Keepsake for Eagle Cove

Chapter 1-3

Tiffany slipped the key into Devin’s hand and abandoned ship. She felt bad about doing that to him but she’d suddenly felt so claustrophobic, the room and the two strong personalities crushing in on her, that she had to run.

Downstairs was little better. The kitchen crowd surged into the parlor. Dance music sounded from out on the lawn. Danny McCall on vocals, the Judge (as everyone called the retired Judge Slater) on stand-up bass, and his wife playing a rocking lead acoustic guitar. Becky would be on the drums soon now that the music was gearing up. Tiffany played her harp with them on occasion, but not today.

Through the window, she could see that Jessica was still on the verandah bench. Tiffany didn’t dare go out that door or she’d be trapped in a conversation she didn’t know how to avoid.

She retrieved her harp from where she’d tucked it behind the basement door and made for the B&B’s back door, ready to flee Eagle Cove just as her ancestor Lillian Lamont had over a century before…though Tiffany would only go as far as her farm, not all the way to San Francisco as Lillian had. Tiffany was never going back there.

Tiffany made it through the crowd, using the harp in its case as a shield, and opened the back door to escape just as Becky swept down the rear stairs. She hooked an arm through Tiffany’s.

“Come on! They’re waiting for us.”

“There’s no need…” Tiffany tried to point out that the band was already playing and people were already dancing on the lawn; therefore, no one was waiting for them, especially not for Tiffany. But she never had the chance.

Becky didn’t let go, so Tiffany was helpless to head back to her home in the hills. Instead she was towed out the back door and around the house to where the band had set up under the spreading branches of a big old cherry tree on the front lawn. Becky deposited Tiffany on her usual seat, a nicely carved stump of a tree that had gone down in the Christmas Day Gale of 2005. She knew that because of the date carved by the chainsaw artist who had reshaped the stump.

At a loss for what else to do, she pulled her Celtic harp out of the padded case. The harp stood about three feet tall and had twenty-six strings, exceptional for a harp that she could carry on a shoulder strap and play while standing. As she was seated, she screwed in the lapbar crosspiece that would rest on her knees. The harp was one of her prized possessions, one of only two from her entire childhood—the only two she had brought north with her to Oregon and later to Eagle Cove. From the inlaid Celtic knots of shimmering abalone to the smoothness of the dark walnut wood, she loved everything about it. It was one of only two things she had ever felt to be absolutely and completely hers.

Tiffany listened for the harmony line in the Cat Stevens ballad. She slid in on the beat and kept her head down.

As it always did, the music soothed and lifted. She’d come to enjoy the rare community events when they played in the group. She knew her harp added a warmth to the sound. They occasionally tried to have her take a solo. An offer she always refused except for a few Harry Chapin songs, where she took the soulful cello part, or anything by Sting; she preferred being an accent rather than a statement.

Usually she watched the townspeople. There was always something amusing to learn, something to watch. Some were the great forces that shaped the town: Judge Slater, Gina Lamont, and Maggie Winslow—the town’s second-grade teacher and a primal force for decades. Then there was the upcoming generation of Jessica, Natalya, and Becky, the self-declared overseers of the town’s future. But there were other, subtler forces at play and she enjoyed watching those as well.

Tiffany had moved to Eagle Cove shortly after Ma Slater’s death. Tiffany had seen right away that Peggy Naron was going to be the Judge’s next wife…even though it had taken him three years to learn the same. Cal Mason Jr. and Sr., who had just married Natalya and Gina Lamont today, weren’t chaotic influences. Rather, the two big men were solid, stabilizing influences to their dynamic women.

But today she didn’t watch even though she could hear their laughter, pick out their voices. She kept her head down and focused on the music.

Until the moment a second guitar joined in on a chorus of the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.” A glance to her left had her fingers jangling on the harp strings.

“Hi,” Devin Robison sat cross-legged on the ground close beside her with a beautiful Martin twelve-string acoustic in his lap. He easily picked the backup line, filling in spaces between Peggy’s lead and her own harmony.

“Hi,” she tried in response but it came out strange and discordantly squeaky. Her fingers found their way back into the music. Once she was solid, he ducked over to the harmony himself, teasing her with a descant to her line, counterpointing the harmony. She responded by leaving him in the harmony and sliding in above Peggy’s melody.

He chased her through a tricky round of rock and roll, Maroon 5 and Five for Fighting, which were always a challenge on the harp. She teased him with half harmonies in Jimmy Buffet and Fleetwood Mac, forcing him to fill in around her gaps so that the harmony line wouldn’t shatter.

Only when Peggy finally called a break was Tiffany aware of how sore her fingertips were—they must have played at least a double set for them to be so sensitive. They’d played long enough for the sun to slide well down toward the ocean, making it painfully bright to look westward. Somewhere in that shining blur, the crowd began applauding wildly. All of the musicians were bowing. Even Devin had risen to his feet to join the others. Tiffany used the harp in her lap as an excuse to stay seated and simply bowed her head.

The applause went on far longer than normal. When each of the band members made a point of stopping by to shake Devin’s hand and tell both him and Tiffany how wonderful their playing had been, Tiffany knew she’d messed up again. She’d always been careful to play simple harmonies, avoiding notice; but with Devin challenging her, she’d played far beyond what she normally let others see. Had her life been different, she might well have accepted the San Francisco Symphony’s request for her to audition for them—one of her only regrets about abandoning her past.

As the band dispersed into the crowd, some calling for drinks, others simply heading for them, Devin remained by her side.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

“You are fine. You play wonderfully.”

“I meant you can go join the others.”

He shrugged as he sat back down on the grass close beside her and she couldn’t help but look over at him.

“You have a nice smile.” She bit down on her tongue. Tiffany had meant to compliment his playing.

“Thanks. I’m waiting for you to smile to see if you do.”

“Really, I’m okay by myself.” Was he flirting with her? The whole flirting thing had somehow passed her by without her ever learning how to do it.

“I don’t know anyone else here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You’re the one person I do know. Other than Natalya Lamont.”

He said it in a way that was funny.

“Oh,” he said softly, “you don’t have a nice smile.”

Tiffany slapped a hand over her mouth to hide it.

“You have a great smile. Do it again.”