Recipe for Eagle Cove

Chapter 1-6

Which was exactly the same question Harry Slater was asking himself as he stared through the trees from his old bedroom window toward the shining lights of the Lamont’s Victorian B&B.

He should be over there. If not picking up a bit of fun for the night, then at least catching up on some drinking with his old pals.

The big Douglas firs and a small copse of alder that rose between the properties were outlined by a thousand pinpricks of light from Jessica’s party. It was a familiar sight. Gina Lamont, Jessica’s aunt, was known for turning everything into an occasion. Sure, the bed and breakfast served up a fine and generous breakfast—he and Greg had slipped through the trees to avail themselves of leftovers any number of times. But guests were often in during the evenings as well. Rum cake, brandy, and boisterous euchre tournaments. Homemade chocolate chip cookies the size of a person’s head and a murder mystery game that used the entire B&B grounds and every guest. He’d played the clumsy young sidekick to Gina’s suave-and-sexy redheaded inspector any number of times back in high school.

He’d kissed Jessica for the first time on the widow’s walk. A tiny space high on the roof of the B&B. Visible to no one, but open to the sky. He’d always thought his first kiss would be something stolen in a dark, cramped, and hurried way. Instead it had been an amazing exploration. Okay, an amazingly clumsy one, on both of their parts, but nothing like he’d ever imagined. And then Greg had impossibly popped up to completely ruin the moment.

He reached up to loosen his tie, and grabbed nothing but air. Where had it gone? He didn’t remember taking it off earli—

Becky. He’d lost it somewhere while kissing Becky Billings. Well, no wonder he couldn’t recall misplacing it. That kiss had seared everything else right out of his brain. She’d been apparently unaffected. Instead she’d stood at the cliff’s brink—hip c****d and her broad smile shining in the darkness—“You got a license for that kiss, Counselor?”

No, but he was definitely going to find out where to register.

Harry dropped down onto his bed to stare up at the darkened ceiling. His room had been preserved like some crazy shrine. Plastic trophies were still scattered over the shelves. Photos of the Pufflings soccer team at regionals, crowded close together in their white-and-black uniforms. Their noses were all grease-painted like bright orange Puffin beaks—the fact that the beaks of the seabirds who roosted out on the big sea stack turned orange only during mating season was merely added motivation for a group of high school soccer players.

There was also the college memorabilia layered on through four years of visits home. School books from University of Oregon, even his third-string Ducks shirt—which had been for track-and-field as they didn’t have a men’s soccer team. Maybe it was just as well. He’d dated a wing-back on the women’s soccer team for a while and, watching her play, he’d discovered just how small-town the Pufflings really were. He’d thought himself and Cal as fine athletes, which they’d been in the world of small-coastal-town sports. But that was a whole different scenario than the Pac-12 Ducks. Being a wing-back, Chrysse did have incredible stamina, which Harry had appreciated even if he could barely keep up with her.

Maybe he should look her up. He still wasn’t sure what had happened there. They’d been hot and heavy for the last two years of school then he’d gone into law and she’d just…gone. Her parents were local, weren’t they? Portland maybe? Wow! There was a dead brain cell.

His whole identity (and ego, he ruefully admitted) in Eagle Cove had been athletics…until he barely qualified for the Ducks’ track-and-field team. And his top grades, only bested by Jessica Baxter, had been in a class of merely thirty-four students. Freshman year at U of O had been another harsh shock. It had taken six years of hard work to fix that. He’d graduated number two in his law class, but it had been a long hard climb to get there.

“s**t!” He was getting all morose. He went to shove himself out of bed. Anything would be better than lying here and being stupid about the past.

Instead, he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep.

It wasn’t the six-foot of chocolate-skinned wing-back who came to mind.

Nor was it the five-ten of a brilliantly blond and ever-so-happy Jessica Baxter.

He fell asleep only aware of the imprint that the short but bountiful Becky Billings had left on his chest.