Chapter 3
Gregor
The space between night and dawn was but a sliver of silvery light, but it was my favorite time of day. Free from car sounds and rambling cell phone conversations the public didn’t need to be privy to, there were just the early gulls and the scuttling sand crabs. The rolling surf as it lapped against the shore was better than even the music of my favorite bands. Out here, I could enjoy it unspoiled. It was better than any mediation playlist I’d ever cobbled together.
There were times when I just came here to listen, and not to harvest driftwood, the way I was this morning. The soft shhh of the sled I pulled behind me over the sand only enhanced the rhythm of the morning.
Finding a piece of driftwood was like being a kid on Christmas morning. Every piece was a present that I carefully wrapped and added to the cloth padding I kept on the sled. The tip of my boot uncovered a shell, and I made a mental note to bring my bucket, rake and shovel tomorrow, so I could gather up enough clams for a feast. For as much shit as I gave Olly about them, they were one of my favorite dishes, too. The succulent treats would be a good way to end the week, after I set up an old-fashioned clam broil behind the workshop. There were two heavy, driftwood chairs on the patio that I’d made with the intention of selling, until Olly and I had parked our asses in them, cracked open a couple cold, crisp ciders, and discovered what a slice of heaven our location truly was. Not only could customers reach it from the boardwalk, but they could also access the shop from the bike path as well while strolling along the sand. The shop was just eight short steps up from the very beach I walked on now, and surprisingly enough, we received a lot of foot traffic that way.
Olly had his hands full most afternoons, between the browsers and the buyers, and yet he never asked me to come out and help. In fact he’d shooed me away the few times I’d tried. My brother had thrived since coming to work with me at the shop, and more than proven to our old man that the business and marketing classes Olly had begged to take hadn’t been wasted.
Between the website and online marketplace he’d created, and the QR codes he put on every flyer, advertisement and social media image, online orders had started rolling in and I was finally giving serious consideration to accepting the occasional commission for specific pieces, despite how much it rankled me to be told what to create.
“They’re not telling you what to create, they are offering to pay you to create something specific, there is a difference you know.”
Despite Olly’s insistence that creating the right piece for the right person would not only garner a great deal of attention, but send people flocking into the shop, I’d steadfastly refused to bend when it came to accepting money to turn the driftwood into anything other than what it wanted to be. It just seemed wrong to force the pieces to become something that didn’t show off the true spirit and beauty of the wood. Cash was nice and all, but I hadn’t created the shop to get rich, I’d done it because I was passionate about the artistry that went into taking something that had drifted for who knew how long, or how far, and giving it a second life after its first one had been snapped short.
Olly seemed to appreciate that, mostly, though he struggled when it came to letting go of ideas that he felt strongly about. It was a good trait, though, even when Olly got my ire up. I never wanted him to lie down and roll over for anyone, not even me. A little clam broil and the new blueberry ciders from our cousin Phil’s place didn’t even come close to showing the level of appreciation I felt about all of the hard work Olly had put in.
It was good having him around the place, too, and not just for all the improvements he’d made. Olly always managed to make me chuckle, even when I wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
And now he’d gone and filled the candy jar in my workshop with treats much like the ones August had left in my jacket pocket after he’d hugged me. Little sneak had a light touch and gentle hands, he could have easily pickpocketed me and I would have been too enthralled about his scent to notice. I still couldn’t get his aroma out of my mind. I’d started seeing candy in my dreams, only the moment I unwrapped a piece it transformed into a squirming version of August that I couldn’t wait to wrap my lips around.
Groaning, I adjusted myself in my jeans and took a moment to tip my head back and stare up at the dark clouds gathering in the distance.
Those little citrus drop candies had been as refreshing as rain, and the flavors, holy shit, I’d never had tangerine or grapefruit flavored anything. The lemon, lime, and orange flavors had been on point. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that August used fresh squeezed juice in his creations to get them to taste like that. Not too sweet, not too sour, every piece had been like biting into the fruit. I’d gone through them so fast I’d wound up turning the baggie over and then checking my workbench just in case one or two had rolled away, disappointed to see none had.
I'd mourned their extinction and even considered writing a simple eulogy to pin beside the baggy on the bulletin board, but words had never been my strong suit. The most I’d managed was a slightly bawdy limerick, but I’d posted it anyway, and just as I’d expected, Olly laughed and tried his hand at writing one of his own. They were both posted on the bulletin board now, Olly’s posing a silent challenge to me to write a response to it, just to keep the fun rolling.
Fun.
When the hell had I started looking for ways to fill my days with it?
Oh yeah, from the moment I’d gotten a look and a whiff of August, who my gut and my wolverine urged to seek out as soon as possible. Maybe I needed to spend some time lingering around the candy shop to see if August went back in. Surely a man who gave away candy on a whim had to replenish sometime.
A piece of driftwood a little over a foot long caught my eye and I danced in the sand, even as the gulls laughed at me and circled overhead to see if I had anything to toss them. I didn’t, but only because I’d given the last bite of my hastily thrown together breakfast sandwich to the trio who’d squawked a greeting to me from their perch on the break wall.
“Yeah, yeah,”
I muttered, grinning up at them before retrieving a cloth from the sled.
Where others saw flying pests and even winged rodents, I saw cackling critters who brought amusement and a bit of majesty to the beach. Little hecklers who brazenly divebombed the humans they knew would flail and fling away whatever treat they were attempting to guard, if one of the birds just swooped low enough.
I quickly wrapped up my prize and added it to the others I’d collected this morning, seven pieces so far, a good haul by any standards, but I still had plenty of time left before I needed to head to the shop.
“Do you come down to the beach to entertain the gulls often or was that a rare performance I just had the privilege to witness?”
Well, shit.
Startled, I whirled around so fast I tripped over my boots and landed with an oof on my backside in the sand, blinking up at August as he sat on the edge of the break wall with a camera around his neck.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
I grumbled as I brushed sand off my jeans as I stood. “I was just trying to avoid squishing a crab.”
“Uh huh, likely story.”
“Please tell me that you weren’t just taking pictures.”
“Oh, I’ve been taking pictures all morning.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know, do I?”
August asked as he dropped off the wall into the sand with a little flourish that made me step back and pretend to be looking for something while hoping August hadn’t noticed me lunge his way out of concern that he was about to hurt himself.
Chuckling, August stepped around me and took several pictures of the sun as it rose majestically, like it was being birthed right out of the sea.
“I didn’t take any pictures of your little dance,”
August informed me. “Though I may have accidentally caught a bit of it on video while I was filming the gulls.”
“Really?”
“I won’t know for sure until I check later.”
“Is this what you do?”
I asked as I picked up the rope for the sled. “Are you a photographer?”
“Only in the loosest sense of the word,”
August explained. “I’m a candymaker.”
“No wonder you smell so sweet,”
I blurted, feeling my face heat up the moment I realized which words had tumbled out.
Even the gulls laughed, before moving out over the waves, searching for a few fish to munch on.
“Thank you,”
August said, humor in his voice as he kept taking pictures. “I just came down here this morning because I’m planning a beach themed display as well as a display full of ocean themed candies for the seafood fest next weekend.”
“I’m down here every morning,”
I admitted, unsure of what I hoped to gain by telling him where I could easily be found.
“I might have to come more often myself,”
August said, “it’s beautiful, and so peaceful. I spend most of each day surrounded by chatter and general noise from all the kitchen equipment. I could hear my thoughts this morning and started scribbling ideas in my notebook the moment my feet hit the path.”
“It’s better down here, preferably with your toes in the sand. Unfortunately, I learned the hard why what can happen when harvesting driftwood in bare feet.”
“Dropped a log on your toe, didn’t you?”
he said, flashing me that cheeky grin of his.
“And got a fishing hook stuck in my heel when I was trying to drag one,”
I admitted.
“Didn’t learn from the first mistake, did you?”
“Didn’t learn from the second one, either. I kept at it until I lost my balance while trying to heft a six-foot piece of driftwood onto my shoulder and stepped on a bottle in the sand. The damn thing busted and sent a piece of glass so deep into my foot that I can still feel it when it rains.”
“Is that where the sled came in, too?”
“Naw, that’s where I got smart and starting putting boots on,”
I said. “The sled came after I threw my back out trying to lug too many pieces back to the shop at one time.”
“Work smarter, not harder. It seriously will save you in the long run.”
“Yeah, I’m getting too old to go around pulling muscles and straining ligaments out of pure stubbornness,”
I admitted, feeling a bit sheepish, considering I wouldn’t hit my thirty-first birthday until the end of the year. “It isn’t a good look, or so Olly tells me.”
“You should listen to him, he knows what he’s talking about.”
“He’s pretty awesome, as far as younger brothers go.”
“Do you have a bunch of other siblings, or is it just the two of you?”
August asked.
“There’s enough of us that game nights are never boring,”
I admitted.
“Really?”
August said. “They get pretty lively at my place, too, but then, there are almost a dozen of us coming in and out at damn near every hour of the day.”
“Almost a dozen, not a full dozen?”
I teased. “My folks tried to throw in the towel after my brothers Piers and Aldon were born.”
“Which were numbers which and which in total child volume?”
“Three and four.”
“Damn, okay, what number are you?” he asked.
“Seven.”
“Holy crap.”
“Yeah, that’s what I say every time family day rolls around,”
Gregor admitted. “They didn’t stop there, though, and had a set of twins between me and when Olly came along.”
I chuckled as he counted on his fingers, then cocked an eyebrow at me. “So you’ve got ten siblings, too.”
“Eleven,”
I said. “My youngest sister was born three months after Olly.”
I watched the confusion play across his face and appreciated him not asking any questions.
“Pops actually had the nerve to ask Mom if she wanted to try for an even dozen and let’s just say that didn’t go well for him,” I said.
August sputtered, snorted, then slapped his knee as he started laughing hard enough to chase away the gulls. “Dude pretty much has his own basketball team.”
“Just about, not that any of us play, but yeah, we’d have enough players if it came down to it.”
“Whoa, okay, so you’re right in the middle then.”
“Yup, which is nice, ‘cause that means Mom has a bunch of other kids to badger about babies before she gets around to me,” I said.
The sober look that suddenly crossed August’s face threw me for a loop, as I tried to backtrack through the conversation to see what I’d said to change the vibe.
“Not ready to be shackled with a mate and family?”
August asked.
Oh.
Ohhhh.
Shit.
Well, that explained it then.
Time for some serious backpedaling and a bit of an expanded explanation, too.
“More like not ready to be badgered and browbeaten because I haven’t found mine yet,”
I explained. “Though that may no longer be the case.”
“Oh, you think so, do you?”
“I think you smell like I could spend a lifetime licking you and never get tired of the taste.”
Yup, another blurted admission.
I just could not shut up around August.
And there was that feeling in the pit of my stomach again, the one that kept warning me that August was important to me and that I needed to spend time with him and get to know him better.
Mate?
The snarly wolverine voice in the back of my head kept hissing it, but no one in my family was mated to a prey animal, and I was certain that August, with his sweet scent and upbeat disposition, was in fact some sort of critter my kind would feast on if we were all beast, with no humanity to rein us in.
Shifters weren’t supposed to eat one another, or at the very least, they weren’t supposed to make it known that they did. It was frowned upon within the community and a serious faux pas to engage in that sort of behavior when we were supposed to be living in harmony. Old grievances still popped up from time to time, and grudges sometimes took a while to lay to rest when fueled by prejudices. All in all, our little seaside village had always been welcoming to those who wished to live in peace with their neighbors, but there were many families, like mine, who leaned toward similar species.
In my line, they were mostly grizzled looking American wolverines, with a line of Eurasians married in generations back. Several honey badgers clung to the family tree as did other badgers and a Marten that took attitude to a whole other level. How they would take things if I were to try to bring someone as bright and cheerful as August into the midst was something I was still trying to sus out. We were assholes, even if we got along with one another pretty well and enjoyed spending time in each other’s company to the point where I had an old ’92 Sportster in my garage I needed to finish working on so I could get back to riding with Wolverines on Wheels. No, we hadn’t named ourselves that, my oldest nephew had. He had my sister Irene’s temper and my brother-in-law Oden’s snarky attitude. He’d be a teenager next year and goddess help the world once that happened because he was already getting into shit.
“If you seriously think that way about me, then why don’t we grab something for breakfast and get to know each other a little better?”
August suggested. “I’ve got questions, and I bet you do, too.”
“I could eat.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m starving.”
My belly took the opportunity to rumble loudly, prompting a little giggle from August.
“Yeah, you and me both, apparently,”
I muttered, though the moment August turned and started heading back up the beach, I got a good look at the hip-hugging jeans he was wearing and suddenly found myself wondering if it was food, or August, that I truly wanted to sink my teeth in.