Chapter Five
The sizable dining room at the B and B was more than half-filled with people when Eden went down for breakfast at eight, her laptop stowed in her big purse. To her surprise, instead of worrying about her mom, fretting over whether she’d be able to trace Lucy, or replaying that incredible kiss, she’d had a sound night’s sleep. She hadn’t woken until her alarm went off at seven. Now, showered and dressed, email dealt with, she was hungry and ready to get on with the day.
A day that would include seeing Aaron later, which meant they’d probably kiss again. Maybe this time she’d let him take the kiss a little further. She’d have known him for more than a day by then, and she was only here for a week. The man was so enticing, it would be a pity not to find out everything he had to offer.
She drew her attention back to her surroundings. The wooden dining room table seated ten and was supplemented by three tables for four, all of them set with bright place mats and vases of flowers. Half a dozen guests sat at the large table and two of the smaller tables were occupied as well, one by a hand-holding middle-aged couple and the other by a family of four. A distressed oak sideboard held a buffet-style meal. Bernie was there, today in sky blue, wearing a matching pair of wind-chime earrings. With her was a balding man with a tidy gray beard and a friendly smile whom she introduced to Eden as her husband, Jonathan. The couple said they’d be happy to whip up an omelet for her.
She turned them down, assuring them that the buffet looked delicious. Her mom had always been a big believer in the importance of a good breakfast, so Eden rarely skipped the meal. Avoiding the more decadent treats like bacon, sausages, pancakes, and French toast, she chose homemade yogurt, fresh fruit salad, and a raspberry-oat muffin.
Sociable by nature, she chose the big table and dug into her breakfast, pleasantly surprised to discover tiny chocolate chips scattered through her muffin. The other diners were tourists, comparing notes on island attractions and activities. For such a tiny place, it seemed there was lots to do, whether you preferred outdoor activities, visiting artists’ studios, pampering yourself at a spa, or sampling organic products. Because no one at the table had any long-term connection with Destiny Island, she didn’t share her reason for visiting, only saying she had personal business here but also planned to play tourist.
The others scattered gradually, and Bernie and Jonathan began clearing the sideboard. “I’m going to pour myself a nice big mug of coffee,” the woman told Eden, “and we can have our chat. Can I get you anything else first? And what do you think of Jonathan joining us?”
“A top up on my coffee would be great,” Eden said. “And yes, I’d welcome Jonathan’s input if you can both spare the time.”
“This is our feet-up break,” Bernie said. “We get up early so everything’s fresh for breakfast and then we’re run off our feet. Once the guests leave, we give ourselves an hour or so to relax before tackling the dishes and cleaning the rooms.”
The three of them settled at one of the smaller tables, which was set in a bay window overlooking a casually landscaped garden full of flowers. “Your garden reminds me of my mother’s,” Eden said. “She loves gardening.” Or at least she used to, before cancer robbed her of her energy and, it seemed, her ability to find enjoyment in life. If only Eden could help her reconnect with her sister, surely her mom’s spirits would lift. “And on the subject of my mom, that’s where my story starts.”
For the next few minutes, she gave them an abbreviated version, mentioning that Aaron had offered to help her. She opened her laptop and showed them the list of names she’d compiled last night. “Can you think of anyone to add?”
“I can’t think of any other names,” Bernie said. “Jonathan?”
“No, but I’m in a band with Forbes Blake. How about I ask him for lunch and you can talk to him?”
“That would be terrific. Thanks so much.”
“We’re friends with Di and Seal SkySong, too,” Bernie said. “We could invite them.”
Eden’s notes said that couple had belonged to the old commune and now owned a serenity retreat. “Aaron said he flew them over to the mainland last week,” she commented, “and they’d yet to book a return flight.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Bernie said. “They always leave for a couple of weeks at this time of year. I doubt they’ll be back while you’re here. Hopefully some of the others will be able to put you on the track to finding your aunt.”
They gave her a few additional snippets of information about other people on the list, and then Jonathan called Forbes and arranged a one o’clock lunch. He stood. “I’m going to walk over to the tourist center. We’re running low on maps of the island.” He bent to exchange a lip brush with Bernie. “See you later, Eden. Have a good morning.”
After he’d gone, Bernie said, “So Aaron offered to help you? When he took you out for dinner, I thought maybe it was a, er, more personal relationship.” She didn’t come out and ask the question, but her curiosity was obvious.
Remembering that wonderful moonlight kiss, Eden’s cheeks warmed. “It may be both.”
“Oh.”
She was good at reading people and saw the uncertainty that pinched her hostess’s face. “Bernie, is something worrying you?”
“It’s just, well . . .” She ran a hand through her spiky salt-and-pepper hair. “Aaron’s a great guy. Sweet as pie, generous, a lot of fun. And eye candy, to state the obvious. But you seem like a—how to put this?—more serious kind of person. More a family-values woman than the type for a fling. And Aaron . . . well, I’m not saying he’s superficial, but he’s, er . . .”
Eden rescued her. “It’s okay. I know what you’re getting at and I appreciate your concern. If anything develops between us, it’ll be purely a holiday fling. You’re right that I’m normally more serious, but for the foreseeable future I don’t have the time or energy for a relationship. If a man offered serious, I’d turn him down in a flash.”
Bernie grinned. “I confess I’m relieved. I can be a bit of a mother hen. I want you to enjoy your time on Destiny and go away with fond memories, not a broken heart.”
“Believe me, my heart’s in no danger.” Even the breakup with Ray, tough as it had been, hadn’t exactly shattered her heart.
She mused on that as, after taking her leave of Bernie, she went back to her room. When it came to romance, some women felt so much passion—both sexually and emotionally. One of her colleagues, Liz, for example: For her, it was all about the drama of falling in love, the amazing sex, and the tragedy when it ended. For Eden, loving Ray had been more about comfort and compatibility, in bed and out. After that final argument, she’d realized they weren’t so compatible after all. Though she’d felt a sense of loss, disappointment, and anger, she hadn’t shed many tears. Maybe she’d used up all her tears crying in private over her mom’s cancer, getting them out so she could show an optimistic face to her family. Or maybe she just wasn’t a deeply emotional, passionate woman. Would that be so bad?
She opened the balcony door and went out to gaze at the village that nestled in a curve around the harbor. On one of those docks, Aaron had kissed her. Maybe it had been the romantic setting, with moonlight on the ocean, but that kiss had been special. Almost . . . passionate. More intense than any she remembered sharing with Ray.
But then, just as people were different, so were relationships. Hers with Ray had developed slowly: law students studying together, getting a bite to eat, coming to know each other. With Aaron, things couldn’t proceed too slowly or she’d be gone before . . . well, before they had sex, to be blunt. And if his kiss was anything to go by, it would be a real pity to miss out on sex with him. She had decided against a committed relationship for the time being, so why shouldn’t she indulge in a few days of mindless pleasure with the hot pilot? No one would get hurt and maybe she’d discover a whole new, more passionate side to herself.
Eden pressed a hand to a flaming cheek. Here she was, doing a logical analysis of the advisability of having a fling with a man she barely knew. That was not why she’d come to Destiny Island.
* * *
Aaron had been flying steadily since the crack of dawn, barely finding five minutes to gulp down a sandwich at noon. When he landed the flight from Vancouver at three-twenty, he caught Jillian in the office as she was preparing to take a couple of tourists up in the Cessna for a sightseeing flight. The two of them, along with Kam, put their heads together over the schedule for the next few days. Kam Nguyen, an aspiring pilot, handled the office, reservations, website, and pretty much everything else that kept the business running.
Blue Moon Air’s schedule was flexible. Seven days a week there were morning and afternoon return flights to Vancouver, with other stops along the way as needed. Some days, especially in holiday season and around weekends, they needed additional Vancouver flights. As well, they took whatever private travel and sightseeing flights could be fit into the schedule.
“You’re sure you’re okay taking on these extra flights?” he asked Jillian. It was a challenge for the single mom to juggle work and looking after her seven-year-old son. She relied on her parents’ assistance because the boy’s father had never, other than providing child support, been part of the picture.
“It’ll be fine, and I’m glad for the extra flying time.” She flicked blond curls back from her face and gazed up at him, her blue eyes narrowed. “But it’s not like you to take so much time off, Aaron. Is everything okay?”
“It’s good. I’m helping out a friend.” He’d spent only a few hours with Eden, but he did think of her as a friend. He hoped that, before much more time passed, he’d also be thinking of her as a lover. “Okay,” he told his two employees, “I’m heading out. Call me if anything important comes up.”
He went back down to the dock to buy fresh crab for dinner and then, hefting a small cooler, hurried to the lot where he parked his old olive-green Jeep Wrangler. The top was down and a light breeze ruffled his hair, reminding him that he ought to make time for a haircut.
When he pulled up in front of the Once in a Blue Moon, Eden was seated in one of the painted Adirondack chairs on the front porch. She came down the steps to meet him, a rather shy smile on her face. “Hi,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat.
He leaned over, hooked his right arm around her, and tugged her close for a light kiss. “Hi.” Her lips were warm and soft, and a delicate flowery scent made him want to get closer. But he figured she’d prefer to focus on her mission before allowing time for the fun stuff.
“Do I look okay?” she asked.
He’d texted her during the morning, telling her who he thought they should start with and suggesting she dress casually. Her interpretation of that was to wear slim-fitting jeans and a silky, short-sleeved top with a swirly beige-and-blue pattern that made him think of the ocean lapping against a sandy beach. Her hair was down and she carried her big purse and a navy sweater. “You look great,” he said. “I like that top.”
“Me too. I saw it in a shop window this morning and couldn’t resist.” She took a hair tie out of her bag and pulled her hair back into a ponytail.
“Supporting local business. That’s a point in your favor.” As he drove through the small village, he asked, “How’s your day been so far?”
She told him about the conversation she’d had with the owners of the B and B, and then said, “Jonathan invited Forbes Blake over for lunch. You were right that he looks like an old hippie and that his mind’s sharp. Sadly, he didn’t remember Lucy or Barry. I asked him if he had any photos from the commune, but he said no, that cameras weren’t a part of their lifestyle. Also, he wasn’t a member for long. He didn’t get along with the leader, a man named Merlin. A made-up name, Forbes figured.”
“I’m sorry he wasn’t more help.”
They were driving through the outskirts of town now, on the two-lane road that was the main route from Blue Moon Harbor to the north end of the island. They passed the fire station, the small medical center, and the school buildings that housed kindergarten through twelfth grade. Eden gazed out the window, taking in the sights as they talked.
“He and Jonathan said their band’s playing Friday night at the Quail Ridge Community Hall,” she said. “They invited me.”
“They’re called B-B-Zee and they’re good. We should go. They play a mix of music: country, folk, rock. It’s good to dance to.” He liked dancing, feeling the music in his blood and holding a supple, smiling woman in his arms. He would especially like dancing with Eden.
“I’m not a very good dancer. It’s not something I’ve done much.”
“We’ll change that.”
“Hmm. What did you say they’re called?”
“B-B-Zee. That’s capital B for Barnes, capital B for Blake, capital Zed and two small Es for Zabec. Christian Zabec is originally from America and wanted to make sure everyone knows it’s a Zee, not a Zed.”
She nodded her understanding. “This morning I went to the Destiny Gazette office and talked to the editor, Mr. Newall. He’s not much of a people person, is he? I wondered if . . .”
As she figured out how to phrase her question, Aaron said, “He has Asperger’s syndrome. He does the management and detail work and his wife and brother do most of the reporting, interviews, ad-taking, and the people end of it.”
“He was very efficient about finding old copies of the newspaper. I asked about the man who was editor back then, but Mr. Newall said he died. In fact, he seemed compelled to give me the date, time, place, and cause of death.”
“Yeah, that’s Mr. Newall. Did you find anything useful in the old Gazettes?”
“Stories that—” She broke off, pointing out the window. “Oh look, sheep! It’s so peaceful and pastoral with all those cute white sheep grazing in the green meadows.”
“There’s a lot of agriculture on the island.”
“I saw that when we flew over. And no, the Gazette articles and letters to the editor weren’t about individual commune members. Just general comments ranging from philosophical discussions of communes and their values to complaints about the hippies. Which ties in with what I learned from Tony Iacobucci. I phoned him this morning and he was happy to talk.”
“What did he have to say?” Tony was a retired Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer who’d been a rookie on Destiny during the commune days. After that, he was posted to other places, but when he retired, he and his wife came back to the island and bought a house.
“There was one overdose, a guy in his early twenties.” She swallowed and then rushed on, as if thinking about hippie overdoses was too uncomfortable. “Complaints against the commune ranged from the predictable ones like too much noise, immoral behavior, and use of illegal drugs through to some less concrete but scarier ones.”
“Scary?” He glanced over at her.
“A few parents contacted the police saying their kids had joined the commune and that it was a cult and Merlin was brainwashing them, using drugs to control them, and claiming sexual ownership of the girls.”
“Crap. I had no idea.”
“It could have been parental paranoia. Mr. Iacobucci—Superintendent Iacobucci—said that when he questioned the commune members, everyone was loyal to Merlin.”
“Did he have any contact with Lucy or Barry?”
“He didn’t remember them. I emailed him the couple of old, not very good photos of Lucy I have, and he didn’t recognize her. He said he’d pull out his old notebooks, and this afternoon he emailed to say he had no note of either name.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It is,” she said absentmindedly, and then she shook her head. “If the commune did have a dark side, I hope Lucy would’ve had the sense to realize it and to leave. With or without Barry.”
She raised a hand to her lips then lowered it again and clasped her hands on her lap. “So far, I’m not doing so well. Two interviews, all those newspapers, and not a hint of a lead.”
He took his right hand off the steering wheel and rested it on her clasped hands, feeling her tension. “We’ve still got a lot of names on that list.”
She took a deep breath and her hands relaxed. “Who are we going to see now?”
“Azalea. She isn’t a Destiny native. She came from someplace else—I’ve never heard where—joined the commune, and never left the island.”
“I’m curious to meet her. She’s the one you and Rachelle said lives pretty much off the grid, so I’m not sure what to picture.”
He grinned. “I could tell you, but it’s more fun if you see for yourself.”
A few minutes later, he put his hand back on the wheel and turned the Jeep down a narrower road that led off the main road. They drove past small farms, a few rather run-down old houses, and several fairly new, more ostentatious homes.
“She really doesn’t have a surname?” Eden asked.
“I imagine she does, somewhere on legal records, but she never uses it. And why should she have to if she doesn’t want to?”
“I guess because everyone else does wouldn’t seem like a sound reason to her?”
“You got that right. I also don’t have a clue whether Azalea’s her birth name. It could be that, like Merlin, she rechristened herself.”
“Really?” Excitement sharpened her voice. “You don’t think she could be Lucy, do you? My aunt might have changed her name.”
“Azalea is First Nations.”
“Oh,” she said disappointedly. And then, tentatively, “Are you? You look like you might be.”
“Yeah, on my father’s side.” And that was a subject he had no interest in talking about. “It’s just up ahead,” he told her as they passed the Hackinsaws’ rambling log home. He took a rutted dirt road that was so overarched by trees and overgrown by salal and other bushes that it was almost concealed. “Azalea may own this land, or the Hackinsaws, who live next door, may have rented it to her or given her permission to use it, or she may be squatting with everyone turning a blind eye. I’m sure someone knows, but I don’t think anyone cares.”
He’d first met Azalea when he was in his teens, when Lionel had taken him along to help bring down a couple of dead trees and buck and chop them into firewood for her. Since then, he’d had some occasion to visit once or twice a year. As he drove through the last screen of trees to draw up in front of her home, he turned to watch Eden’s reaction.
“That’s an odd-looking cottage,” she said. “Is it octagonal?”
“Yeah. It’s a yurt, not a cottage.”
“A yurt? What’s that?”
“A cross between a cabin and a tent. I think they originated with nomadic people in Mongolia. One of the campgrounds has a few of them, too.”
“What are the black and silver frames in the yard? I’ve seen them at a number of other houses as well.”
“Solar panels.” He glanced at the yard, a cheerfully jumbled mass of flowers, azalea bushes, and clumps of interesting grasses. “See how the panels are angled to catch the sun, where nothing will shade them? They provide her electricity. She has a well, too, so she doesn’t need to use any utility services.”
“Oh, come on. Phone, cable TV, Wi-Fi?”
“None of the above. She has a guitar, an old-fashioned record player and a bunch of vinyl records, she gets used books and magazines from somewhere, and that’s her entertainment.”
“I see what you mean about off the grid.”
He pointed toward an area enclosed by a tall fence made of wire mesh attached to stripped branches—a fence he’d helped repair for Azalea a year or so before. “That’s a garden with vegetables, berries, and herbs. There are apple and pear trees in a meadow past the house. And see the little hut with the fenced plot beside it? That’s a chicken coop. She has a pair of goats, which supply her with milk, yogurt, butter, and cheese. She’s vegetarian and pretty self-sufficient when it comes to food. A few islanders swap with her: goat’s milk feta or raspberry jam in exchange for flour or canning jars. That kind of thing.”
“I can’t imagine someone living that way in this day and age.”
“Climb on out and let’s see if Azalea’s around.”
“You didn’t call and make—oh, of course you couldn’t make an appointment if she doesn’t have a phone.” She opened the Jeep door.
He hopped out and came around to join her. “I don’t think she has much use for the concept of appointment schedules either.” If he suggested such a thing, Azalea would laugh her head off and refuse to have anything to do with Eden. “Try not to act all businesslike, okay? We’re her guests and we need to respect the way she likes to do things.” He caught her hand in his, where it felt so good.
She squeezed his hand, which felt even better. “I’ll try.”
As he led her to the open door of the yurt, a strange melody of tinkles, clanks, and clunks greeted them, and they both glanced at the wind chimes made of oddly shaped bits of glass, small rocks, and tarnished silverware. Aaron tapped the door frame. “Azalea?”
When he received no answer, he shouted, “Azalea! You around somewhere?” Even though she owned an old bicycle, she rarely left her place. Of course there was no guarantee that, even if she was here, she’d be in the mood to speak to visitors.
After a minute, he called her name again and added, “It’s Aaron Gabriel.”
The only answer came from one of the goats, somewhere in the distance. Its loud aackgh made Eden jump. “Oh God, Aaron, she’s hurt! We have to find her.”
He laughed. “No, it’s only a goat. And it’s not hurt, goats just have strange voices.”
Eden looked skeptical, but then her attention shifted and he turned to see Azalea emerge from the woods.
“Oh,” Eden breathed.
In her late sixties or early seventies, the tall woman wore a faded, tie-dyed T-shirt over an exotic-looking embroidered skirt with tiny mirrors scattered all over it. Brown feet were thrust into tattered leather sandals. Flyaway tendrils of silvery hair escaped the thick, butt-length braid to form a halo around her nut brown, deeply wrinkled face. Long brown-and-white feathers—real ones—hung from her ears.
Deep brown eyes peered at him from behind wire-framed glasses held together with tape. “Aaron Gabriel,” she said. “A fine name, the angel Gabriel, walking in space. Your mom did good there, but that was maybe the last time, though who’m I to say? A woman oughtn’t criticize another one, not unless she’s walked a mile in her shoes, which I’m not about to be doing, not with these damned bunions.”
Eden’s mouth gaped open and Aaron felt the tiniest bit guilty for not having warned her, but mostly amused.
He’d spent some time with Azalea over the years, doing work around her place, delivering her weavings to the artisan co-op that sold them, giving her a lift when she was hitchhiking somewhere farther than she wanted to bicycle. Occasionally she’d offered him a bowl of tasty vegetarian stew or curry, put on some of her old records, and they’d spent an evening together. She wasn’t the easiest person to understand, but she had a gentle soul and she was never boring.
Now he said to her, “Seems to me Azalea’s a good name, too. Pretty flowers, blooming so bright in the spring.”
“My favorite flower.” She nodded vigorously. “That’s why I called myself that, though it’s maybe too audacious, arrogant, outrageous, and maybe one day I’ll pay the price for that, if there’s such a thing as a heaven. Anywhere else than on earth, that is.” Her gaze focused on Eden. “I don’t know you.”
Aaron answered before Eden could, figuring the older woman would be more welcoming if he made the introduction. “This is Eden, come to visit Destiny from Ottawa.”
“Ottawa,” Azalea echoed. “About as far away from paradise as you can get. Bureaucrats and politicians, dirty snow full of dog shit. Who’d ever want to go to Ottawa?”
Aaron wondered if she’d once lived there, or if her information came from books and magazines.
Eden gave a soft laugh. “You have a good point. But I was born there and my family’s there, and we’re very close.”
“Huh.” Azalea studied her and then walked through the open door of the yurt. After a moment, she yelled, “Well? You two coming?”
He gestured for Eden to enter, then followed her. Azalea’s home had a single bed covered in a striped cotton spread and laden with colored pillows, a recliner chair with a footstool, a little round table with a single chair, and a kitchen with a fridge and propane stove. Aaron watched as Eden glanced around, her gaze touching the wood-burning fireplace, the golden-wood guitar, the turntable record player, and stacks of records, books, and magazines. The furniture was simple, but the walls were hung with abstract weavings of colored wool interwoven with feathers, silky threads, more colored glass, shells, and other odds and ends.
“The weavings are amazing,” Eden said, sounding sincere. “I love them. Did you create them, Azalea?”
The older woman went into the small kitchen. “I weave, the spider weaves, threads and mazes and traps, pretty webs to catch pretty dreams and make them come true.”
Eden glanced at Aaron, her eyes wide and questioning. As Azalea turned her back to take something from a drawer, Aaron bent to whisper in Eden’s ear. “Just go with it. It’s stream of consciousness, too much LSD when she was young, whatever.”
Azalea turned back to them. “Sit. Waiting for an invitation’s never going to get you anywhere in life.” She let out a surprisingly youthful giggle. “Not that we all want to go the same places, do we?”
Aaron tugged Eden down on the bed couch, where they stuffed pillows behind their backs. Azalea came toward them with something in her hand, and when she struck a match he wasn’t surprised to discover it was a hand-rolled joint. He knew that, among the carrots and strawberries in her garden, she also grew marijuana plants. She took a toke, closing her eyes as she inhaled. A sweetish tang seeped into the air.
When she held out the joint to Aaron, he said, “Thanks, but no.” Growing up with an addict mom, he avoided drugs.
Azalea held it out to Eden, who also said, “No, thank you.”
“Politician or bureaucrat, uptight Ottawa girl?”
Aaron glanced at Eden, wondering if she’d tell Azalea she was a lawyer—and, if so, how the older woman would respond.