Chapter 6 Sierra
Sierra
I follow the path Mason’s brother indicated. It loops through trees and shrubs, around the family home, and past several buildings on the left: equipment sheds, and a couple of larger buildings that appear to be the cidery and distillery. To the right of the path, the orchard stretches ever on.
Up ahead, I find a cute building, all wood and climbing vines and flowerpots in the windows. The sign over the open door reads Sea Haven Cider House. It’s midday Saturday, and the parking area in front is filled with cars.
A big old tree out front has several wood signs hammered onto it pointing in various directions. They mention a gift shop, cider tasting lounge, and patio. On the lawn near the tree, a young couple plays cornhole while sipping on glasses of golden cider.
Just past the cider house parking lot, I pause. The walking path connects to the long driveway that snakes off to my left. And directly ahead of me, through the gaps in a tall stand of trees, I glimpse the blue-gray waters of the Salish Sea.
Mason’s family’s property is right over the water.
It’s like something from a postcard.
This place is very pretty.
But I wonder what it would be like to grow up here.
Shitty, because everyone knows you and your business, and you’re potentially in an echo chamber? Stifling, maybe, for anyone who’s creative and entrepreneurial? Or different in any way? And especially isolating when you’re a teenager, trying to spread your wings and figure out who you are?
Too familiar.
But for someone like Mason who chooses to stay, maybe there’s a good reason?
I can’t imagine why anyone would stay in a small town. I couldn’t leave the one I grew up in fast enough.
I follow the driveway to where it meets the road. There, a carved wood sign reads Sea Haven Orchard, Est. 1905. And beneath that, Estate Cidery above, backyards slope down from patios and decks, and impressive houses overlook the sea.
I follow the well-worn gravel path with the sea-salt-battered railing in the direction Layne indicated. Below the path, beyond some wind-matted shrubs, the pebbled beach stretches to the water. A couple of women walk a dog along the shore, but it’s otherwise empty.
The beach stretches from one end of the sprawling cove to the other. Out in the water, the tree-spined ridge of Salt Spring Island seems to enclose the cove. The tide is out, leaving clots of seaweed and a scattering of seashells, and the faint stink of fish turns my tempestuous stomach.
I can already see the pier ahead. It’s a simple boardwalk of wood, stretching out into the water. A few people dot the pier, walking along it or gazing over the edge into the lapping waves below.
As I make my way there, I prioritize my day.
First order of business, apologize to Sophie for being so late.
And hopefully get inside the building at the pier so we can start setting up.
Then I can pop over to the bar to hopefully get my phone (and see if Mason is around).
Later, I’ll go pick up my suitcase from his house (and see if he’s around).
Basically, I’m just hoping I get to see Mason today, to thank him for taking care of me last night.
And then . . . who knows? Maybe we hang out?
I seem to remember telling him about my “no boys for the rest of the year” thing, but I think it was clear to us both that that idea went out the window.
How about a man?
I remember his words in my ear, his lips brushing my skin, his body hot against mine.
Who am I kidding? I would love to spend time with him. Preferably sober and after I have a shower.
When I reach the end of the walk, I follow the wooden steps that lead from the path up to the pier as seagulls swoop lazily overhead. Where the pier meets the land, it widens into a large, unused patio area that surrounds the cedar-shingled building.
As I round the building, I find the town center not quite as empty as yesterday.
Kitty-corner from the pier, across the short main street that runs parallel to the water, creatively called Water Street, a few cars are parked in the lot in front of Sea Haven Bar & Grill, though I don’t see any sign of Mason.
Yes, I look for him. First thing.
Directly across Water Street from the pier, customers are walking into the small grocery store.
And on the final corner, across the path that leads from the street to the pier, a ramshackle-looking place called Bev & Bill’s General Store, offering hardware, liquor sales, auto repair, and postal services on its various signs, is open.
There’s not much else to see of the small town from this view but trees, and the start of the main road, Cherry Way, that winds from Water Street westbound out of Orchard Cove, eventually meeting others that lead to the highway.
But parked at the curb in front of the pier, behind my van, is my best friend’s car.
The door of the pier building, on the street side, is propped open, and I can already hear the music of ROSé and Bruno Mars playing inside—bouncy, flirty, and upbeat.
Above the door, the building’s name, Pier Seven, is carved into a raw slab of wood, and walking through that door is the most wonderful human being in the world.
My best friend is unmistakable, anywhere on earth.
Forever in her rockabilly-pinup-girl era, Sophie has raspberry-streaked dark hair swept up in a pile of curls and wrapped in a bandana, and she wears an effortless denim jumpsuit with her multicolored skate shoes.
Seeing her is such a relief for these puffy, bloodshot eyes.
“Soph!” I cry.
She turns, sipping on a reusable Cutie Fruitie smoothie cup. “Si!” She rushes over and gives me a big squeeze of a hug.
“Ergh.” I recoil as the contents of my stomach complain.
She slides her sunglasses off to reveal winged black eyeliner as she eyeballs me carefully. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.” I slip my sunglasses off, too, giving her the full visual.
“I see.” To her credit, she doesn’t recoil in horror. Now that’s love.
“I drank a lot of gin last night. And alcoholic apple cider. Which, by the way, does not taste like alcohol. Or apples.”
“Can’t wait to try it. Let me guess. The bar?”
“Yeah. The one across the street.”
“I wondered. When I didn’t hear back from you—”
“If I got distracted by the hot bartender?”
Sophie sighs. “You really wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”
“Hey. You make it sound like I meet the Hottest Bartender in the Universe on a regular basis.”
She raises an eyebrow, interest piqued. “That hot, huh? Don’t tell me you’re already in love . . .”
“Pfft. From here on in, you’re the only one I love.”
I mean it. Sophie Moore is my fucking soulmate.
I’d marry her if I could. I mean, sure, neither of us is into women that way and she’s already happily married to Pete, who may actually be the most wonderful male human ever and yada yada, but whatever.
Pete knows he has to share his wife with me. She’s the light of my life.
In typical Sophie fashion, she drives this point home while ratcheting up my love for her another impossible few notches by filling me in casually: “Well, most of the heavy lifting has already been done here. The smoothie bar is practically ready to open. Your van is unloaded, et cetera. I’ve had a very productive few hours. ”
“Wow. I’m so sorry I’m dragging my ass here so late. How did you get in? And into my van?”
She shrugs. “When I got here this morning, June Spencer was here, waiting.”
I throw up my hands. “Of course she was.”
“She was very nice. And you left your van unlocked.”
“Shit. I did? And nothing was missing?” If I did that in Vancouver, it would’ve been cleaned right out.
“Nope. This town is so sweet! Imagine, a place where you can leave your car unlocked and no one takes a thing,” she muses. “You really made the right choice in coming here.”
“I’m not so sure. I’m halfway convinced June Spencer may in fact be the Antichrist.”
“Hmm. Hiding out in an adorable small town, running a farm and this cute old building on the waterfront? Seems rather charming for the angel of darkness.”
“That’s the disguise. Look, I know you’re doing everything in your power to distract me from the fact that my life is falling apart right now, and I love you for it, but the damage has already been done. Just hit me with it.”
“With what?”