27. Shelby
Islam the brakes on Mac’s truck at the intersection on Main Street. Sometimes I really miss my Jetta back home. This truck is up so high that half the time I don’t notice stuff down at street level until I’m nearly cruising into a sweet little old lady in a crosswalk. Like I just about did right now.
It’s been two weeks since Mac knocked on my door that night, and each day has been better than the last. But between the late nights having hands-down the best sex of my life, spending as much time with Mac and Nate as possible, along with planning for the changes to Mac’s bar, I’m so tired I’m not really seeing straight. Worse, I’ve completely neglected my search for Shelby Fox. We did visit Mac’s dad at the care home last week, but he was having a bad day, so it didn’t seem appropriate to ask him about her. When he dropped his coffee into his lap, he threw such a fit that Mac had to call in the staff to help get him settled again. My heart broke for all three of them. We spent the rest of that day down in Swan River, going to the movie theatre, dinner, and bowling, where Nate kicked both our asses.
But glancing at the calendar this morning, I left the house determined to pick up the thread. I’ve got only three weeks left in Redbeard Cove. I need to do what I promised, if only to distract me from the inevitable pain of what’s to come with Mac.
“Sorry!” I say to the woman now stepping onto the opposite curb, my heart pounding at the near miss.
The woman, surprisingly, doesn’t give me an evil glare, but smiles, waving me off like it was fine I nearly mowed her down.
I stare at her back as she walks down the street, a tingling going over my skin. She’s got long braided silver hair and wears a purple sweater, flowing slacks, and about a pound of jewelry—bangles and multiple necklaces. I wonder if she’s related to Chris.
Or if that, right there, is Shelby Jessica Fox.
Someone gives me a friendly honk, and I realize I’ve been holding up traffic.
I pull into the parking lot at the Redbeard Cove Public Library and grab the first parking spot I see. I run out to the sidewalk right after, but, of course, the woman is long gone.
Disappointment sits on my shoulders, but Mac might know who she is based on that description.
As I head for the front door, I have to stop and re-park the truck, since it’s fully sideways on the line. I don’t even attempt to parallel park that thing. Once again as I head into the building, I think of my Jetta. And the coffee place down the street from my building. And as Stu pulls away in his beat-up pickup—I know he’s going to tell Mac about my parking job since he sat there watching me fix it—my ability to retreat into anonymity when I need to.
I love it here in Redbeard, but can I picture living here?
My heart clenches when I think of leaving. But thinking of staying feels strange too. Everything about my time here feels a bit divided. My time spent doing the job I promised Mac and searching out Shelby. My love of the small-town feel and gorgeous scenery, but my missing parts of the big city too. When I think about it, it’s kind of like the town of Redbeard: old and new. Here and there.
The elderly woman behind the counter looks far less witchy than the person outside. This one has a tight gray bun, smooth brown skin, and glasses at the end of her nose.
“Morning,” she says, not looking up from her novel, which, when I get up close, I see is a historical romance novel—a man wearing nothing but a kilt stands with one leg up on the edge of a cliff lined with heather, his hair blowing majestically in the wind. Mo Cridhe, the title says.
Looks like Lana might have a built-in fan if she ever decides to try to get published.
“Is that one good?” I ask conversationally.
The librarian, whose name tag reads Bea, because of course her name is Bea, lowers the book. “Depends on what you can handle, dear.”
I bite my lips to keep from laughing. “Sounds amazing.”
She hands it over. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s fine. I’ve read it twice. You’ll be needing a library card, I suppose?”
“Um, yes,” I say, a bit unnerved but not surprised to know I clearly look like an out-of-towner. “But I’m also here looking for some information. On a person.”
The librarian lifts a well-penciled eyebrow. “Is this person alive or dead?”
“I very much hope she’s still alive.”
Bea looks alarmed. “Are they missing?”
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t actually know.”
“For missing persons, we should call my daughter Winnifred. She’s the Chief of Police.” She says this with a solid note of pride.
I smile. “Oh, it’s not like that. But also, I should have caught the resemblance to Freddie. You have the same eyes.”
Bea tsks. “I suppose that’s what most people call her. But yes, she told me all about your little escapade down at Business Island.”
My cheeks suddenly feel like roasted marshmallows. I think I might always be known as the girl who jumped in the water fully clothed. Another thing I miss about the city: fewer opportunities to be permanently branded. But I suddenly remember Chris’s words the first day we met. “I guess if that’s how I’m going to be known around town, I might as well own it, right?”
Bea doesn’t look convinced.
I clear my throat, deciding to cut my losses. “Well, do you think you might be able to help me look up this person? See if there are any news articles or anything about her? I haven’t had any luck searching online.”
We get down to business. Bea helps me look up Shelby Jessica Fox using alternate spellings. But just like my own Googling, her searches come up with those same names I found before, plus she finds one more in Australia. But here in BC? Nada.
My shoulders sink.
“I’m sorry, dear. You could try the archives next door, although I’ve already searched their online database.”
“Right.”
Was Mom lying? Did Shelby never live here? Were they just passing through when that picture was taken?
“This woman special to you?” Bea asks softly. That’s when I realize my eyes are wet.
I swipe at my face. “Sorry. This is embarrassing. She’s my grandmother. She lived here at one time, after she and my mother had a falling out.”
“Do you know anything else about her that might give some clues as to where she lived? Did she work? Do you know the type of house she lived in? Was it on the beach or in the mountains?”
“I don’t know any of that,” I say, unable to keep growing hopelessness out of my voice. “My mother refused to tell me anything about her, except that her mother was one of those ‘free spirits who didn’t bother giving her daughter a proper education or upbringing.’”
“So she was a hippie.”
“I think so.”
“And your mother’s anything but.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you tried asking at Widow’s Walk?”
I frown. “The BB?” It was on the list of options when I was looking for a place to stay, but from everything I’ve heard, it seemed a little removed, up on the mountain. And a little creepy—its upper turrets can be seen all the way from the beach.
“Mm-hmm. Elizabeth’s what you might call one of those.”
“A hippie?”
Bea wrinkles her nose. “Yes.” She says it with the same disdain as my parents. “And she’s lived here for several decades.”
“Thank you, Bea. I appreciate your help.” I head for the door. I’m going to go there right now.
“Wait!” she calls. “What about your library card?”
I hold up Mo Cridhe, grinning. “I’ll grab one when I’m finished with this.”
“All right. Oh, and if you do speak with Lizzie, tell her to send Orlando back my way. She’s had it for years.”
I don’t understand this, but I promise I will. By the time I walk out the door, Bea’s already got another romance novel open in front of her, this one even racier-looking than Mo Cridhe.
I wonder if she realizes she called Elizabeth by what sounded like an affectionate nickname. I also wonder if she knows what STFUATTDLAGG means.
Okay, now I’m thankful for Mac’s truck. The road up to Widow’s Walk is barely more than a dried riverbed. How the heck are guests supposed to get up here in rental cars?
Still, I can’t keep down the excitement of finally getting a lead on Shelby, flimsy as it is.
It’s a rough road, and it’s comprised almost entirely of steep switchbacks. But when I reach the property, I gasp out loud. The harrowing drive was 100 percent worth it.
The old Victorian house, with its turrets, peaks, and, of course, the eponymous wrought-iron-fenced widow’s walk up top, has been gorgeously maintained. It’s painted a deep purple with all the trim in glossy black. The colors should be garish, but it works.
But the house pales in comparison to the view. The building is set on a large open property that slopes down the hill. But half of it is covered with a stunning gated English garden already in full spring bloom. The coup de grace is that although the whole property is surrounded by thick evergreen forest, we’re high enough up the mountain that the views are stunning. From here you can see the whole town of Redbeard Cove, the shoreline, the beaches—even the Rusty Dinghy. And, of course, the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
I’m so absorbed with the view I don’t notice the rumble of a vehicle until an ancient battered Land Rover pulls in behind me, parking next to Mac’s truck.
I smile politely, even though I can’t see who’s getting out of the truck. It could be a guest or the proprietor, though mine was the only vehicle up here.
They slam the door, and suddenly I see who it is: the woman I nearly ran over in the crosswalk downtown.
My heart leaps. Shelby?
I tell myself to cool my jets. According to literally everything, Shelby’s not here.
Still, I wave like Forrest Gump. “Hello!” I walk over to her, my heart pounding.
“Ah,” says the woman. “Came up to finish the job?”
I laugh. I like her already. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m still getting used to driving that beast.”
“You’re a friend of Alasdair’s, then?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Yes.” Of course she knows Mac. “And I take it this is your place? Are you Elizabeth?” I hold my breath.
“Indeed, I am. Help me with the groceries, would you?”
I don’t let that knock me down. She could have changed her name. Or maybe Shelby’s a diminutive I’ve never heard for Elizabeth. Besides, I already like her. She’s no-nonsense like my mom, but kind, not harsh. Lines radiate from her eyes like she’s been smiling her whole life.
The interior of the house is a marvel on its own. Its decor is what I’d call maximalist, with heavy brocade drapery, dark, moody wallpaper, and art in all forms covering every spare inch of open wall space. The furniture is heavy on the velvet and curly wood. It smells vaguely of patchouli and wood oil.
Frankly, I’m obsessed.
After I help her load the bags on the counter, she props her hands on her hips, her bracelets jingling. “So, I take it you don’t need a room?”
My stomach twists. The moment of truth.
“I don’t. I’m…actually I’m looking for someone, and I’m having some trouble. Bea, down at the library, suggested you might be the person to ask. I…” I trail off.
Elizabeth’s folded her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Beatrice mentioned me? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” My brows bunch in confusion. “That’s why I’m here.”
She sniffs. “I suppose you’re right. What did she say, exactly?”
“That you were a hippie and have lived here forever, and you might know about what happened to Shelby Fox.”
Now her brows pinch together. “Shelby Fox?”
My heart drops, just a notch. “You’ve never heard of her? Shelby Jessica Fox.”
There’s no recognition at all.
She’s not Shelby. In fact, Shelby would likely be in her eighties, and this woman looks to be younger than that. Not by much, but I’d peg her at around seventy-five. Still, I say, “She lived somewhere around here. She raised my mother here. But Mom left when she was eighteen. Moved to Vancouver and never spoke to her again. That was forty-three years ago.”
Do I imagine Elizabeth’s eyes widen? Or is it just her taking in this information?
Just then, there’s a loud banging on the door, and Elizabeth makes a tsking noise. “That will be my guests.”
“Right.” I’m embarrassed to find I’m fighting off tears.
“Oh, darling,” Elizabeth says. She briskly walks to the parlor and comes back shaking the folds out of a small white cloth. It’s an embroidered hankie.
“One moment,” she calls down the hallway.
“Miss—I didn’t get your name,” she says.
“Shel—Bryony,” I say, deciding on my given name in case that unlocks something in her memory. Though if she was ever here, my grandmother probably never knew I existed. “Bryony Shelby Jones.”
“Bryony, I’ll give this a think. How’s that? If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know.”
“Actually I’m going by Shelby. Right now, anyway. Should I leave you my number?”
She doesn’t blink. “That’s all right, Shelby. I’ll find you.”
Elizabeth’s just breezing off to the front door when I call her name.
She pauses, her hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”
“Bea said something about Orlando?”
For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she opens the door, greeting two people standing there.
“Welcome, welcome. Come in. Give me one moment, and I’ll be right down to check you in.”
“Of course,” one of them says. It’s an older woman with a thick German accent.
“Wait here,” Elizabeth says to me, and hurries up the grand staircase at a clip.
I wait awkwardly in the foyer next to the older pair. They look nearly identical and like they’re on safari with their knee socks and floppy brimmed hats.
“How is it?” The first woman whispers to me after a moment.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“The rooms. The grounds. The library!” the other one says. Both of them look like they’re bursting with excitement to be here.
“Um, I’m just passing through,” I say.
“Ah,” the first one says, touching a finger to her nose. “Message received.”
I’ve never been more confused. But Elizabeth’s back, pressing a small dogeared paperback into my hand. “Here. Tell Beatrice she could have come and gotten it anytime she wanted. No need to be a chicken.”
Then she’s smiling at her guests.
I let myself out, more confused than ever.
In the truck, I look at the book. It’s Orlando, by Virginia Woolf. It looks like it’s been read a hundred times; the corners are soft with use, and there are notes in all the margins. I’m about to set it down when I see the inscription on the first page.
Dear Lizzie: I’m sick to death of this particular self. I want another. (Chap. 6)
I read it three times. I flip to chapter six and see it’s a line from the book.
Blood rushes in my ears, because I could have said those words right before I jumped into the ocean.
I want another.
I pick up my phone.
Mac answers on the first ring. “Hey. You okay?”
I told him I was taking the day off to do this. I texted him excitedly when I was heading to Elizabeth’s. Now, I only feel defeated, but also somehow like there’s something I’m missing.
But I’m okay when I hear his voice. It immediately calms me. “Yeah,” I say. “Too much to explain right now. But Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“I like this self.”
A beat passes. “You need to help me out, sweetheart. I didn’t go to college like you.”
I laugh softly. “I just miss you.”
We’ve only been apart for a few hours, but I can almost hear him soften. “I miss you too, sweetheart. You say the word, and I’ll come right home to you.”
“The word.”
“Jed,” he yells. “I’m out.”
“Mac!” I laugh. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not. We have the house to ourselves for another two hours.” He lowers his voice. “So I’ll see you with as few clothes on as possible in fifteen minutes.”
I can’t argue with that.