Return to Eagle Cove

Chapter 1-3

“He is, dear,” her mother replied cheerily.

“Does he do that to you a lot?” It was starting to get unnerving. In very short order, it would start pissing Jessica off. He’d been three years behind her in school. She’d dated his older brother for a while—he’s the one who earned her first kiss at fifteen, but not all that much more. Her prior visits home hadn’t overlapped with either brother being here, though she’d eaten the Judge’s breakfasts before and had been looking forward to some comfort food since they’d turned west across the Willamette Valley. Her lemon-curd brownie from Loretta’s in Chicago was many hours behind and much too far away.

“I don’t think he’s doing it to me, Jessica.”

“Well, it had better be us and not just me. We are two fairly dazzling women after all. Besides, if he does it much longer, he’s likely to get a dinner plate cracked over his skull.”

Greg Slater shook himself like a wet dog and replaced his gape with a cautious smile. He’d done a lot of growing up since she’d last seen him. The gangly kid—who’d spent large portions of his freshman year in the principal’s office—had turned into such a decent-looking guy that she might not have recognized him if they’d passed on the street.

“Hi, Jess.”

“Jessica.” Her high school nickname was one of the things she’d left behind along with Eagle Cove. She and Jessie Hamilton had been in a lot of classes together and everyone had called them both Jess despite their opposing genders. “I’m not a man, so don’t expect me to answer to a male nickname.”

“No you’re definitely not—” she could see where his eyes were going, along with his smile. She gave him a second to recover, then two. She didn’t give him three.

Jessica picked up a dirty plate from a freshly vacated table. It had a pool of syrup and a large splotch of leftover ketchup on some crispy hash browns. With a quick grab, she captured both the front of Greg’s apron and his belt—maybe his underwear as well but she wasn’t going to think about that. She tipped the plate into the space over his flat abs and managed to shove it half down his pants for good measure.

Jessica ignored his squawk of protest, letting go as he backpedaled away and almost landed on Cal Mason Sr.’s lap right in the middle of eating his tall stack.

“Let’s sit over there, Mom,” she waved hello at the Judge before they sat down. He flapped a spatula back in her direction.

The Judge never whispered, so she and the half dozen other late morning diners could hear him clearly when he told Greg, “Lady’s got your number but good, son.”

Did she ever.

Greg had been a real slouch, the classic underachieving little brother. A decade and a half later and he was still in town working as a waiter for his dad. He’d grown up lean and dark. His neat black hair hung to his collar and the close-cropped beard accented a strong chin. He’d have looked Keanu Reeves’ dangerous if it wasn’t for the easy smile that still hadn’t quite gone away. Greg Slater had come a long way from being fifteen…other than being another Eagle Cove failure-to-launch kid.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been just starting his sophomore year in high school and panting after Dawn something—the hussy of the class. They probably had a trailer down at the end of Shearwater Lane that was slowly returning back into forest in a state of semi-decay, with a half dozen little Greggies bouncing about.

Maybe she should track down Greg’s big brother Harry when she returned to the real world. Last she’d heard he was still single and practicing law in New Orleans…not that she was that interested in living in New Orleans, but it was a great place to visit. Maybe have some fun while she was there. She could even set up a few interviews in the jazz clubs and then write off the trip as well as selling a couple of articles to the trades. A couple of human interest stories, maybe find something unique enough to turn into a feature as well.

Though that was getting harder and harder. A few years ago she’d been able to get an article by the Rolling Stone Magazine editor way more than twice a year. And AAA used to give her bimonthly space in their magazines, but that had dried up as well. The collapse of print journalism was finally catching up with her.

Maybe if she’d been a straight newsie, she’d have stood a chance, but she wasn’t. She’d always enjoyed the special interest story. Someone or some place that had found a way to be exceptional. A hot band, an innovative inventor, an amazing kid…those were the stories that had fascinated her. They’d shaped her career. And now they were “fringe” stories that didn’t command much share in the shrinking print journalism bucket.

E-magazines were worse, paying crap. The Huffington Post had offered her a regular blog column, for no pay at all, which said too much about the state of that part of the industry. Maybe she should do a piece on The Puffin Diner; there was a laugh. That was probably below even HuffPo’s standards.

“So…” she took a deep breath and decided that since she didn’t have a choice about being in town for the whole week that she’d agreed to come for anyway, she might as well put a good face on it. It wasn’t like the editors of the world were in a bidding war for her next story.

She and her mother settled at a clean table beneath a watercolor painting of The Puffin Diner, one of Ma Slater’s last, based on the date. “Not for Sale” was in bold type on the little card taped to the wall close beside the frame.

“So, tell me about the dress, Mom.”