The Complete Eagle Cove

Chapter 2 -7

“Why is everyone being so damned mysterious about this?” Jessica whispered to Natalya as she climbed the steps to The Puffin Diner for the second time today.

“Because it’s making you crazy.”

That was certainly the truth. Mom had simply declared, “Greg is doing a Friday night,” which was greeted with a swell of excitement from the knitters, “and Jessica doesn’t know what that means.” That had elicited a half dozen “You’re in for such a treat, dear,” comments.

And when she’d pushed, they’d all shut down. When she’d tried being subtle about it Mrs. Winslow had snorted out a laugh at her lame technique and Tiffany had merely rolled her eyes. It reached the point where she couldn’t even mention it tangentially without getting shut down.

“Are you going?” she’d asked Tiffany.

Before the quiet woman could even look up, the other women were once again telling her not to pry. After everyone else had returned to their knitting, Tiffany had glanced up and offered another one of her minimal, hair-rippling headshakes. A mouthed why had only elicited a widening of her eyes and an uncertain shrug.

Afterward, while Jessica had been inside clearing plates and glasses, Tiffany slipped quietly away to who knew where. There one moment and then gone.

“Doesn’t talk much, does she?” Jessica had asked Mrs. Winslow when they had a moment alone.

“Only when the girl has something to say.”

Jessica glanced over to see if that was a remonstrance of some sort. It had been in the second grade that Mrs. Winslow had taught her the first key to good journalism: “Shut up and let them talk.” It was a skill that she’d had a hard time learning as a seven-year old, but after a year in Marjorie Winslow’s class—often sitting isolated in the front left desk scooted well away from the others—she’d learned it well. But Mrs. Winslow’s comment didn’t appear to be accusatory this time, so she didn’t mind the gentle reminder of the axiom.

When asked how soon she’d be ready to go to dinner, she’d shrugged that she already was.

In response, Natalya had grabbed her arm and dragged Jessica up to the room they’d be sharing.

“What?”

“We’re going out to a nice dinner. You need to put on some finer duds, girlfriend.”

“I thought it was just Greg doing something.”

Natalya had merely shoved her toward her suitcase.

“Since when did people in Eagle Cove play dress up?” She received no answer as she started sorting through possibilities.

Oregon evenings grew chilly early, so she’d selected a pair of white linen slacks with just a hint of a bell-bottom, sandals with knit Christmas socks because she wanted to be fancier than her battered running shoes, but didn’t want to risk messing up the only nice shoes that she’d brought for the wedding. She swiped a black denim shirt from Natalya, but it was warmer than she thought so she’d ended up tying the shirt tails together high on her midriff. A little skin never hurt. A filmy scarf of spring green borrowed from Aunt Gina had completed the outfit.

“Put a flower in my hair and I’ll be certifiable,” she whispered to Natalya as they climbed the steps to the diner.

“No, then you’d be perfect and that wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us.”

They stepped through the door arm in arm, and Jessica had to glance back to make sure that she hadn’t just slipped through some kind of space-warp, time-portal thingy. But she hadn’t; Beach Way was still behind her and a steady trickle of townsfolk were flocking this way.

She looked back at the room. Rather than harsh fluorescents and sunlight slamming onto battered Formica tables, the space was now lit by rows of twinkle lights running around each fluorescent fixture and tiny spotlights on Ma Slater’s paintings. The tables had been transformed with midnight blue tablecloths, buff-colored napkins, and the soft oranges of the sun settling into the inevitable bank of fog that was forming far offshore.

“Maybe I’m certifiable without the flower in my hair.”