pulled into the driveway of a small farm.
“Not that she’s told me. Apparently, no one wants to move to bumfuck Maine.”
“We’re not in Bumfuck. You’re thinking of our hometown.”
“Which is two towns over.”
“Whatever. Anyway, Emilia. When did her dad die?”
“February. Heart attack.”
“That sucks. Maybe she needs a friend.” Stevie propped her chin on her fist and stared up at Morgan with dramatically widened eyes. “If only you’d gotten her number.”
“Why don’t you ask her for it?” Morgan parked the truck by a pile of old tires.
“Because she’s not my type,” said Stevie. “And she’s totally yours.”
“Shut up.”
In a different time and in a different place, she admitted to herself, she might have made a pass at Emilia. Dark-eyed brunettes, especially tall, dark-eyed brunettes, had a history of getting under her skin. A different Morgan would have asked her out for coffee or a beer without thinking twice.
Kate had shattered any chance of that.
Abby Killmore greeted Morgan with a firm handshake at the barn door, her coveralls smeared with all the shades of green and brown found in barns. “Good to see you, Doctor Donovan.”
“How’s the flock?”
“Most of them lambed without a problem. I’ve got one ewe with mastitis, but something’s up with Percy.”
Morgan stifled a groan. Percy, Abby’s livestock guardian llama, had a foul temper.
“I didn’t know you had a horse, Abby,” said Stevie. Morgan followed Stevie’s gaze and frowned. A stout chestnut walked across the pasture toward them. Belgian, Morgan guessed, or a draft cross. The horse’s flaxen mane blew in the late spring breeze. She recognized the odd snap to the horse’s left hind immediately: stringhalt.
“I don’t,” said Abby, her brow creasing. “That’s Olive.”
“Are you boarding?”
“Something like that. She’s my cousin’s daughter’s, but she’s got stringhalt. Kid wanted a new horse, and my cousin’s an idiot and got her one.”
“And now you have Olive?” said Stevie.
“Yep.”
“Want us to take a look at her?”
Abby’s hesitation was more pronounced this time. Morgan kept her expression neutral. She understood what Abby wasn’t saying. The cousin wouldn’t pay for another vet visit, and Abby wasn’t interested in coug
hing up more money, either.
“Who was your cousin’s vet?”
“Dr. Baker, over in Scarborough.”
Morgan made a mental note to give Dr. Baker a call the minute she left the property. “Any history of injury to that leg?”
“Not that I know of, but that doesn’t mean much.”
“Let’s take a look at Percy, then.”
Percy, after an examination that resulted in several wads of spit landing on Morgan’s torso; and one nearly hitting her face, had a suspicious swelling on his breast. She took a few cultures from the abscess, then checked over the flock. Some bacterial causes of abscesses were contagious. When she turned up a ewe with similar symptoms, she turned to Abby.
“It could be pigeon fever. I won’t know for sure until I get the cultures back, but it can affect horses, too. I’ll need to check Olive.”
“I’ll grab her,” said Abby, relenting. Olive didn’t need much coaxing. The mare had been hanging out by the gate with bright, curious eyes. She nuzzled Abby as Abby slipped a halter over her head and led her into the barn. Her left hind snapped up and then down to the cement floor of the barn with a hard clunk that made Morgan wince in sympathy.
Stevie headed up the horse while Morgan performed her examination. Olive, despite the stringhalt and an overly round stomach, was in remarkably good health as far as Morgan could tell without running blood work.
“What did your cousin do with her?”
“Kid wanted to barrel race.”
“With a Belgian?”
“She’s supposed to be a quarter horse cross.”
Morgan looked at Olive. Any quarter horse blood had been obscured by her Belgian heritage, save for her shorter stature. She wouldn’t be racing any barrels with a weak hind end.
“You could probably still do something with her. Stevie, try her at a trot.”
Stevie led her out of the barn into the yard and clucked a reluctant Olive into a trot. The stringhalt affected the trot, too, and without a round pen or a ring Morgan doubted they could convince the mare to canter.
“I don’t ride,” said Abby.
“I can keep an ear out if you’re looking for a home for her,” said Morgan. Stevie returned to them with the horse trailing her, ears perked forward.