Mark had to return to his car soon, or it would block the entire lane from moving off the ferry, and he would face the justifiable wrath of dozens of drive-on passengers. But as he looked down at Maggie, every cell in his body resisted the idea of leaving her.
“Do you need me to drive you somewhere?” he asked.
An instant shake of her head, red waves swishing across her shoulders. “My car’s parked nearby.”
“Maggie,” he said carefully, “maybe sometime—”
“No,” she said, her smile gently regretful. “There’s no room for friendship. No future in it.”
She was right.
The only thing left was to say good-bye, something Mark was usually good at. This one was tricky, however. “See you around” or “Take care” were too indifferent, too casual. But any indication of how much the afternoon had meant to him wouldn’t have been welcomed.
In the end, Maggie solved his dilemma by removing the need for good-bye. She smiled at his hesitation and set her hand to his chest, giving him a playful hint of a nudge.
“Go,” she said.
And he did, without looking back, descending the narrow steel-lined staircase with echoing footsteps. He felt his heart beating strongly in the place her hand had touched. Getting into his car, he closed the door and fastened his seat belt. As he waited for a signal to pull forward, he had the tugging, nagging sense of having lost something important.
Seven
With the arrival of October, whale watching and kayaking were over for the year. Although tourists still came to San Juan Island, it was nothing compared to the deluge during the summer months. The question most often asked by tourists was how Friday Harbor had gotten its name. Maggie had quickly learned the two standard versions of the story. The one everyone preferred was the local lore that a sea captain, upon entering the harbor and seeing a man on shore, asked, “What bay is this?” The man, mistakenly hearing the question as “What day is this?” had replied, “Friday.”
The truth, however, was that the harbor had been named after a Hawaiian, Joseph Friday, who had worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company, tending sheep about six miles north of the harbor. When sailors came along the coast and saw the column of smoke rising from his camp, they knew they had reached Friday’s bay, and the British had eventually charted it that way.
The island had transferred to American possession in 1872, and from then on industry had flourished. San Juan Island had been the fruit-growing capital of the Northwest. It had also been home to lumber and shake mills, and salmon-packing companies. Now the water-front was crowded with upscale condominiums and pleasure craft instead of canneries and scows. Tourism had become the mainstay of the economy, and although it peaked during the summers, it was a year-round industry.
With autumn in the air, and the leaves in full color, the residents of San Juan Island began to prepare for the upcoming holidays. The island bustled with harvest festivals, farmer’s markets, wine tastings, gallery events, and theater performances. Maggie’s shop showed no signs of slowing down, as local customers came to buy Halloween costumes and accessories, and to take care of some early Christmas shopping. In fact, Maggie had just hired one of Elizabeth’s daughters, Diane, as a part-time sales clerk.
“Now maybe you can ease up a little,” Elizabeth told Maggie. “Taking a day off won’t kill you, you know.”
“I have fun at the shop.”
“Go have fun away from the shop,” Elizabeth said. “You need to have a conversation with someone who’s over four feet tall.” An idea occurred to her. “You should get a massage at that spa in Roche Harbor. They have a new masseuse named Theron. One of my friends says he has the hands of an angel.” Her brows waggled significantly.
“If it’s a man, I don’t think it’s a masseuse,” Maggie said. “But at the moment I can’t remember what you call a man who massages you.”
“A weekly appointment is what I call him,” Elizabeth said. “If he’s single, you could ask him out.”
“You can’t ask a massage guy to go out with you,” Maggie protested. “It’s like a doctor-patient relationship.”
“I dated my doctor,” Elizabeth said.
“You did?”
“I went to his office and told him that I had decided to switch doctors. And he was very concerned and asked why. And I said, ‘Because I want you to take me out to dinner on Friday night.’”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Did he?”
Elizabeth nodded. “We were married six months later.”
Maggie smiled. “I love that story.”
“We had forty-one years together, until he passed away.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.
“He was a lovely man. I wanted more years with him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy spending time with my friends. We travel together, e-mail each other…I couldn’t do without them.”
“I have wonderful friends,” Maggie said. “But they’re all married, and they were such a big part of my life with Eddie that sometimes…”
“The old memories get in the way,” Elizabeth said perceptively.
“Exactly.”
Elizabeth nodded. “You have a new life. Keep the old friends, but it doesn’t hurt to add some new ones. Preferably single ones. Which reminds me…have the Scolaris introduced you to Sam Nolan yet?”
“How did you know about that?”
The older woman appeared vastly pleased with herself. “We live on an island, Maggie. Gossip has nowhere to go except in circles. So…have you met him?”
Maggie busied herself with rearranging some fresh lavender stalks in a vase shaped like a milk jug. The idea of going out with Mark’s younger brother was intolerable. Every small resemblance—the shape of his eyes, or the pitch of his voice—would make the entire experience an exercise in misery.
And that would be unfair to Sam. Maggie would never be able to appreciate everything that he was, because she wouldn’t be able to forget about everything that he wasn’t.
Specifically, that he wasn’t Mark.
“I told Brad and Ellen that I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now,” she said.
“But Maggie,” Elizabeth said, perturbed, “Sam Nolan is the most charming, good-natured young man in the world. And he’s between girlfriends since he’s been so busy with the vineyard. He’s a winemaker. A romantic. You don’t want to miss out on an opportunity like this.”
Maggie gave her a skeptical smile. “Do you really think this young, charming single guy is going to want to go out with me?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“I’m a widow. I have baggage.”
“Who has no baggage?” Elizabeth clicked her tongue in chiding. “For heaven’s sake, being a widow is nothing to feel awkward about. It means you’re a woman with the spice of experience, a woman who has been loved. We know how to appreciate life, we appreciate humor, we enjoy our closet space. Believe me, Sam Nolan won’t mind in the least that you’re a widow.”
Maggie smiled and shook her head. Picking up her bag from behind the counter, she said, “I’m going to walk over to the Market Chef and get some sandwiches for lunch. What do you want?”
“Pastrami melt with extra cheese. And extra onion.” As Maggie reached the door, Elizabeth added cheerfully, “Extra everything!”
The Market Chef was an artisan deli that made the best sandwiches and salads on the island. There was always a crowd at lunchtime, but the wait was worth it. Looking into a glass case filled with fresh salads, pasta, perfect meat-loaf slices, and thick wedges of vegetable quiche, Maggie was tempted to order one of everything. She settled on Dungeness crab, artichokes, and melted cheese on toasted homemade bread, and ordered the pastrami melt for Elizabeth.
“For here or to go?” the girl behind the counter asked.
“To go, please.” Seeing a stack of slablike chocolate-chip cookies in a glass jar near the register, Maggie added, “And under no circumstances should you add any of those.”
The girl smiled. “One or two?”
“Just one.”
“If you want to sit over there, I’ll bring the sandwiches to you in just a minute.”
Maggie sat by a window and people-watched as she waited.
In no time at all the girl approached with a white paper sack. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and…” The girl handed her a napkin. “Someone asked me to give this to you.”
“Who?” Maggie asked blankly, but the girl had already hurried away to help a customer.
Maggie’s gaze fell to the white paper napkin in her hand. Someone had written on it.
Hi
Looking up in bemusement, Maggie scanned the small seating area. Her breath caught as she saw Mark Nolan and Holly sitting at a bistro table in the corner. His gaze held hers, and a slow smile curved his lips.
The message on the napkin crumpled into Maggie’s palm, her fingers tightening reflexively. A responsive ache of happiness awakened in her chest, just at the sight of him. Damn it. She had spent weeks trying to convince herself that the interlude she’d had with Mark had not been nearly as magical as it had seemed.