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  Return to 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

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy:

  Recipe for Eagle Cove (excerpt)

  About the Author

  Also by M. L. Buchman

  Chapter 1

  (Friday Morning)

  “Almost home, sweetie.”

  “Oh joy,” Jessica Baxter tried to clamp down on her sarcasm. It was a bad habit that worked fine in her social set back in Chicago, but sounded more petty with each mile they drove toward the Oregon Coast. She slumped down in the passenger seat of her mom’s baby-blue Toyota hybrid. It still had that new car smell. As much as she’d dreamed of owning a hot sports car some day, she knew that she was enough her mother’s daughter that this was probably the exact sort of eminently sensible car she would buy when her VW Beetle finally gave up the ghost.

  Just like her mom.

  Maybe she’d get it in red to be at least a little different.

  Jessica sighed again, keeping it to herself so that she wasn’t being overly offensive. Her mother was one of the many reasons that she’d gone as far away as possible for college and did her best to rarely return—she didn’t want to turn into her mother and it was too easy to imagine doing so if she’d stayed in the small town of Eagle Cove, Oregon.

  They were like twins separated by twenty-two years. The two of them had been able to trade clothes since Jessica hit puberty and had shot up to match her mother’s slender five-foot-ten. Other than a very brief mistake of dying her hair black as part of a tenth-grade dare, which had turned her fair complexion past goth and into bloodless vampire, they were both light blond.

  The one part of twin-dom that she couldn’t seem to pull off even though she wanted to was Mom’s casual-chic. Monica Baxter was always dressed one step above the world around her; not fancy, just really well put together. The closest Jessica ever managed was Bohemian-chic which wasn’t really the same thing, but she’d learned to make it her own. Of course, Bohemian was easier on the budget and often available in consignment stores which had only reinforced her chosen style.

  Jessica did her best to not regress as they drove up into the Coast Range that separated the beach towns from the rest of Oregon…and failed miserably at that as well. She felt as if she was rapidly descending back toward being a pouty, pre-pubescent twelve from her present urban and worldly thirty-two.

  Why did crossing the Oregon state line always take twenty years off her intelligence?

  Maybe it was only Coast County. Because of the landscape the Oregon Coast felt incredibly far from anywhere. The Coast Range topped out at a mere four thousand feet high, but only a half dozen passes made it through the three hundred mile range of rugged hills that separated the beaches from the broad farming and industrial realm of the Willamette Valley. The interior of the state might as well be in a whole other country for how little it had in common with where she’d grown up.

  “It’s so strange being back here,” Jessica rolled down the window and sniffed at the air. The scents were so rich and varied that they tickled. Bright with pine. Musty with undergrowth. Damp. A first hint of the sea.

  “Well, it has been four years, honey. That’s bound to make it seem a bit odd. But I’m so glad that you came.”

  “Me too, Mom.” Better. She managed to say it as if she meant it, however unlikely that might be. Chicago fit her like a…but it didn’t. The city was…something she was not going to give a single thought to for the next eight days. If she didn’t fit there and she didn’t want to fit in Eagle Cove, Oregon, then where did she belong?

  Jessica breathed in deeply this time, trying to clear her thoughts with the fresh air of the Coast Range and nearly choked herself on how green everything smelled. The harsh slap of the mountains was almost an affront. The two-lane road dove and twisted along narrow corridors sliced through towering spruce and Douglas fir trees. The babies were sixty feet high along the shoulder as the car twisted up toward the pass; the mother trees behind them were much, much bigger.

  And it wasn’t just the trees that were lush. As they wound deeper into the Coast Range, each branch became covered with mosses and lichens. It soothed her eyes, so used to towering concrete and glass, with a living tapestry of greens, golds, and silvers. Beneath the trees grew an impenetrable tangle of salal and scrub alder. Old barns on the roadside didn’t have shingle roofs, they had moss ones; some of them were covered inches thick. Many RVs, left unattended in front yards for too long, had a sheen of green growth on their north side.

  “I really want to hate this,” the Coast Range had three times the rainfall of Chicago, often surpassing a hundred inches a year. She expected to feel the weight of all that biomass crashing down on her shoulders, but instead she noticed the start of a disconcerting lightness as if coming home was a good thing. Jessica did not like that encroachment of pending appreciation, perhaps even enjoyment, upon her true feelings. “But it smells so good. Like sunshine and new growth.”

  Her mother’s laugh was amused as they twisted along the two-lane road slowly climbing up a narrow valley.

  “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “But you said it anyway.”

  “Not helping, Mom.”

  Thankfully her mother’s laugh said that she had understood Jessica’s response as a tease. Which it mostly was, partly.

  Jessica didn’t want to like coming back to the coast. She didn’t have small-town dreams. That was the main reason she’d left Eagle Cove. She had big city dreams…which weren’t exactly coming together for her despite her efforts over the last fourteen years. But scurrying home wasn’t going to fix those. And the selection of men in such a tiny town was, to put it kindly, pitiful. Puffin High—

  Why they hadn’t called it Eagle High in Eagle Cove was a subject of heated debate by every single class.

  Puffin High’s problem was that she knew every male her age all too well. The only reason the town had its own high school was that it was too far away from everywhere else for busing to make sense. Her senior class had just thirty-four students. Grades seven through twelve numbered under two hundred. And she knew far too much about every single one of them.

  Even more obnoxiously invasive on her sense of right and wrong, instead of dumping rain, it was a perfect day. The sun sparkled down revealing a thousand shades of green in the living walls that lined the road. The air coming through the open window was thick with pine sap and the gentle tang of rotting undergrowth. There was so much oxygen in the air that it made her feel a little giddy.

  Yes, a perfect day, if she’d been alone…and still in Chicago.

  “I could have rented a car and saved you the drive, Mom.” Actually, her budget had been thrilled when her mother had offered to come and fetch her. Also, once in Eagle Cove there wasn’t a lot of use for a car, except when the rain poured down. The whole town was only
a few miles long and she could walk most places she’d want to go. As if there were any old haunts that she’d care to revisit. She’d made good her escape to Northwestern University’s School of Journalism at eighteen but every now and then the town still sucked her back.

  “Nonsense, honey. I’m always glad to drive up and get you. Besides, I needed a few things for the wedding.”

  “How many is this?” As if she didn’t know. It took much of her journalistic skill to keep “that judgmental tone” out of her voice. Something her early teachers had dinged her on until she’d learned to eradicate it. But since she was regressing as they neared the coast, it was trying to make a comeback.

  “Number four.”

  “Why, Mom?”

  “Because I love the man.” Her mother actually glanced away from the road to offer her a scowl. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”

  “It is. But you’ve divorced him three times.”

  “Because your father can drive a woman crazy without even trying.” They giggled together because that was an absolute truth about Ralph Baxter.

  “I meant, why marry him again? You’re both legal age, your daughter lives in Chicago,” and wouldn’t complain if she lived on another planet entirely. “Just shack up together. Then you can lock the door whenever Daddy becomes too much like himself.”

  Ralph Baxter was always getting caught up in monster projects. Without a word of warning he would suddenly rip out the entire kitchen, once on the morning before a dinner party, because he’d thought of a better way to design it. Or he’d start building a new boat from scratch in the middle of the driveway, rather than in the generous side yard, which blocked parking near the house for months.

  “Oh, honey. I’m too old fashioned a girl to ‘just shack up’.”

  Which was almost believable, even in the twenty-first century. To hear Aunt Gina—who despite her name was as not-Italian as a pastrami sandwich—tell it, Monica Lamont had chosen Ralph Baxter as her sweet sixteen love. She’d never even shopped around. How 1950s was that for a woman who hadn’t even been born then?

  Jessica had shopped plenty, or at least window-shopped. She’d found only a few men worth the cost of trying on for size. Definitely not a one worth taking home to keep. She might look like her mom, all blond, tall, and waiflike—which she kind of hated though the men seemed to like it—but inside she wanted to be like Aunt Gina.

  Luigina Lamont looked nothing like her twin sister…or Grandpop…or much like Grandma for that matter. She was a statuesque redhead, in every voluptuous sense of the word and completely lived up to her name: Luigina meant “Famous Warrior.” Her merry laugh slapped up against you at the most unexpected moments and constantly poked at your ticklish spot until you were curled up on the couch begging her to stop. Unlike Mom and her serial marriages to the same man, Gina brought home plenty yet had only tried to keep one.

  That “unholy disaster” (as the family tales described it) had produced Natalya Daphne Lamont—Jessica’s three-hour-older (and Natalya never let her forget it) first cousin and best friend. Just like Gina, Natalya didn’t look like either her mom or Gina’s brief husband. Maybe that was hereditary on that side of the family to balance out how much Jessica resembled her own mom and their shared grandma. Jessica had a sudden flash of her own future daughter looking just like her…and felt the world spin just a little at thinking about children at all.

  “If I hadn’t seen her come out between my legs myself,” Aunt Gina would announce loudly, “I’d have thought I adopted the kid. Maybe I signed up to be a surrogate then forgot all about it.”

  Mom blushed every time Aunt Gina let that one loose in public, without understanding that if she didn’t, Aunt Gina would have stopped long ago.

  “Such an exotic offspring deserves an exotic name. Natalya for the Russian Bond girl in GoldenEye and Daphne for du Maurier the romance writer, not the nymph who had to turn into a tree to escape that lusty jerk Apollo.” The fact that GoldenEye hadn’t come out until Natalya had already been in grade school hadn’t changed Aunt Gina’s story one bit.

  Maybe Jessica’s own child would be lucky and take after Cousin Natalya who was slender like Jessica, but had all of the curves Jessica had prayed for throughout her teenage years but never been granted. Natya was also dusky skinned like a permanent tan and leggy like some French model. Jessica’s and her mom’s fairy light hair and Aunt Gina’s mass of red curls had been transformed to a smooth cascade of dark chestnut on her cousin. Yet she and Jessica felt like twins from different mothers: one light, one dark, but much the same on the inside.

  Jessica smiled at the sign as they cleared Maxine Pass: eight-hundred and three feet according to the sign. The “three” always made her laugh. It was like Becky, her other best friend from Eagle Cove, firmly insisting that she as five-four “and a quarter” as if it made a difference.

  Maxine Pass was technically Maxwell Pass. Or it had been until the day that Aunt Gina had declared it just wasn’t right for all of the passes to have male names merely because men were the ones who drew the maps back in the 1800s.

  For her sixteenth birthday Jessica hadn’t received her first kiss—already happened a year before—or gotten laid—two more years until that event. Instead, she’d been recruited for a “Mission!” At two in the morning on their shared birthday, Aunt Gina drove her and Natalya up to repaint the Maxwell Pass highway sign to Maxine. It had become a tradition that every time the highway department changed it back to Maxwell, the three of them would have a two a.m. gals’ outing and change the sign once again. The highway department had given up years ago. A few of the more recent road maps had even changed the name.

  “Girl Power!” they’d shout after each time they finished repainting the sign, usually about three a.m. Then they’d break out the thermos of hot chocolate and drink it from a shared cup while they admired their handiwork by moonlight.

  One time Martin, the town cop, had shown up while they were doing it. Jessica and Natalya had ducked, but Gina hadn’t slowed down a single brush stroke.

  “Thought it would be you,” Martin had observed through his open car window, obviously talking to Gina.

  “Out of your jurisdiction, Marty,” had been Aunt Gina’s awesomely calm reply. She had always been Jessica’s hero, but that totally clinched it. The town limits had been left far behind.

  He’d joined them for the hot chocolate and had a good laugh at the “Girl Power!” chant.

  Today Jessica just waved hello to the sign as they crested the pass and began their descent.

  “Didn’t you ever bust out, Mom?” Jessica tried to imagine her doing so, but couldn’t quite conjure it up in her mind.

  “Bust out? You mean cheat on your father? Never!”

  “But what about between times, when you were divorced? That wouldn’t be cheating.”

  Monica Lamont’s lips thinned as she tightened her jaw and finally shook her head in a sharp little snap. “I was only living in the other end of the house.”

  “What about with Dad? You and Dad could just…you know?” The thought of her parents having sex was uncomfortable enough that she couldn’t quite say it aloud.

  “Ralph says that if I feel so strongly about things that I have to divorce him, then I shouldn’t be expecting any special concessions while we are divorced.”

  Jessica felt she had to side with Dad on that one. He’d become used to his wife’s antics, but that meant he didn’t get any either in the interims. No wandering for him—it had always been clear that Ralph Baxter was absolutely crazy about Monica Lamont. Jessica felt kind of sorry for him.

  “Wait. You mean you haven’t had sex in two years?” This latest was their longest divorce yet.

  Again that little snap that made Jessica’s neck ache in sympathy. Mom moved to the right as the road added a climbing lane to reach the six-hundred and thirty-four foot (not quite so much bragging) Rogue Pass. That name at least made perfect sense by Oregon standards…because it wasn�
��t anywhere near either of the two separate Rogue Rivers in Oregon. A half dozen cars roared past. Mom always drove exactly at the speed limit instead of the nearly mandatory ten over that prevailed throughout the state.

  “So you’re waiting for the wedding night?”

  This time her mom’s nod was a little sad.

  “I’m sure tomorrow will be a great night, Mom.”

  At that she smiled brilliantly. “If the past three are anything to judge by, yes, it will be. It’s just too bad we had to delay it.”

  “Delay it? Wait! What?” Jessica bolted upright in the car seat and almost throttled herself with her seatbelt. The wedding was supposed to be tomorrow. She’d secretly planned on staying just one day past the wedding, and then catching the Airporter Express that wandered through the small coastal towns once a day. She’d already warned Natalya to expect her in Portland for the rest of the week until her flight back to the Windy City.

  “Well, we were meeting with Judge Slater about the ceremony. As he performed the first three weddings…”

  Jessica resisted pointing out that he’d done all three divorces as well. Maybe her Oregon civility was coming back. Yeah, like a toothache.

  “…and he had all of the old records in a file; even had the new marriage license pre-filled out, the dear man. However, it turns out that the first time we were married was on July fourteenth, not July seventh as I had remembered. You know how your father loves the cycle of things. So we moved the wedding to next weekend to coincide properly with the original. I knew you already had your plane tickets, so I didn’t see any point in telling you.”