And now for something completely different

An excerpt from the first novel in my series, North of the Tension Line

“What’s in the plans?” asked Fiona. “Want to go up to the Island? I’m in the mood for a day on the Rocks.”

This was their name for Schoolhouse Beach, a shore hidden behind a cedar forest on the north side of Washington Island.  The beach had no sand, only hundreds of feet of Lake Michigan shoreline, covered with smooth, lake-contoured stones on the beach and under the water. It was barely known even in Wisconsin, but apparently heavily advertised elsewhere in the world, because you couldn’t step without hearing a different language being spoken there. Walking on it was tricky, lying on it was lumpy, and unlike other Door County beaches, which tended to be shallow enough to wade out very far, the water was cold and deep. But there were rafts to swim out to and dive from, the tiny bay was protected, and best of all, dogs were allowed.  Rocco stirred and wagged, recognizing the name of his favorite place. He put his face in his mistress’s lap.

“Rocco, off.” Elisabeth was rummaging in her bag, looking for something as she spoke. Rocco lay back down and sighed. Roger was lingering, wiping off the counter nearby.  Elisabeth stopped rummaging and looked up.

“Listen Fi, I’ve been thinking. What do you want to do when you grow up?”

Fiona tilted her head and looked quizzically at Elisabeth.  Was she being facetious? Fiona was accustomed to her friend’s non sequiturs, but this one seemed purposeful. “I guess I thought I was doing it.”

“That’s assuming you intend to actually grow up, which I don’t necessarily recommend.”

Both women looked up surprised at Roger’s contribution to the conversation.

“Well I don’t,” he said shortly. “Life for adults is too much of the same thing. You think it will be a great adventure, but actually, it’s just a routine. It’s hard work, and you have responsibilities, and no one gives you amazing Christmas presents anymore.”

“What would constitute an amazing Christmas present?” asked Fiona, intrigued. This was the longest speech she had ever heard from Roger.

“A train set.” Roger seemed to have reached the limits of his interest in the topic, because he picked up his rag, turned and walked into the back room.

The door opened, and a tourist couple walked in, followed by Mike and Terry, two regulars. Roger’s sigh could be heard from the back room, and there was an ominous clatter of pans before he emerged, his face arranged in his customary look of welcome. He glowered at the beautifully casual young couple before him.

“What would your perfect Christmas present be?” Elisabeth asked Fiona, sidetracked by Roger’s comment.

“I don’t know. Something wonderful and unexpected, that made you feel if there were magic in the world. A puppy maybe, or an exotic sports car, or maybe a trip somewhere you’d never been.”

Oblivious to mood or place, the couple busied themselves with examining the menu on the wall, so Roger turned to his local customers.  

“Morning, Roger. You’re looking cheery.”

Terry, a local carpenter, was the only man in town who dared casual chat with Coffee’s proprietor. He was a small, wiry man somewhere in his sixties, with blond hair and a weathered face. His hands were battered and his nails rough. He had been a marine, and was one of the few in Fiona’s experience who would discuss his experiences at war. He was an easy-going, outwardly cheerful man, and as impervious to other people’s emotions as Roger was, only with a gentler nature and a simpler personality.  His casual conversation and frequent laughter were underlaid by the kind of intense calm that some men get having faced the worst of life.  Fiona always felt that he was the sort of person one could count on in an emergency, as, in fact, he had been, when her roof had sprung a leak last winter.

Mike, on the other hand, was round and quiet, but despite this, or perhaps because of it, Fiona often imagined him as having a secret life, filled with intrigue and lust, like Chaucer’s friar. This contrasting image made her smile to herself. Mike was more like a cherub than a salacious monk. A deeply religious man, he was a vestryman for his church, a devoted grandfather, and a member of the county board. Most important, though, he was a gifted painter, whose works were comprised of vivid streaks of color, the boldness and daring of which managed to suggest modern composition, while still being firmly based on an exquisitely skilled representation of nature. No one who met him would ever guess that this mild little man, so charming and unassuming, could contain so much talent or passion. Fiona had heard that his paintings sold in galleries in Santa Fe, San Francisco and New York for tens of thousands of dollars apiece. Having seen some of them, she believed it. The market for art was capricious, but she found it reassuring that there was room for things other than the piles of dung or the baby dolls placed in garbage bags which so entranced the art critics at the New York Times or the judges at the Venice Biennale.

Mike smiled benevolently upon Fiona and Elisabeth, and gently patted Rocco on the head. He was not much of a talker. He had once told Fiona how much lavender one could find in the shadings of the natural world, and this casual remark, unimportant to him and probably forgotten, had changed forever the way she saw the world.

“How are you, Mike?”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled. Rocco had sat up, and was leaning his head contentedly against Mike’s knee. Mike stroked his ears, as Rocco leaned harder. I’m well. And you? And Elisabeth—it’s nice to have you back.”

This was a long speech for Mike, and Fiona and Elisabeth smiled back, answering him at the same time.

“Fine, thanks.”

“Fine, thank you for asking. I’m back for good now.”

“Good, good,” he nodded, still smiling gently. “Glad to hear it.” His plump hand was still resting on Rocco’s head when Roger set the egg sandwiches on the counter and turned to the now fidgeting tourists.

Mike seemed relieved to be able to turn from this conversation and get down to the business of breakfast. He and Terry lapsed into comfortable silence as they ate.

Meanwhile, the young couple who had entered with them were embarking upon their first encounter with the proprietor of Coffee.

“Do you have cappuccino?” the young woman asked.

She was slim, blonde, and impeccably groomed, her perfectly french-manicured nails holding her Hermes bag, and her elegant little toes peeping delicately from her expensive sandals. Fiona thought regretfully of her own calloused heels and long toes. Roger’s usual glower changed to stone.

“No,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I’ll just have a regular coffee, then, with non-fat milk.”

“We have regular milk.”

“Regular milk?” The woman looked puzzled. “You mean two-percent?”

“I mean regular milk. One hundred percent.”

“You mean full-fat?” She looked incredulous. “You only have full-fat milk?”

“That is correct.” Roger’s economy of expression served him well. 

“Oh,” she said, studying him as if he were a species she had not previously encountered. “Well, I don’t think I can do that.” She paused, considering.

“What kind of bagels do you have?”

“Plain.”

“Plain? Just…plain?”

“Plain.”

“Oh,” She said again. She paused for a moment to consider. “Are you sure you don’t have anything non-fat? A flavored creamer, something like that?”

Anyone who didn’t know him might have mistaken Roger’s silence for patience.  There was a long pause as the woman waited for him to answer, and another when she realized that he wasn’t going to. Fiona began to feel a little sorry for her. She seemed like a rather innocent person. It clearly was not her style to bully others in order to get her way. Not getting her way, however, was obviously a new experience for her, and she didn’t know how to respond. She looked for some assistance at her husband, who until now had been furtively typing text messages. He looked up. They were probably about the same age, in their early thirties, but there was a boyishness about him that made him seem younger. 

“I can’t get a signal at all around here. Anywhere. No matter where I try, there’s just nothing. It’s incredible. You’d think they’d build more towers.” He continued his fruitless typing, shaking his head in disbelief.

Unable to fully accept this odd reality of limited possibilities, his wife turned and looked back up at the menu. Fiona had the impression that she was willing the appearance there of something trendy. Roger’s mood was now palpable, the vibrations of his impatience emanating loudly from him. Perhaps, thought Fiona, it’s like a dog whistle; only regulars can sense it.

“Do you have tea?”

“Coffee,” said Roger. “We have coffee.”

She seemed not to sense anything wrong, but in the shop a new silence reigned as all chewing, stirring, and drinking stopped. Roger drew a deep breath. Rocco lifted his head.

She looked at Roger, shrugged, and smiled brightly. “Ok. Then I’ll have a black coffee and plain bagel. No butter. To go, please. Honey? What do you want?”

“A cappuccino,” he said, not looking up.

“Honey, they don’t have cappuccino.”

“Oh.” He looked up, briefly. “What do they have, then?” At the wobbly end of the counter, no one breathed.

“Just regular coffee.”

“I’ll have that, then,” he said, still typing furiously with one finger.

She turned back to Roger, who stood, unmoving, eyes fixed.

“And he’ll have a regular coffee. To go, please.” She smiled at him and tipped her head to one side, as if to say, “There. I’ve done it right, haven’t I?” She seemed younger now, almost childlike, with a kind of sweet confidence in the benevolence of others.

Strange sounds emanated from under Roger’s breath, as he poured their coffee and put her unbuttered bagel in a white paper bag. “How much is it?” The woman asked, still oblivious to the mood of the shop. Fiona had the sense that she knew that she had won some battle. Fiona pondered this.

Roger pushed the Styrofoam cups and the bag across the counter toward the woman, not meeting her eyes.

“Do you take debit cards?”

Before he could reply, she rummaged in her soigné bag and pulled out some cash. “Oh, never mind, I have a ten. Here you go. You can just put the change in your tip jar.” She pushed a ten dollar bill toward him. Roger, who had no tip jar, did not reach out to take the money.

 She leaned over the counter toward him and spoke confidentially. “You know, you might want to consider getting an espresso machine. You’d get tons of business. Come on, honey, there’s a table outside.”

And with this, she smiled a sweet and winning smile, and they left.

There was a long pause after the door closed behind them during which everyone took a breath, and there was the sound of cups being placed on saucers. It was Terry who spoke first.

“I think Roger must either be sick or in love. Maybe both.”

He chuckled to himself, and Mike smiled quietly down at his coffee.

Fiona felt that this must be the moment. Surely now the explosion would come. She looked down the counter. Roger unmoving, a peculiar look on his face. Elisabeth, too, seemed frozen and strangely preoccupied with the contents of her purse. 

Behind him, through the window, Fiona could see the couple settled at one of the wooden tables outside, he, still furiously texting.  The woman tentatively tasted her coffee, as if testing this unaccustomed flavor.  Her lips moved in conversation, the words inaudible. At one point they both looked back at the shop, as if discussing their experience. The first yellow jacket buzzed their heads, and they waved it away.

“Warm up?” Roger was pouring coffee into their cups, an unaccustomed act of solicitousness.

He disappeared again into the back room, leaving the money on the counter.  A new, more comfortable silence wafted into the shop. Rocco put his head down on his paws and sighed.

*******

You can purchase North of the Tension Line, or any of my other books at your favorite bookseller. Some of my favorites are Honest Dog Books, Boswell Book Company, Mystery to Me Books, Books and Company, or Barbara’s Bookstores, Barnes & Noble, Target, and, of course, here.

And now for your gratuitous dog photo.

Eli particularly likes to lie on the pillows.