Keepsake for Eagle Cove Read online

  Keepsake for Eagle Cove (sweet)

  a small town Oregon romance

  M. L. Buchman

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  A Sweet Note

  This “Sweet Version” is exactly the same story as the original, with no foul language and the bedroom door—even when there isn’t one—tastefully closed.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

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  Where Dreams Are Born (excerpt)

  About the Author

  Also by M. L. Buchman

  Chapter 1

  Envying other people wasn’t something Tiffany Mills had much experience with and she didn’t like it. Especially not when they were hugging her so fiercely.

  She’d always thought of Natalya Lamont as the calm and collected one of her friends. Well, not her friends, but Natalya’s. Maybe it was Natalya’s own wedding that had her bubbling like a giddy schoolgirl.

  Of course Natalya’s mother also was exhibiting similar behavior as it was her wedding day as well—a mother-daughter marrying a father-son event. But Gina Lamont was a generally more effusive type, so at least it was expected of her.

  Tiffany wanted to ask Natalya what it felt like to be so happy, but resisted the urge. Delaying a bride making the rounds wouldn’t be fair…and, with Natalya’s present mood, probably not even possible. It was awfully kind of her to notice Tiffany at all—she was as close to being a friend as Tiffany had allowed in years.

  “I really appreciate you being here,” Natalya finally let her go, then gave her another quick hug with a loud “Ooooooo” of sheer delight before spinning back into the congratulatory crowd surging through and around the Lamont B&B.

  “No, it was my pleasure,” Tiffany ended up saying it to herself, always remembering too late to speak her thoughts aloud when she was with others. If it meant she had lived too long alone, she wasn’t going to think about it now.

  It was a gorgeous day for spring in Eagle Cove, Oregon. The big Victorian overlooking the Pacific Ocean was packed with wedding revelers. The parlor and the kitchen overflowed out onto the porch on the warm May day. That was where Tiffany had retreated to, a small bench on the wrap-around verandah that let her overlook the events on the lawn without getting snarled up in them.

  Becky Billings had lobbied to have the event out at her brewery, as her own wedding had been, and they would have moved it there if the weather hadn’t cooperated. But it was one of those magical spring days after a long, wet winter that made everybody smile. Natalya and her mother Gina had thrown a lunch—catered by Greg, the town’s master chef, of course—then had the wedding, which left plenty of time for dancing on the front lawn. It overlooked the ocean and was well filled with people during the warm afternoon; the cool evening would chase everyone inside, but not for a few hours yet.

  Gina and Natalya had both wanted to be wed in the family home, the last house before the big headland that defined the end of Eagle Cove. The town was spread over two miles of shoreline and the town’s founders—a mother and daughter as well—had built two grand Victorian houses on the high bluff below the rocky palisade of Orca Head. One house became the Lamont B&B, and Judge Slater owned the other.

  Not for the first time, she felt a pinch. Gina and Natalya Lamont belonged here in Eagle Cove, direct descendants of the daughter. They even still lived in the family home, at least Gina did, and Natalya had grown up in it.

  Tiffany was connected to the town as well, but it was a connection from long ago and one that she had kept secret for the three years since she’d moved here.

  Of course she wasn’t exactly in town, which made her feel a little less guilty. She lived alone, homesteading a full mile farther out of town into the forested hills. She had found a small gap between two plat surveys of adjacent state forests and, much to the Oregon Department of Forestry’s surprise, had purchased the ten-acre anomaly from the state. She lived in “unincorporated” forest—technically, she wasn’t even in a county.

  Maybe she should declare her own county, or better yet her own country! Occupancy: one human, thirty chickens (unless some more eggs had hatched this morning), a half dozen goats, and her guard dog. There was also an exceptionally lazy cat the black-over-white color of an orca whale—and roughly the same blobbish shape—who kept Tiffany’s lap warm on cold nights. Fitz only roused herself for mouse hunting, a task at which she excelled.

  Oregon State law had some considerations that might make it implausible to declare independence and Federal law definitely did. Of course, if she did declare her own state, she’d have to decide whether or not to sign onto the Interstate Commerce Commission for fair trade with other states. Would that be necessary for when she sold her chicken eggs and excess garden produce to Greg at The Puffin restaurant in Eagle Cove? As a bonus she could elect a governor. Of course, with only one resident, the choice would be obvious and the balloting blessedly painless.

  Tiffany raised her right hand, “And the ayes have it.”

  “Good. They can keep it,” Jessica Baxter stepped up, slapped Tiffany’s raised hand like a high-five, then eased herself down on the bench as close as Tiffany had observed best friends often did.

  Tiffany’s other shoulder was against a wall, so she had nowhere to go.

  “If my husband ever tries to touch me again, he’s going to get a big-ol’ nay.”

  “You’re huge!” At eight months pregnant, Jessica seemed to be expanding daily, but she sat so close beside Tiffany, that Tiffany could see Jessica’s belly almost from the owner’s perspective. Jessica had been the first of Natalya’s friends to get married. She’d gotten pregnant right away and every one of those eight months showed on her belly. She was five-ten—Tiffany wouldn’t have minded those extra four inches herself—and slender as could be, except for the pregnancy. From the back she looked perfectly normal, as she had one of those pregnancies that went straight forward.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Jessica groaned with a happy sigh of relief at being off her feet.

  “Okay, you probably don’t know why your five-times-great-grandmother stopped speaking to her daughter,” for Jessica Baxter was Gina’s niece and also a descendant of Pearl Lamont.

  And then Tiffany wished she could cut her tongue out. It was something Jessica wouldn’t know, but it said so much more than Tiffany wanted to reveal. Ever.

  Jessica blinked at her in surprise.

  Tiffany could only hope that it would be written off as “just one of those things that Tiffany Mills says.” Her own four-times-great-grandmother’s journal was what had led her to Eagle Cove in the first place. Lillian Lamont had been one of the founders of the town. But if Tiffany wished to survive, her past had to stay hidden, cut off, forever.

  “Wait.” Jessica furrowed her brow as she massaged her back. “Five times…you’re talking about the founders of Eagle Cove.”

  Tiffany really didn’t do well with people who lived outside of her imagination.

  Jessica, she knew, had been a journalist and was incredibly tenacious. Now that she’d latched onto it, there wasn’t a chance that she’d let go. Tiffany didn’t want to reveal how she knew what she did or that she had any
connection to the town prior to the founding of the State of Tiffany in the woods. She suspected that her normal ploy of shaking her long hair forward and “going shy” while focusing on her knitting wasn’t going to work this time. Especially as she hadn’t brought her knitting to the wedding. Running might be an option. But if she started, she might never stop. Then where would she—

  “Hi.”

  Tiffany looked up at the man now standing eye-level to them, two steps down from the porch. He was lean and had brown eyes beneath tousled hair of the same color. He wasn’t dressed like a wedding guest, but rather in unseasonably early shorts, a plain t-shirt, and hiking boots. He looked like a trekker, certainly had the strong legs of one, but she glanced around and saw no sign of a pack.

  “I don’t want to crash the party, but I think I’m in the right place. This is the Lamont B&B?” He appeared a little lost and a lot overwhelmed, two feelings that Tiffany knew well.

  Grabbing any distraction she could, Tiffany rose to face him as he climbed the last two steps. He was only a few inches taller than she was. “It is. It’s also the Lamonts’ weddings, both of them.”

  “Oh, that explains the crowd. Maybe I’ll, uh, just come back in a few days.” He looked around as if trying to find somewhere to go.

  “Did you have a reservation?” Tiffany almost grabbed his arm as he started to turn away. Jessica hadn’t moved from the porch seat close behind her and Tiffany was still trying to distract her from the accidental revelation.

  “No. Not really. And not yet. I’m a couple days early. Once I got in my truck…” he waved vaguely back toward the long drive clogged with guests’ cars, “I just drove.”

  “I think the B&B’s full with wedding guests, but let’s go check.” Tiffany took his hand and led him inside. At the last second she risked a glance at Jessica, and saw that she hadn’t gotten away with anything. But more than that, Jessica was looking at Tiffany as if she was suddenly an alien or something. She grabbed the man’s hand more tightly and plunged into the crowd.

  Devin Robison had rarely felt so out of place in his life. He’d slept in the back of his pickup last night in the Boise National Forest. Up with the sun, he’d landed in Eagle Cove nine hours later in the middle of a wedding. It was terribly disorienting, and not just the road-weariness-meets-wedding scenario.

  He’d thought that growing up in Chicago had prepared him for great expanses of water. Lake Michigan was Chicago’s front yard—three hundred miles long and a hundred wide. He’d even boated on the Caribbean a few times. But as he’d crossed the country, the towering peaks of the Rockies had been as disorienting as if he’d traveled to the moon. The real shock had been when he’d broken out of the Coast Range forest before the final descent into town and seen the entire Pacific Ocean before him; he’d nearly crashed his Toyota in surprise. Unless you happened to stumble on an island, Tokyo was five thousand miles away. The expanse was impossible to comprehend.

  Neither Chicago nor the towns he’d driven through in the last four days had prepared him for the tiny size of Eagle Cove. One mile from forest to ocean and two miles along the beach…and it wasn’t densely populated. The next town of any size was thirty miles up the coast. He’d been on the verge of turning around from an attack of agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces—or maybe just plain nerves. It was news to him that such obscure places even existed. Eagle Cove was so remote, so wild. He hadn’t seen a single fast food place in the town. Maybe they weren’t allowed; every business, actually every road except the main drag of Beach Way, had been named for a bird: Blackbird Bakery, Warbler Market, Rusty Pelican Tavern. Strange place.

  Devin had come west looking for a fresh start, or at least a break. He needed the latter desperately, but he’d left “middle America” somewhere staggeringly far behind.

  Finding the massive Victorian home had been easy. “Find LBB Lane at the far end of downtown,” which was their grandiose term for a business district four blocks long. “Go to the end of the road Little Brown Bird Lane. You’ll know when you find the right place.”

  And he absolutely had. The house was gorgeous. It was exactly the sort of structure that had led him into architecture school. Three stories of classic, early-1880s American Queen Anne Victorian. He’d fallen in love the moment he’d seen it. The house was one of the best examples he’d ever seen of that style. Unlike so many of the ones in Chicago, the whimsy had not been allowed to overwhelm the beautiful lines and overall cohesiveness of the design. Yet it was still playful, with circular turrets, balconies, and a wrap-around porch.

  A verandah clogged with people.

  Devin floated through a kitchen packed solid, anchored in this reality only by the hand of the woman leading him.

  The woman leading him.

  Few greeted her, though they readily moved aside, allowing her a straight line passage. His first sight of the kitchen had made him wonder if it was even possible to cross. Yet for whoever-she-was, the crowd made way. He was half tempted to guess that it was magic, as people almost didn’t notice that they had moved aside for her. They certainly didn’t break their conversations for her passage.

  He usually at least knew the name of someone he was holding hands with. Had there been introductions? He didn’t think so.

  He’d headed for the woman on the verandah the moment he’d spotted her. Her nearly waist-long fall of thick tawny hair had acted like a guiding beacon. Only a model had hair like that, not normal people, yet she looked to be perfectly in her element. Then, as he climbed the steps, he’d become aware of her eyes watching him from beneath the wide brim of her felted hat—twin glints of blue-gray carefully hidden by shadow.

  Her blouse and skirt were…rustic, for lack of a better word. Perhaps bohemian, as the maroon belt made by a wrapping of fabric defined a trim waist and made her billowy sun-yellow blouse and light spring-green skirt look very nice. Maybe someone’s mild-mannered and carefully cloistered cousin. Except for her hands. The one holding his was firm and, even if she didn’t hold on hard, the strength of her fine fingers was obvious. And hard calluses. She worked with her hands a lot.

  “What’s your name?” She didn’t look up at him. They’d come to a small nook in the back corner of the kitchen. It felt oddly quiet here though he could hear a dozen different conversations. She let go of his hand to pull out a register. The woman spoke softly, but he could hear her despite the other noise.

  “Devin. Devin Robison.”

  She didn’t offer her own, but began flipping through the pages. Then she stopped as if shocked. She looked up at him sidelong.

  Yes, more gray than blue, at least the one eye inspecting him.

  “Who are you?”

  Devin figured that if he could answer that one, he wouldn’t be twenty-three hundred and seventy-nine miles away from everything and everyone he knew. “Am I in the book?”

  She nodded with a mesmerizing slide of long hair. “Yes.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  This time the hair shimmered side to side.

  “And?” What a curious person she was.

  “Gina Lamont gave you the best room in the house other than her own. Until today it was her daughter Natalya’s, though she’s been living with her now-husband in town.”

  “I take it that’s unusual.”

  She tipped her hat back enough that he could at least see a hint of a smile. “More than a little.”

  “Maybe we should check with her.”

  “Wedding day. I think she has enough distractions. Let me show you the way.” She took a classic skeleton key from the hook and once again led him away, though without taking his hand this time. He kind of missed it.

  Devin wanted to inspect the house as they went, but found himself unable to look away from the still nameless woman leading him up the twisting stairs and along a narrow hallway.

  She knocked perfunctorily on the door and had the key inserted when someone called out, “It’s open.”

  She eased open the d
oor and peeked in.

  “Tiffany!”

  At least Devin now had a name for her. It fit. Fragile as glass in some ways, but enduring and undeniably beautiful. Also completely different from any woman he’d met before. The women in his Chicago social circle were consistently sharp, perfectly maintained, and elegantly attired.

  A short blonde, dressed in a tight-fitting black dress with a dangerously bountiful cleavage, yanked the door wide and grabbed Tiffany by the wrist to haul her into the room, even though she was already retreating. Then the blonde, who seemed part small tornado, leaned around to look at him past Tiffany.

  “Ooo. He’s cute. Way to go, Tiff. Natya, check this out. We’ll get out of your way, Tiff,” she made the last lurid and suggestive.

  The room was as classically Victorian as the house itself, high-ceilinged and it incorporated one of the circular towers as a small seating area. A white wedding dress lay spread across a dark quilt on the bed. Art covered the walls. Paintings and drawings of women. Powerful women.

  Before he had a chance to notice more, a tall, dusky-skinned brunette spun to look at him. She too wore black. At a wedding? Above her left breast was pinned a corsage of tiny bud roses…spray-painted as black as her dress. Maybe some kind of joke? He was glad Tiffany instead wore the colors of spring; they looked very cheery on her compared to the other two women’s, admittedly sultry black.

  The instant she spotted him, the brunette’s expression went from surprise to narrow-eyed suspicion. She looked as if she’d leapt straight out of one of the paintings on the wall and was ten times more daunting in real life than the numerous two-dimensional women who seemed to be glaring at him also.