Heron's Landing

After he’d toweled off, dressed in boxer briefs and jeans, layered a flannel shirt over a black Harper Construction T-shirt and pulled on his socks and work boots, Seth took off his wedding band and put it into the box in the bedside table drawer.

One of the few things he and his father agreed on was that wearing rings when doing construction could be dangerous. Seth himself had seen guys seriously bruised, had one guy on his sheet metal crew whose finger had been amputated when the ring caught in a piece of machinery, and his electrical contractor’s finger was burned to the bone from an electrical arc during his apprentice days.

So, every work morning since returning home from his weekend honeymoon, he’d put the ring away in its black box in the drawer of the table that still held a framed photo of Zoe and him on their wedding day. And every evening, as soon as he walked in the door, he’d put it back on. Although his main reason was that wearing that simple gold band was a way of keeping his wife close, of not forgetting her and all they’d shared together, the simple truth was that after all these years it had become a habit.

Not a habit, he decided as he walked, with Bandit following right on his heels, out to the garage. Habits, both good and bad, became mere routines, something done without thinking. Taking off and putting on his wedding ring was more like a ritual. Which was a good thing, right?

Rituals were important. They were what bound societies together. Without them, the world would spiral into disorder. The type of chaos that could blow up a beautiful young woman, who’d never done anything to hurt anyone, in the bloom of her life.

Two years after its detail job, Zoe’s Civic still sat in the second car stall. It was concealed by the cover he’d bought after seeing her off on her deployment, but he could still envision it in all its Rallye Red glory. Many people in town, including Quinn, who’d actually shared a personal opinion for once, had suggested he sell it. Easy for them to say. Seth would rather cut off a limb with a rusty chain saw.

He wondered what all those well-meaning folks would say if they knew that once a week he’d drive it to Olympic National Park, up to Hurricane Ridge and back (except in the winter when snow closed the road), to keep the battery charged and gunk from building up inside the various internal parts, none of which he knew all that much about, but it’s what the guys on the car radio shows when he was growing up were always saying. The ranger at the Heart O’ the Hills entrance station, whose kitchen he’d remodeled, had quit asking for his park pass and merely waved him through. She’d also never, not once, asked him the reason for such regular visits.

It wasn’t easy keeping a secret in Honeymoon Harbor, but the fact that his mother hadn’t known about his weekly trips to the ridge suggested he owed that ranger a debt of gratitude.

Over the past years, Seth had learned a funny thing about death. The funeral, held in St. Peter’s because Honeymoon Harbor wasn’t a big enough town to have a Greek Orthodox congregation, had been packed, with every pew filled and standing room only in the side aisles and at the back. The townspeople, along with soldiers from Fort Lewis-McChord who’d come to honor one of their own, had even spilled out into the church parking lot.

Even more people from the peninsula lined the sidewalks on the way to the cemetery, holding their hands over their hearts, their kids waving miniature flags. Although much of that time was a blur, Seth remembered the members of the fire department, dressed in full uniform, standing at attention in front of their gleaming red trucks, having to stop for a freight train carrying a load of logs, and how the engineer had respectfully left his finger off the whistle at the crossing. He also recalled how, as the cortege wound its way along the waterfront, one old man, wearing fisherman’s rubber overalls and black boots, stood on the dock beside his trawler, shoulders squared, back straight as a ramrod, briskly saluting as the hearse drove past.

They were forced to hold the lunch after the internment in the parish community hall because neither his and Zoe’s home nor her parents’ house had enough room for everyone who’d wanted to attend. Tables groaned with casseroles, salads and cakes, and although he’d protested, the women who’d planned the occasion with the precision that Eisenhower had probably used for the D-Day invasion had sent him home with Tupperware and foil-wrapped packages labeled with the contents and name and mailing addresses of who’d made them so he could send thank-you notes. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

Unwilling to allow people to believe their efforts weren’t appreciated, his mother had handwritten notes on cards she’d made herself. Later, he’d learned from Ethel Young, who ran Harper Construction’s office, that she’d taken time to write a different, personal message on each card.

The first few weeks after the funeral, everywhere he went, people would stop to tell him how sorry they were for his loss, and ask—with great concern in their eyes and sadly sympathetic expressions—how he was doing.

To which he always lied and said something along the lines of, “Well, you know, it’s not easy, but I’m doing okay.” To which all those who’d told him that if he ever needed something, anything, to give them a call, looked openly relieved that they wouldn’t be roped into dealing with Honeymoon Harbor’s youngest widower.

Widower. Seth hated that word, which sounded like something from one of Zoe’s downloaded Jane Austen movies that he couldn’t bring himself to delete from their DVR menu.

But time moved on and apparently everyone had expected him to, as well. Because, except on Memorial Day, when Boy and Girl Scouts put flags on all the veterans’ graves and the VFW held a remembrance ceremony at the Harborview Cemetery, it was as almost as if his wife had never existed. As if she’d never twirled across the stage in a tutu playing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the eighth grade production of The Nutcracker, never waved her blue-and-white pom-poms while he was racing down the high school football field to catch Burke Mannion’s passes, never marched in perfect military formation in her JROTC cadet uniform. As if she’d never exchanged wedding vows with stars in her eyes, dreamed about babies who would never be born, never gone to war to save lives, only to lose her own.

“Fuck.” Although it never got easy, some days were tougher than others. Realizing that this was going to be one of the tough ones, he yanked open the door for the dog, who jumped into the passenger seat. Then he climbed into the truck, punched the button for the garage door opener and headed to work.

As imagined images of the aftermath of the hospital bombing that had seemed to run 24/7 for days on cable TV and were probably burned forever on the inside of his eyes, Seth pulled up in front of Cops and Coffee, conveniently located next to the police station and across the ferry dock from the pub. The coffee shop was operated by three retired Seattle detectives, thus the name and the flashing red, white and blue police light. They’d wanted to put the sign above the door, which the town’s strict historical design committee had quickly nixed, but Seth, who’d done the remodel, had managed to get them to give him a permit to place it in the front window, where visitors coming in or leaving on the gleaming white ferry couldn’t miss it.

Bandit’s ears perked up as soon as he cut the engine. His tail began to thump enthusiastically. And just in case Seth might forget the doggie bag, he reminded him with a loud woof.

“Got it,” Seth reassured him. One thing about having a dog...it was hard to feel sorry for yourself when you lived with an animal that, despite an obviously rough background, could remain optimistic. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Bandit would’ve been a good dog for his and Zoe’s kids. Which sent his momentarily uplifted mood diving again.

The decor, if it could be called that, was a hodgepodge of ’50s blue vinyl booths and red Formica-topped tables, a counter with the same blue vinyl on the swivel stools and a separate room in the back where tourists could buy souvenirs. What elevated the joint from your average doughnut shop was the enormous stainless steel espresso machine with as many switches and dials as a fighter jet. Because, after all, this was Washington State, where coffee was the nearest thing to a religion and Folgers in a carafe just wouldn’t cut it.

“You look like you’re on the way to the chair,” Dave, a former homicide detective sporting a Tom Selleck broom brush mustache, greeted him. The uniform of the day was a cop-blue shirt with a badge that read Doughnut Patrol. The badge, natch, was available for sale in the gift shop alongside the T-shirts and travel mugs reading Don’t Dunk and Drive.

“Just the job site,” Seth answered, handing over his oversize travel mug to Dave, who brewed him coffee just the way Seth liked it. Pitch-black and strong enough to stand a spoon up in.

“Meaning the job you’re doing with your dad.” The machine began pouring out the coffee. “The morning after you had dinner with your mom’s new boyfriend.”

“Well, that didn’t take long.” One of the good things about Seth’s hometown was that it was, in many ways, like small towns anywhere. The type of close-knit community where everyone would band together in a heartbeat to support and protect their own. The downside was that same closeness had everyone privy to everyone else’s business. “What, did someone put it on the damn Facebook page?”

“Not yet. But Emma Mae Graham, who came in for a mocha latte and a chocolate glaze to take on the ferry for a day in the city told me she saw you with your mom and Mike Mannion at Leaf. Which makes it the first time they’ve gone public after the past two months, right?”

“Yet you already knew.”

“Hey, I was a street detective before I got into this business.” He tapped his temple. “And detecting in this town is a lot easier than back in the day. Hell, if I knew that everyone who comes in for a cup of joe feels the need to tell a story, I would’ve suggested we open up a Starbucks in the cop shop back in Seattle. It would’ve saved us a lot of interrogation time.”

Fortunately, Seth’s dad was even more of a hermit than Seth, so there was a chance that it might take him longer to find out that his wife, who’d filed separation papers three months ago, had found herself a new man. He skimmed a glance over the doughnuts in the glass-fronted case. “I’ll take a box of six glazed crullers and six apple fritters to go.”

“Breakfast of champions,” Dave agreed as he began putting them into a dark blue box with the Doughnut Patrol shield printed in gold on the top.

“The fritters have apples in them,” Seth said. “Which is a government-recommended fruit part of the food pyramid, right?” That was his story and he was sticking to it.

“Works for me,” the former detective agreed. “Like carrot cake is a vegetable.”

“There you go.”

After boxing up the fritters and crullers, along with three doughnut holes in a small waxed bag for Bandit, Dave handed the complimentary baker’s dozen thirteen deep-fried doughnuts to Seth, who bit into a cruller and enjoyed the rush of fat and sugar.

He drove along the water, turning up the hill to a gut-job he’d been working on for a month. Great. His dad’s truck was already in front of the house. Seth didn’t know how the old man did it, but he’d often thought he could arrive at two in the morning and Ben Harper would already be there.

He paused for a moment, studying the house, which was one of his favorites. Like the arts and crafts bungalows, Folk Victorians were one of the most often found styles of historical houses in the country, and what home buyers usually thought of when they went looking for “charm.”

The homes had ruled the day from 1870 to 1910. Unlike the better-known high-style Queen Anne, a Folk Victorian was nothing more than a dressed up ordinary “folk house,” so named because it had been built to provide basic shelter for the masses with little regard for changing fashions.

As growing railroads brought machinery into towns where workmen could produce inexpensive Victorian detail to be grafted onto existing homes, the decorated houses began to spread like wildfire.

What set the Folk Victorians apart from the earlier ordinary houses was the decorative detailing on the porches and cornice line. Porch supports were usually turned spindles or square beams with beveled corners. Other porch details were lacy or unique jigsaw-cut balustrades. The possibilities were as endless as the craftsmen’s imaginations and reflected their own particular region. In this part of the country, silhouettes of trees, mountains, animals, whales and fish along with stylized Pacific Northwest Native American symbols predominated.

Their uniqueness, combined with a simple floor plan, made Folk Victorians as desirable today as they were when that first trainload of architectural trim had arrived in the 1800s. This particular house had been bought by a local photographer, Kylee Campbell—an old friend of Zoe’s—and her photographer fiancée she’d met while traveling across Europe. While Kylee tended to focus more on portraits and the lucrative wedding business, Mai, her fiancée, was more into scenic shots she sold to magazines around the world. Some, taken in the national park and around town, were currently displayed in Mike Mannion’s gallery.

While Bandit snuffled around the exterior, searching out any squirrels or raccoons that might have invaded during the night, Seth found his father inside what had once been a back kitchen and was in the process of becoming a darkroom. Although Kylee and Mai were both photographers, their methods were very different. Kylee preferred shooting digital so her clients could see the photo immediately, but Mai occasionally preferred working with black-and-white film, which she’d develop herself. While going over the plans for the darkroom, she’d jokingly told him part of the reason she preferred film over digital was that the Caffenol, which apparently had replaced the funky old developer, smelled so damn good. Especially early in the morning, when she claimed it was like breathing in hot coffee steam while meditating. He’d decided to take her word on that.

While working on this house, he’d thought how often marriages were a study in contrasts. Along with being a born nurturer, which had made her such a beloved nurse, Zoe had definitely been the more outgoing and talkative of the two of them. Even as she could be briskly efficient, she also wore her heart along with her combat patch on her uniform sleeve. One of his few positive takeaways from her deployment was how she would have made a bad situation better for any soldier who’d ended up in her care.

Similarly, in contrast to Mai’s serenity, Kylee was an extrovert, as bright as her red hair, perfect for keeping stressed-out brides and grooms from freaking out before the ceremony, while at the same time being empathetic enough to catch those special moments that showed, far better than any posed photos, expressions of love.

Like the photos she’d taken for his and Zoe’s wedding, which included one of Zoe’s mother zipping up her wedding dress, another of his bride-to-be calling him one last time on her cell minutes before the ceremony to tell him how much she loved him. And one he hadn’t realized Kylee had caught, of him pinning the rose boutonniere on the lapel of his father’s seldom-worn, outdated suit. His father’s expression had revealed a warmth of emotion Seth couldn’t remember ever seeing before or since. Whenever he looked at that particular photo, Seth wondered if, just possibly, Ben Harper had been remembering his own wedding day to a woman as warm and open as he was distant.

Zoe had always been the outgoing one of the two of them. Middle school was hard enough to figure out your way through, even when you’d known everyone in your class forever. Coming in as the new girl midyear couldn’t have been easy. But seemingly without any effort at all, she quickly began weaving herself into the fabric of the school, and by the time summer vacation rolled around, it was as if she’d been there all her life. All of his life.

After steaming off over a century’s layers of wallpaper, Seth’s dad was now down to getting rid of the paint before repairing the walls with a mixture of lime putty, fine sand and goat hair. Watching him, thinking back to that photo, Seth wondered, for the very first time, if, as much as he’d loved Zoe, because he shared the same difficulty in articulating his feelings as his father, they might have ended up like his parents. At a point when their love might not have been strong enough to overcome years of what Zoe might someday come to view as indifference.

Hell. And wasn’t that a fun thought? Not that he’d ever get a chance to know. Or to try to fix things if they had gone off course. Because Zoe was gone. And he was still here. With a job to get done. On budget and on schedule.

Ben Harper might not be the easiest of men to live with, but no one could fault his attention to detail. The man was one of the last of a dying breed of craftsmen whose knowledge of building had been passed down through the generations. Although many of the kids Seth had grown up with couldn’t wait to get out of their small, isolated hometown, Seth’s roots had always been deeply set in the area’s glacial, loamy soil. And he especially appreciated being part of a continual line of Harper males who’d built Honeymoon Harbor.

“’Bout time you showed up,” his father, thankfully unware of Seth’s earlier thoughts, muttered without turning around. “Late night?”

“I stopped for fritters.” He didn’t bother to share that he’d spent most of the night locked in the frequent nightmare of the suicide bomb blowing Zoe’s hospital ward to smithereens.