My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (28 page)

June 28th I woke up to the sound of the teakettle whistling on the stove. I found Race on the porch setting the table with cups and saucers, a plate of cut up fruit, a vase of flowers he’d bought from Lucy and a basket of pastries—custard and cinnamon Danish, raspberry-filled croissants, and peach turnovers—that he had ridden into town to pick up at the crack of dawn. In the center of the table with the flowers was a tiny pink gift bag, a box wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with a green ribbon, and a plain white envelope.

“Where is everybody?” I asked Race.

Ralph and Matthew were always working by six-thirty, and everyone else usually trickled in soon after. By seven there would be a good buzz that escalated to a roar by eight.

“I gave them the day off. I knew it was the only way I’d be able to tear you away, Happy Birthday!” Race cradled my waist, dipped me back, and kissed me good.

“Who did this? It’s beautiful.” I winked at him and he kissed me again.

“The bag is a gift from Paul and Janie and the envelope is from George.”

“George, really, what is it?”

“Take a look.”

I picked up the envelope. Inside was a photograph of a trillium flower.

“George collected trillium seeds and then sowed them last summer under those trees.” Race pointed to a stand of maple and birch trees that bordered the cottage.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Race and saw his pleasure at the tears that pooled in my eyes.

Trillium seeds are planted by ants in nature. The ants are attracted to a fatty part of the seed so they climb the stem of the flower and take one home. They feed the fat to their babies and discard the seed in their trash heap. The seed germinates in the winter and sends out roots in the spring. But all the growth is underground until the following spring when, hopefully, one leaf may surface. That leaf will stand all by its lonesome for three, five, seven, even fifteen years with some varieties before it is joined by the first bloom. I think trillium flowers are one of God’s ways of teaching patience and reminding us who’s in charge.

“George wanted you to be able to see them from the kitchen window of the cottage when they come up,” Race told me.

I had tried to not let the whole George thing get to me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some reason he didn’t like me and why. Did I make him uncomfortable and why? Did he simply not have anything to say to me? After that day it didn’t matter anymore. That gift was better than any ol’ yabberbash.

“The other present is from me. You can open it now or later.”

Race is a champion gift giver. He has this special gift-giving ability and he puts a good deal of thought into using it. He may not spend a dime but the recipient will remember the gift for the rest of their life. It’s always significant and not always tangible. Money is never the issue. Race would sooner sit and tell someone a story than buy them a gift card. Race Coleman will never buy a gift card.

“I’ll open Paul and Janie’s gift now and yours later.” I like my birthday to last as long as possible.

In the pink gift bag was a pair of earrings Janie and I had seen when we were shopping downtown. They were silver hoops that dangled teeny flowers made of tiny pearls.

After breakfast Race and I rode to the Water Gardens. He knew it was one of my favorite places on the island, next to the lodge of course. So, for two years in a row I celebrated part of my birthday in that lovely paradise, a tradition in the making perhaps. We walked from the lake where we left our bikes and hiked all of the way up to the top of Gabriel Falls and back down again. Then we went to lunch.

Race guided me to the back of a restaurant we hadn’t tried yet, Chums. It was supposed to have a great spinach salad with hot bacon dressing and the best Pasties on the island.

What are Pasties, you ask? Pronounced “past” as in not the present but the past, Pasties are a sort of turnover that are made with either a piecrust or yeast-type dough and filled with meat, potatoes, and vegetables in any variety of combinations. They can be eaten plain or covered in gravy.

The table Race guided me toward was already occupied, so I resisted a bit as he kept walking in that direction. Then I recognized the light-blue eyes and the tiny blue stone sparkling on the upper lip of the blonde that was sitting at the table. What I didn’t recognize was the pixie haircut, no dreads, it was shorter than mine had been when I cut it for Marni’s wig.

“Is that you, Sara Strauss?” I asked.

“Es ist ich, Geburtstagskind!” she answered.

“Translation?”

“It’s me, birthday girl!” Sara stood up and gave me one of her swaying hugs.

I smoothed my hand over her hair. “You look sassy.”

“Thanks. That’s exactly what I was going for. Sassy and whipped up.”

“Whipped up?” Race asked.

I held up my hand to Sara and asked her, “Can I do the honors?”

“Be my guest,” she said.

“Well, it can mean lots of things.” I looked at Sara. “Stop me if I’m mistaken here.”

“Not possible,” Sara said, “It’s your birthday. You’re queen for the day and therefore supremely right about everything.”

“So, as I was saying, it has many different meanings—a change for the better, updated, new and improved, dressed to the nines.” I looked to Sara for approval. “How did I do?”

“Pretty good, but you forgot
stylin’
,” she said.

We all sat down and I asked Sara, “Who let you out of the bakery?”

“The Haustermans are here from Duluth. I have three days all to myself.”

“So you can come out to the lodge,” I said.

“I could, but I’m not going to.”

I could no longer insist she was being silly, now could I?

“You can come into town and we’ll do something completely pointless, like, I don’t know something that absolutely does not need to be done,” said Sara.

For over two hours we ate, laughed, and when my birthday lunch was over, we did not say goodbye to Sara Strauss.

Instead I told her, “Come out and see us, friend.”

To which she replied, “Not on your life, friend.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow at the park at nine, then.”

Race and I rode back to the lodge, and he took me up to the front door of the cottage and said, “Now, get whipped up.”

“Whipped up as in new and improved, a change for the better or—”

“As in dressed to the nines, I’ll be back to pick you up at six.” And he left.

Whipped up? Dress to the nines? What is he up to?

St. Gabriel is a pretty casual place. With the exception of the View Point Hotel, where a dress or coat and tie are required after six in the evening, formal attire is not usually worn on the island—unless, of course, someone is a member of the St. Gabriel Community Development Board and is out protecting island property.

I had two formal dresses left in my wardrobe—the olive-green satin dress with cap sleeves and a basic black sleeveless. I wore the black sleeveless.

At six o’clock sharp, there was a knock at the front door and I opened it to see Race standing there, wearing a suit and tie. He slowly looked me up and down, which is a very sexy way for a husband to check out his wife of twenty-six years, and he said, “Cammy, you are so beautiful.”

The way he looked at me I felt beautiful.

“You look pretty scrumptious yourself, Race Coleman.”

He took my hands and kissed them. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Only every day for the rest of my life.”

At the foot of the stairs to the porch was Tasha, hitched to the one-seater buggy. “What is she doing here?” I asked.

“I’m taking you for a ride.”

“You’re taking me for a ride?”

“Well, Tasha and I are taking you for a ride.”

Having spent many summers at his grandparents’ farm in Texas, Race had ridden a few horses—but driven a buggy? Not to my knowledge.

He offered me his arm, escorted me down the stairs and held my hand properly as he guided me onto the seat. Then he walked around the buggy, sat next to me, grasped the reins and gave them a snap. We were off.

“I’m impressed. Is this a new trick you’ve learned, or have you been keeping this from me all these years?”

“George has been teaching me.”

If you’ve never gotten dressed up and had someone you’re in love with take you for a horse and buggy ride, I’d suggest you do so as soon as possible, very romantic.

We traveled on Shoreline Drive to downtown and left Tasha and the buggy at the Island Livery Stables. From the stables we walked to the marina. There we boarded a yacht that took us and about twenty other people on a tour of seven islands and seven lighthouses that were off the coast of St. Gabriel Island. A candlelit dinner was served on the deck as the sun set, and a string quartet played from the bow, also very romantic.

It was dark by the time we were back in the buggy. Race drove up Fort Hill, past Grayson’s Meadow, and up a narrow trail to the highest point on the island where he pulled up to the edge of a bluff. We could see the lights at the Fort, the street lamps that lined Main Street, and the lights on the boats at the marina.

“How did you find this place?” I asked him.

“George told me about it.”

Race reached under the seat and handed me my birthday gift from him. I pulled the bow, set the ribbon on the seat, and asked, “Open it now?”

“Yes, now,” he said.

I tore the paper off the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a picture frame made of birch branches with an intricate pattern of tiny birch twigs on the face of the frame. It held a photo of Race and me standing in front of the lodge. Janie had taken it.

“Race, it’s perfect. The frame is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“I made it.”

“You did not.”

“I did. I’m not just another pretty face you know.”

“Honestly, Race, you really did?”

“I did, with George’s help.”

“This has been a great day, Race Coleman. The best birthday I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

His eyes filled with tears and he looked at me in that devoted way. When did he start looking at me that way again?

“I wanted to make up for the one I missed.” Some tears spilled onto Race’s cheeks but he was smiling. He slid his hand across the side of my neck to the back of my head. His fingers laced in my hair, and he kissed me. “I’ve always loved you, Cammy. Since the moment I first laid eyes on you, I’ve loved you. I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you the way I have and that the hurt will always be there. I pray for the day you can forgive me and that you’ll trust me and feel safe. I want you to feel safe, Cammy.”

Although it wasn’t the last time that Race apologized for what he had done, that night I felt the need for him to do it melt away. I had forgiven Race but I had been afraid to let him know that I had. In my mind his knowing would let him off the hook somehow. And if he knew I had forgiven him for what he had done, I felt it might diminish the magnitude of it in his thinking. Sounds silly I know.

That night when I realized I wanted Race to know that I had forgiven him, I knew that I trusted him again. Not quite the way I had before, but that was because I realized life is not a neat little package, there were no guarantees. I still wanted life to be rosy, but I knew it wasn’t always going to be and I needed to be prepared.

“I forgive you, Race, and I adore you. Always have, always will. No one has ever made me feel loved or safe the way you do. I’m so thankful you’re here with me.”

The morning after my birthday,
Race found me in the bedroom standing in front of the dresser mirror.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking at my forty-nine-year-old self.”

Race wrapped his arms around me, looked over my shoulder, and said, “I’d like to look too.”

I hadn’t been to a hairdresser since we moved. I fingered my hair, which was starting to look like a small child’s who got a hold of a pair of scissors during naptime.

“Do you want me to let my hair grow long again?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I know it is, but I want to know what you’d prefer.”

“When it’s long you’re sexy and when it’s short you’re sexy. I win either way.”

“Race, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I gave him the
Please be serious
look
.

“Cammy, you know I loved your long hair. If you grew it out, I’d love it again, but I want you to do what makes you happy. And I promise you, short or long, I find you exceedingly beautiful, adorable, and incredibly sexy. Scout’s honor.”

Naïve maybe, but I believed him.

July

The frame Race made me for my birthday was just the beginning of his new hobby of woodworking. He had no prior experience or interest that I had ever seen but that didn’t seem to daunt him. He dug right in measuring, cutting, and nailing. Birch branches were his preferred medium. He collected them from around the property and stacked them behind the tool shed where he had organized his workspace.