Fox Island (2 page)

“Tony, how are we getting to the
airport?”

“We’ll have to take one of the other
cars.”

“All that luggage won’t fit in my Neon,”
Kathy wailed.

“Well,” Price said, “it certainly won’t cram
into the Mustang convertible.”

Kit wiped her hands on her faded Wrangler
jeans. “No big deal. We can take my truck. Grab a suitcase, Kath.
Let’s get ’em loaded up.”

“Tony, we can’t all fit in that pickup,”
Price said.

Kit threw up her hands. “I can ride in the
back.”

Price gave her husband her best “You’d
better do something quick, Shadowbrook” look.

“Honey, you and Kathy ride in the Neon. I’ll
load up the luggage in the truck. Kit and I will meet you at the
Alaska Airlines terminal.”

Price studied her silver-and-gold watch.
“You realize we’ve only got twenty minutes leeway.”

Kit grabbed a bag and scooted for the
garage. “We’ll probably beat you there.”

Flight 670, nonstop to Sea-Tac, scheduled to
depart the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport at 10:25 A.M.
At 10:05, Price paced with Kathy on the sidewalk in front of the
Alaska Airlines sign. “I never should have put the two of them in
the car together. They have absolutely no sense of time.”

“If only they’d at least wear a
watch...”

Price studied the steady surge of hotel
shuttles, busses, cabs and cars. “It wouldn’t make any difference.
Neither would bother looking at it. But how could they possibly get
lost from home to here?”

“There they are,” Kathy shouted. “And
they’ve got someone with them.”

“Who on earth...?”

“No, not who. It’s a dog or something.”

“Good grief. It’s a cow.”

The rusted blue ’58 Chevy pickup rolled up
to the terminal with a jolt. A slightly smudged and wrinkled Tony
Shadowbrook jumped out and signaled for a skycap.

“What happened?” Price called out.

“Pop knew a shortcut by the riverbed,” Kit
explained as she hauled out their baggage.

“What’s with the cow?” Kathy ventured.

“It’s a calf. It was on the highway about to
get smashed. We chased it down. I’ll go find its owner soon as we
see you off. Want us to go in with you?”

Tony rushed up and began tugging Price
inside. “The skycap says we’ll have to check in at the gate. I
guess we’re a little late.”

“You’re a mess, Shadowbrook,” Price
said.

“Thanks for the lift, girls. We’ll call you
when we get to Fox Island.” Tony threw them a kiss.

Price turned for one more quick look. Kathy
was waving both arms. Kit’s were buried in her pockets. “Remember
the list I left,” Price called out. “One copy’s in the kitchen, the
other’s...”

“Go on, write your book,” Kit hollered.

“We’re okay, Mother,” they heard Kathy say
as Tony scooted them through the automatic glass doors and ran
back. “Kit, the calf jumped out!”

“I’ll get him, Pop. Kath will help me.”

Katherine jammed her hands on her designer
shorts clad hips. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Their last view of the twins was Kit dashing
in front of a parked tour bus to grab the frightened calf while
fending off the attacks of a cane-wielding senior citizen. Kathy
stood locked in place on the sidewalk, hands clutching the top of
her head.

At 32,790 feet, somewhere over Susanville,
California, Tony returned to Row 14, seat C.

“You look much more presentable, Mr.
Shadowbrook.”

“And you look elegant and fashionable, as
always.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Really feels different not bringing the
girls along.”

“They have jobs, summer school classes,
trips of their own planned. They’re growing up, Mama.”

Tony and Price stared at each other, then a
smile broke across their faces.

“Do you know Kath told me not to worry, that
they were mature women now? How long do you think it will be until
we get a ‘Daddy, you won’t believe what Kit did’ call?”

“Not until we get to Sea-Tac. How in the
world did we ever produce such unidentical twins?”

“I always figured it was your fault or that
it was proof of God’s sense of humor. But we’d better get our minds
on this new book.”

“Yes, the waiting public wants to know: What
will the Shadowbrooks do for the fourth installment in their
‘stunning’ Hidden West series?” Tony glanced up the aisle. “But
first, I think we’ll eat lunch.”

The flight attendant handed them two small
baskets—turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches on rye, with coleslaw,
bags of chips, small apples, pear juice and granola bars.

Price pried out a small slip of paper from
the bottom of the basket and read it aloud. “‘For the Lord watches
over the way of the righteous.’ I really appreciate these Psalm
cards on Alaska Airlines. Oh, rats!”

“What?” Tony mumbled through his turkey
sandwich.

“We forgot to pray with the girls.
Everything was so hectic. How could we forget something so
important?”

“We prayed at breakfast.”

“But I wanted something more. I’ll write it
out for them. Maybe that’s better. That way they’ll have something
more permanent to read whenever...”

“No preaching.”

“Who, me? I’m a wimp when it comes to
preaching and you know it. I’ll share honest concerns from a
mother’s heart.” Despite her faith, worried gnawed at her. The kids
practically grown and still so much she wanted to say and teach
them. Now she wouldn’t be with the twins this summer. They really
needed spiritual guidance in this world. So did she. And the boys.
And Tony. They were all so busy. And disconnected. A crazy way to
start the summer.

Somewhere over central Oregon Price
retrieved her notebook. “Book planning time, Mr. Shadowbrook. How
about opening with a different slant? Don’t you think we’re getting
into a rut?”

Tony flipped through an airlines magazine
without reading it. “But it’s a highly successful rut. ‘If it ain’t
broke, don’t fix it.’”

“Not even if it’s routine and
predictable?”

“Are you calling
Promontory
predictable?
Sunset Magazine
said it was ‘The must-read book
for any trip to northern Utah.’”

“You’re right. It was fun. But I want us to
stay creative.”

“My western novels are creative. Poetry is
creative. Cowboy music is creative. In a nonfiction historical
series you want consistency ... continuity ... a familiar, homey
pattern.”

“But I don’t think it will be a homey book
with a history of escaped convicts, gangland murders plotted from
beachfront mansions, Japanese submarine invasions, the Chain Saw
Militia ... not to mention the possibility of an interview with
Jessica Davenport Reynolds, the first she’s allowed in fifty-five
years. I’m really hyped about this book. We’ve got to convey that
excitement to the readers.”

“You’re right about one thing. We have more
background on this place ahead of time than any of the other books
in this series.”

Price gazed out the window at a brilliant
sun-flocked drift of clouds as wing shadows darted across them.
“So, if we follow our format, I presume we’ll open with the United
States Exploring Expedition of 1841 and Lieutenant Charles Wilkes
naming the Island after the expedition’s assistant surgeon,
Lieutenant John L. Fox?”

“Yeah, we could do a lot with that. Lots of
drama. Twelve bronzed and sea-tough men nobly paddling across the
strong and dangerous currents of the Tacoma Narrows against all
odds to land on a deserted, heavily forested island. They struggled
against severe elements and violent dissension among the tattered
band of renegade sailors. Only the unflagging bravery and audacious
stubbornness of one man held the whole party together.”

“But we do intend to stick close to the
historical truth, don’t we? Tony, it’s supposed to be a travelogue,
not an adventure novel.”

“It is not a travelogue. We are not writing
a series of travelogues. We’re writing a history of some of the
most fascinating out-of-the-way places in the great American West.”
Why does she keep saying that? Anthony Shadowbrook does not write
travelogues.

Price shifted the arms and back of her seat
and tried to relax. “You’ve been reading the cover copy too long. I
think we ought to consider opening with the Indian legend of the
Clay Babies.”

“And I think we can wait until we’re settled
in before we make any such decisions. You know the trouble with
writing? You never get a vacation. Even when you’re on vacation,
you constantly work through scenes, stories, characters, plots,
ideas. Come on, babe, for the first time in over twenty-six years
we have a whole summer to ourselves. We can write that book
tomorrow.”

Price felt the tension ease from her neck
and shoulders. She pushed her glasses to the top of her head.
“We’ve waited a long time for this, haven’t we?”

“Remember when we first got married? We were
going to raise the kids, and then travel and write.”

“That was forty-six books ago. You’ve been
busy, Mr. Anthony Baldwin Shadowbrook.”

“Two doctorates, a professorship, and a
dozen books with your name on them... you’ve been busy, too, Dr.
Priscilla Carey Shadowbrook.”

“A married son still in graduate school,
another son who’s trying to scare his parents to death as a
stuntman, and twin daughters who get along about as well as a
mongoose and a snake... we’ve both been real busy, babe.” She
slipped her fingers into his.

“Are you ready for a quiet summer?”

She nodded. “I believe we deserve it... and
Melody said Fox Island is delightful in the summer.”

“Melody?”

“Melody Mason, my former student.”

“The Melody whose aunt is Jessica Davenport,
right?”

“No, it’s her grandmother, Jessica Davenport
Reynolds.”

“I read somewhere that she’s called ‘the
Garbo of the Northwest.’”

“Sounds like a real adventure, doesn’t it?
Did you know she wants to be a writer?”

“The grandmother?”

“No... Melody. I told you all this before.
Weren’t you listening?”

“I was probably lost somewhere along Shotgun
Creek.” Tony leaned back and closed his eyes.

“You really get absorbed in your own
stories. Do you suppose all writers are that way?”

“All except Stephen King, I suppose. When I
was young I used to wonder what it was like to be a writer.
Nowadays, I keep wondering what it would be like not to be a
writer.”

“You’d hate it... trust me.”

“Is this Mason girl going to meet us at the
airport?”

“Yes, she’ll drive us to the Island.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever rented a place
that was furnished with a car. What will we be driving all summer,
an old Oldsmobile?”

Price reached up and turned off the lights
above their seats. “What difference does it make? The Island is
only five miles long and one and a half miles wide. We could do the
whole thing with bicycles.”

“It’s an old white Oldsmobile, isn’t
it?”

“I’m not sure of the color.”

“How old is this grandmother Davenport?”

“Reynolds. She’s in her seventies.”

“It’s white.”

“Dr. Shadowbrook! It’s me... Melody Mason. I
can tell from your face I look different. And you must be Anthony.”
A long, thick switch of black hair and huge loop earrings swinging,
she clutched his hand with both of hers. “Wow, this is something
I’ve dreamt about meeting Anthony Shadowbrook face-to-face. And all
this time, I thought of you as an old man. Boy, was I wrong. You
look like those rugged rodeo cowboys on ESPN. Before I read your
books I didn’t know a tapadera from a Winchester. Now I’m into the
whole scene.”

Price tugged Tony away from her grip and
steered through the terminal toward the baggage claim department.
Melody scooted ahead of them. She didn’t look at all different than
Price recalled. The same dark, straight hair, bushy eyebrows that
touched when she smiled, nervous chatter, brown eyes begging for
approval.

Walking backward, Melody kept talking. “I’m
a writer, too. Not that I have any books published yet ... you
know, the struggling years? That’s me. They’ve been the struggling
years ever since I graduated from ASU.”

“Eh... when was that?” Tony managed to
ask.

“Class of ’92, with a degree in
interpretative writing.”

“Interpretative writing?” Tony glanced at
Price.

“An experimental major in the communications
department, as I remember. Melody, is everything ready for us at
your grandmother’s house?”

“Oh yes, you’ll love it, really. It’s right
on the water overlooking Carr Inlet. On a clear day you can stand
at the end of the dock and see the Olympic Mountains. And the
sunsets on the Sound are legendary. Talk about secluded. Well, you
know the reputation my grandmother has.”

Price shifted the straps of her patchwork
leather purse to the other shoulder and slowed the pace. She
already regretted wearing heels. “We really appreciate being able
to rent the house. Everything we’ve read about Fox Island mentions
the Davenport house. Your grandmother and her sister made lots of
news in the thirties and forties. You said your grandmother’s in a
care facility. Has the house been vacant long?”

“Oh no. I’ve been living there several
years. But like I told you in my letter, I thought if I could talk
the Shadowbrooks into setting their next Hidden West book on Fox
Island, then they should stay in Grandma Jessie’s place. It’s part
of the Island’s history too. Our family was among the early
settlers.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Tony said in
his “I don’t like the sounds of this” voice. “Where will you be
living this summer?”

Price stopped to catch her breath at the top
of the stairs. “With her mother in Gig Harbor. How’s she doing?
Severe depression, wasn’t it?”