Geoducks Are for Lovers (3 page)

Three

Finding her garden clippers in the garage, Maggie walks out to the neglected flowerbed the next morning. She deadheads some of the flowers and cuts others for vases in the guest rooms. The tangled mess of dahlias, cosmos and zinnias begins to look less like a jungle and more like a proper lady’s garden. Her mother and grandmother started the flower gardens on the lot, and guilt, rather than a green thumb, compels her to replant them every summer. On her list of things she loves about the cabin, weeding and tending to the beds are toward the bottom. 

Admitting to herself she likes the idea of free flowers as much as free crabs and fish, Maggie finishes the task, giving a small thanks to the island and its abundance. As a kid she didn’t appreciate the simplicity of being here, but years of living in the city have taught her the value of dirt under her nails and sand between her toes. 

Back inside, flowers are bunched and in their new homes on bedside tables, in the bathroom, and even in a slim blue glass bottle on the ledge above the kitchen sink. Their bright colors make her happy.

* * *

After changing into a navy cotton shirt dress and green sandals, Maggie puts Biscuit into his crate. “I know you want to come with me to lick Quinn upon arrival, but Bessie only has two seats, and not enough room for both you and Quinn. Try not to pine.”

Biscuit whines like he understands he is missing out, then curls up with a sigh. Maggie swears he’s pouting, so she gives in and hands him another cookie. 

“Spoiled dog.” 

Maggie grabs the keys to Bessie along with two faded Mariners caps from the hooks by the front door, finds her purse, and heads to the garage. Taking off the tarp, she reveals her prized possession—a 1972 MG Midget convertible. Like the cabin, Bessie has been handed down from mother to daughter. The convertible is the perfect summer car. She isn’t in pristine condition, but Steve the mechanic loves the MG as much as Maggie does, and keeps it in top shape. All the locals recognize her hunter green finish and white racing stripes. 

Anne hated Maggie nicknaming her car Bessie. She laughs and rolls her eyes at her mother’s name for the car, Queen Elizabeth the Second, or QE II. Unfortunately, Bessie’s customized license plate still bears the more pretentious QE II name. As much as she dislikes the vanity plate, she can’t bring herself to get rid of it.

The convertible can only be driven in good weather because the top leaks and the heating is temperamental at best. Given its tiny size, the car rarely leaves the island to face the big highways over in ‘town,’ a term the islanders call everything on the other side of the water.

Picking up Quinn for a weekend of old friends and ghost stories from the past officially counts as a special occasion deserving of Bessie.

Baseball cap on her head to tame her hair and protect her nose from the sun, she starts up the car and backs out of the garage. The drive down to the ferry takes about fifteen minutes, and given it’s mid-morning during the week, there shouldn’t be a long wait. 

Maggie smiles when she counts only a dozen or so cars on the dock as she heads down the hill from Clinton. Looking across the water toward Mukilteo, she calculates the ferry is a few minutes from docking. Perfect timing. 

No articles to be done, a good run in the woods, and now an afternoon with one of her best friends—this is turning out to be a great day. Maggie grins as she pulls into the ferry lot. 

When she pays, the woman in the ticket booth hands her the fall ferry schedule. Once the summer craziness fades with the passing of Labor Day, the ferries drops a few runs as the island quiets down for the long, gray winter.

“Is it bad I look forward to the fall schedule and not having to work my life around ferry waits?” Maggie asks.

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be an islander. I think we all cheer the coming of fall and getting our island back.” 

Maggie beams at being called an islander. To be accepted here as a local isn’t an easy transition—she’ll take the compliment.

“Lane three. Have a good day.” She waves Maggie through to the waiting area on the dock. 

Bert loads the cars on to the ferry as she pulls forward. He’s an old friend of her mom’s and she can’t remember a time when she didn’t know Bert. He gives her the prime spot in the middle at the front of the ferry—first to be loaded off the boat. Maggie takes this as a good omen.

“I see you’re taking Bessie to town,” Bert says as she gets out of the car to head up top. “What's the special occasion?”

“College friends coming up for the weekend. We’re having a pre-reunion reunion before the actual one in September. Figured nostalgic times called for nostalgic transportation.”

“Reunion? How long has it been?”

“Twenty years.”

“Sweet lord. Twenty years? That's hard to believe. If you’re that old, well, I must be ancient.”

Maggie looks at Bert. His lined and weathered face makes her think of the expression ‘salty dog’, but she resists the urge to point out the facts.

“I can tell you’re thinking about telling me I'm old. Just you wait. Time flies even more on the back side of the slope. Is that a gray hair?” He reaches out toward her strawberry blonde hair. Thanks to her colorist, she doesn’t have any gray hairs.

“Don't remind me. Some days I feel like I'm still twenty-two.”

“Me too,” he says, then smiles, showing gaps in his teeth. “You kids have fun. I'll be looking for you in the paper next week.”

The weekly police report in the local paper is a favorite of island residents, summer people, and tourists. Most of the reports feature sheep in the road or a stolen crab trap. The typical crimes reported are petty theft or car accidents. Darker, more sinister crimes tend to stay out of the paper or make the front page if a scandal is involved.

“The last time I was in the police report was a long time ago. And there’s still no proof I left Bessie on the baseball diamond at Maxwelton.”

“Sure, but we all know the truth.” Bert taps his nose as he walks toward the back of the boat.

Upstairs on the passenger deck, she sits at a table by the window and watches the water as the ferry makes its quick crossing back to the real world. Maggie wouldn't trade living on Whidbey. This island and all its quirks is truly her home. When she first moved here full time, it surprised her how Connie at the bank was informed so quickly about her life, hours or days after things happened. Maggie suspects Connie, Sally, and Sandy at the grocery store, are part of an old fashioned telephone tree. News travels fast around here. By the time she gets back with Quinn, she bets those women will know all about her guests for the weekend. Sandy might even happen to stop by with a loaf of zucchini bread, claiming to be overrun with squash again.

Four

The little MG holds its own amongst the traffic and intimidating trucks on the I-5 through the heart of downtown Seattle. 

Arriving at SeaTac, Maggie spies Quinn in his aviators and ‘Legalize Gay Cupcakes’ T-shirt on the curb of Arrivals. It would be hard to miss his tall, lean form, and blond hair even if he wasn't wearing a pink and white shirt.

He seems more excited to see Bessie than he does Maggie. She thinks he even kisses Bessie’s hood when she hops out to open the trunk. He’s always been obsessed with the MG.

“Maggie!” He folds her up in a hug, which ends in a spin. “I've missed you, woman!”

“I've missed you, Q. How was the flight?”

Boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, jobs, and parents may all go, but her anchor remains Quinn. Living in the same city, they’d never let more than a week or two pass without seeing each other, but that’s changed since she left him behind in New York.

“Good, better now that you've brought my one true love, Elizabeth the Second. Can I drive her?” Quinn looks at Maggie expectantly, though they both know she'll never let him drive Bessie.

“You two can get reacquainted from the passenger seat.” Throwing his weekend bag in the trunk, they pile into the car, and she hands him the other baseball cap, which he refuses, brushing over his short hair to show he doesn’t need the hat.

As they head back north to Mukilteo to catch the ferry home, Quinn reaches into the glove box to pick out a mix tape. Maggie has never updated Bessie’s sound system—it’s either a cassette tape or the radio. Her tapes from the 80s and 90s are a perfect soundtrack for the weekend ahead.

Over the angst of Nirvana and the noise of the road, Quinn shouts, “When does everyone get here?” 

“You’re the first. Ben and Jo arrive tomorrow. They’re driving down from Vancouver after his meetings end. Selah said she’ll get in tomorrow tonight as well. She's coming with a date. Any idea who the mystery man might be?” She raises her voice to be heard over the wind. 

Silence greets her. Glancing over at him to make sure he heard her, she sees Quinn looking like he swallowed the cat who ate the canary.

“Who is it? Oh, he’s not that horrible guy she was dating, is he? The one from the dating website who wrote her an email as Mr. Rochester? Please tell me it isn't him. Please?”

“Nope. Guess again.” He seems delighted about Selah's mystery guest. 

“New lover?” 

“No, not a lover. Not so new.” Quinn smirks.

It must be someone he knows. Maybe she knows Selah’s guest, too.

“Someone I know?” 

“Yes, someone you know.” He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying more.

“Will this person be at the Greener reunion?” She gets a sinking feeling.

“Yep.”

“No.”
It can't be.
The sinking feeling in her stomach begins to resemble the Titanic.

“Yep.”

“Could you please stop saying yep?” She gives him a sidelong look.

“Yep.”

She smacks Quinn on his shoulder and his oh-too-happy self. Brown eyes and shaggy hair flash in her mind.

“It's Gil, isn't it? And don't say yep again!”

“It is indeed Gil.”

“Oh.”

“That's it? That's all you have? ‘Oh?’ I thought I might get more than ‘oh’.” Quinn crosses his arms in disappointment.

“She mentioned bringing someone with her when we started talking about everyone coming to visit before the reunion, but since she was vague, I figured it was Mr. Rochester and she didn't want the judging. So. Gil, huh?”

“Yep.”

She smacks him again.

“What was that for?” Rubbing his shoulder where she hit him, he leans as far away from her as he can in the tiny car.

“The yep and not telling me before about Gil.”

Gil. At my house. Tomorrow.
Her mind races.

“You knew this all along, didn't you? Does everyone know?”

“I may have had conversations with Selah about said matter, yes. You know she's the optimistic romantic in this group. I think she's always had a soft spot for you and Gil. In her mind, if the French Incident hadn't happened, it was only a matter of time before you two realized you both felt the same way and acted on it. Now you’re both divorced, and she’s back to drawing your initials on her notebook. No pressure or anything.” He laughs and ducks from another slap which doesn’t come.

“Yeah, no pressure. Gil and I are friends. Just like the rest of us. It’ll be nice to see him again.”

“Uh, huh. Friends. And 'nice to see him again.’ Keep telling yourself that, Magpie.”

If only Quinn and Selah knew the truth. Gil and Maggie had acted on their feelings. And despite her hoping for a different outcome back then, they had remained just friends—friends, but no longer best friends.

* * *

When they pull into the ferry waiting lot in Mukilteo, she’s ready for a cocktail. They are far enough back in line to have one drink at Ivar's Clam Bar before the next ferry loads. It's tradition to get a drink, a cup of chowder, or soft serve ice cream at Ivar’s, depending on the time of day and the ferry wait. Today might be both a cocktail and ice cream day given Quinn’s revelation about the unexpected guest.

Quinn excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving her at the bar with her thoughts. She stares at the water and ferry dock, not seeing either as her mind and heart try to wrap themselves around his revelation.