way it was difficult to define, said, “Hi, Ana,” and got to work checking out her engine.
Nothing serious, was the conclusion. He changed a small part, told her the Jeep was a solid investment, then waved off the bill. “Next time won’t be free.”
“Thanks, Peter.” Guilt nipped at her even as she said that. She’d never been able to make herself genuinely like Peter, though she’d tried; he was always nice and he’d never done anything to make her dislike him… but the tiny hairs on her nape stood up anytime she was alone with the lanky redhead. “Have a good day.”
He nodded, standing unmoving in the garage entrance as she drove away. It felt as if his muddy green eyes tracked her until she turned onto the main strip. She spotted the cop’s vehicle heading out of town, tried to guess who he was going to see. A number of Cove people lived way out in the wilderness, including a few who didn’t much care for company. But she guessed that was his job—to show his face even in the shadows, make people know the law was around.
She wondered if it was working.
Parking the Jeep outside the café, she got out. But it was only Miriama she found inside. “Jo says her ankles are the size of tree stumps today,” the girl informed Anahera, her smile sunny. “I told her to stay home and have some time to herself since Tom’s taken the boyo with him on a job. With the weather so grizzly, it’ll probably be quiet until the fishing boats come in later today.”
Anahera had almost not noticed the change in the weather—the West Coast was often clear and bright even in winter, but for some reason of geography, the Cove collected what water there was in the atmosphere. The sky was stormy gray today, rain a dark mist that threatened to turn morning into evening. “Who’s out fishing?”
“The usual crazy crew,” Miriama said with a roll of her eyes, but those eyes were warm with affection. “Kev and Tamati and Boris.”
“I know all those names except Boris.”
“Backpacker who washed up here and decided to stay. A year now.” Miriama shook her head. “He’s from St. Petersburg. Decided he liked the quiet of the Cove better.”
“If he’s survived a winter already, maybe he’ll make it.”
“He keeps telling us he’s Russian—‘And Russians know winter. This is nothing.’ ” Dropping the thick Russian accent with a grin, she moved to her coffee machine. “What’s your poison?”
“Straight black,” Anahera said. “And I’ll take a decaf cappuccino, too. Both to go.”
Miriama made the drinks, then said, “Say hi to Jo for me.” She drew a smiley face on the cup meant for Josie.
“Will do. Thanks, Miri.” The Jeep had no cup holders, but thanks to the cardboard holder Miriama had provided, Anahera managed to make it to Josie’s without spilling. Her friend’s home was a small clapboard house painted a crisp white with a blue-green trim. Josie had planted native ferns around the sides, hardy flowering plants out front.
Going to the door, Anahera tested the knob and, as expected, it turned easily. “Locks exist for a reason!” she called out so Josie wouldn’t get a fright when she walked in.
“You’d better have brought me a cappuccino!”
Anahera smiled and walked into the living room to find Josie sitting on a sofa, folding curtains of happy yellow with white daisies printed on them. Her breath stuck in her chest. “Where—” She took a desperate sip of coffee to wet her bone-dry throat. “Where did you get those?”
“I saved them for you.” Josie’s smile was uncertain. “I’m sorry. Was that the wrong thing to do? I was worried they’d get moldy and damaged in the cabin after you left.”
Heart thundering, Anahera put the coffees on the small wooden table in front of Josie. “I thought they were gone,” she whispered, taking one of the crisply laundered and ironed curtains in her hands.
Josie touched her fingers to Anahera’s shoulder. “Your mum spent so much time making these. I couldn’t bear to have them just fade away.”
A lump of rock in her throat, Anahera nodded. She’d left behind everything but the greenstone carving she wore on a thin braided cord under her black sweater, and the memories in her heart. She’d thought she was beyond the idea of needing objects to remember the woman she’d loved so much, and whose embrace she missed to this day, but these curtains sang to her in her mother’s voice.