Must Love Otters (25 page)

Mona and Herb and their perfect little life will have to forever remain one of those mysteries I think of when I’m feeling melancholy, when I’m remembering that every day is a day to be lived, that shadows are meant to be chased, that I have to not just listen to what Mona said but install her wisdom in my life, as if I were installing new cupboards.

I stretch on the bench, foregoing the duck food because I don’t feel like walking to the other end of the park where the duck-food guy is only to find that he’s closed up shop so he can go smoke weed with his cronies in the woods. The sun filters through the tall cedars and even taller firs and the branches of the willowy willows in the middle of the pond, and for a moment, I’m a little kid again, listening to my dad tell me his story about Drake the Duck who raised his clutch of eggs when Molly Mallard took a vacation, and how Drake and his babies played and swam and ate bugs and every night before bed, when it was time to brush their little duck teeth, Drake would tell his ducklings about a little girl named Hollie and how she had magical powers and could fly around the world and make rainbows come out of her fingertips.

Of course, I could never fly or make rainbows. But when I was five, I was confident that every baby duck I’d see at this pond knew I was that magical Hollie their dad had told them about.

I swipe a hand across my face when the first tear makes landfall on my shirt.

Why am I crying?

You just quit a job you hated. You felt something people go their whole lives without ever experiencing. You felt the sun on your face for three whole days and fed otters by hand and fought off a cougar. Someone is sending you to California to play with otters for two whole weeks.

You’re brave and you saved the man who saved you first.

I should be dancing, hopping one-footed around this park like a rum-soaked pirate on shore leave, hugging babies and pinching cheeks and clapping for lovers sharing their first kisses over near the dog park where they’ve brought their poochies for some playtime …

“Excuse me …” A quiet male voice attached to a pair of sports sandals asks.

God, not now. I don’t want to explain to a stranger why I’m sitting here crying.

I don’t look up. I have to wipe away the tears streaming down my face. Sniff hard so I don’t have snot running down my lip.

“Is this seat taken?” The voice is louder this time.

Familiar.

I’m terrified to look.

When I do, the sun is in the way and my hand shielding my eyes doesn’t do a good job and there’s no way that could be him and how the hell could it be he is so far away and I’m here and we’re apart and blocking his face is a bouquet of wildflowers but it has to be him and and and …

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He sits, the bench squeaking under his weight.

“Hi,” Ryan says, presenting the paper-wrapped cluster of daisies. “You’re a hard woman to find.”

“Not if you know where to look.” I’m crying for real now. I bury my nose in the flowers’ sunny faces.

“Good thing your dad knew that.”

“What … what are you … how
are
you?”

“Alive, thanks to you.”

His whole left upper half is bandaged, his arm bundled in white and held tight against his chest. The scratches on his face are deep but stitched, the blue threads just barely visible under the surface. More scars for him to brag about. His left eye is blackened but the healing is active, the skin fading to a rainbow of colors—purples, pinks, yellow, green.

“You left without saying goodbye,” he says.

“You were sort of out of it.” He nods. “How was the helicopter ride?”

“Loud. And painful.”

“No doubt.” He lifts my left hand to his lips and kisses my fingertips.

“I needed to find you … to say thanks.”

“I did what anyone else would’ve done.”

“Your dad said you’d say that.”

“I’m glad you’re okay. I … I wanted to call. We
did
call. The hospital wouldn’t tell us anything. I wanted to call Miss Betty—your mom,” I laugh, “about a million times.”

I look down at the flowers. A ripple of laughter escapes my throat when I see the price tag attached to the wrapping. “Really?” I hold it up for him. “Monday Merchant? You bought flowers for me from Roger Dodger?”

Ryan smiles. “Hey, just supporting the local economy.”

“I’d punch you if you weren’t already held together with duct tape.” I gently pinch his chin and twist his face slightly left, then right. “I see they didn’t do anything with that nose.” I get a real laugh this time. “Nah, I’m glad they didn’t touch it. It’s hot.”

“You think my nose is hot?”

“Maybe.”

He scoots closer, if that’s possible. “I would’ve called first, but I had to see you. They released me this morning because I wouldn’t stop harassing the nurses.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Tanner flew me down.”

“You came here first? Before going home?”

Ryan laughs. “I think this is the part you’re missing, Hollie Porter.” He rubs his lips against the back of my bandaged hand. A little hint of moisture teases the corner of his very green eyes. “You are home. Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.”

“You can’t say that. You haven’t seen my apartment yet.”

“Smart-ass … I’m trying to be serious here.”

“You can’t know that yet, Ryan. It’s been—what—two weeks? Not even two weeks.”

“And here’s the part where I tell you that fairy tales and unicorns are real, and sometimes … sometimes you just know.”

Mona pops into my head.
I knew Herby was the one when he spent the whole night talking to me in the stinky coatroom instead of dancing the night away with his friends.

“We hardly know each other.” Highlights of his life story have only been brought to my attention secondary to the stalker-friendly magic of the Internet.

“I think we know the important stuff. Do you have a weird past as a serial killer or Tupperware hoarder that I should know about?”

I look around us, as if to confess something dire. “You got me: I am a serial killer of Tupperware.” He laughs again, deep and throaty. “But what about the resort?”

“What about it?”

“You’re not saying that you’ll move to Portland …”

“Well … that depends on you. The resort is where I live, but Miss Betty and Tanner and I were talking, and once you get back from your time in Monterey—”

“That was you.”

He nods, his smile wide and proud.

“Thank you.”

“We figured that would be a good start for you to get your hands dirty, you know, before we offer you the new position on staff.”

“What new position is that?”

“Well, we think that there is definitely an opening at Revelation Cove for a wildlife education specialist.”

“I can’t …” And I stop talking, halting that ridiculous thought like a drunk clown at a children’s party, before the untrue words cross my lips.

Yes, I can.

I cup my hands around his stubbled cheeks, a light finger tracing his stitches.

“Damn cat got you good,” I say. “And you need a shave. Didn’t you hear? Detroit was eliminated.”

“Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to take a page out of your book and force myself on you?”

“Ha! I don’t recall you putting up much of a fight.”

“You got me drunk! How could I resist in that state?”

With his good hand, he brushes that stupid river of tears leaking out of my left eye and closes the distance between us, his lips on mine. He pushes his face into mine until he moves the wrong way and grimaces.

“Don’t overdo it, stud,” I tease.

His back against the bench, he scoots as close to me as he can without pulling me onto his lap. The lump in my pocket from the figurine digs into his thigh.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Sorry.” I dig out the otters. “My dad picked up my stuff from work.”

Ryan traces the white of the tiny clamshell clutched against the baby otter’s belly.

“You and your otters …
Enhydra lutris
.”

“You remembered!”

“How could I forget? You’ve tattooed it on my heart.”

I groan. “Do they teach you this cheese in the NHL?”

He gingerly lifts my left arm, his fingertips gripping so lightly, I can hardly feel it, and slides his undamaged arm under mine. His fingers weave through and he closes his huge hand around my trembling, electric fingers.

I could get lost in those eyes, the rims now moist with what I hope are happy man tears.

“This, Hollie Porter, this is our raft.
We
are a raft.”

“Like the otters …”

“And that means we have to float together so we don’t drift apart.”

“Otters don’t usually float in mixed-gender rafts.”

“Our raft, our rules,” he says. “Just don’t bite my nose when we mate.”

“You’re awfully presumptuous about the future, aren’t you, Mr. Fielding?”

“I shoot to score, baby.”

“Not according to your NHL record.”

Ryan laughs through a kiss hardly decent given current environs, but I don’t care. About anything. Everything I need is right here, sucking on my face.

And when the old couple shuffles onto the bench next to us and the wife helps her husband move his walker so he can sit, I know … this raft is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Thanks to these folks who, while not otters, were wildly helpful in the creation of this work:

Always first and foremost, my fantastic agent, Dan Lazar, who puts up with way more than his share from me, and his dynamic, shiny assistant Torie Doherty-Munro. Your editorial feedback and therapeutic support is unrivaled and very much appreciated. Thanks too to Julie Trelstad, the Writers House digital rights manager, for helping us make this happen. What a grand experiment!

To my cousin Ann Moffitt Whitson for the medical advice and jargon and for introducing me to Jacob Mayhew—his help with the fine details about the city of my birth is so appreciated! Any errors and fantastical exaggerations within are mine alone. (It should be noted that the 911 stuff was pulled from my terrifying three-month stint as an operator-in-training in a tiny Oregon county back in the ’90s. I worked with some real characters. I’m sure Portland’s Bureau of Emergency Communications is devoid of folks like Les and Troll Lady and Polyester Patty.) Thanks to Melanie Guptill Ainsworth for the helpful clamming advice. It’s been a long time since I got that dirty.

To my better-than-sisters, Angeline Kace and Heather Hildenbrand; to Kendall Grey for being the mirror to my madness; to Shana Benedict for being a fabulous prereader and everyone’s favorite blogger (
http://bookvacations.wordpress.com/
); to Evelyn Lafont for support and that eagle eye; to Adrienne Crezo for her mad skills in All the Things; and to London Sarah (McDonald), my birthday twin, for being my First and Best Fan and for excellent feedback to tie up those loose strings. Your friendship is to me what the Ring is to that scant-haired, loin-cloth-wearing, cave-dwelling fellow who helps Frodo.

For inspiration? Thank you, Marian Keyes, who showed me how writing things that make you smile is absolutely acceptable, and required. I interviewed her in 2006 and while she probably doesn’t remember me, the mark left behind by her books and spirit is indelible; to Ryan Kesler, the Vancouver Canucks’ #17, thanks for being my favorite hockey player and providing inspiration without even knowing it; and to Canadian actor Peter Mooney (
Rookie Blue
,
Camelot
)—you don’t know me, but you are my Ryan Fielding. Thank you for a fun few months.

To Portland, city of my birth and childhood, and Oregon’s gorgeous coast; to Beautiful British Columbia for being such a significant part of my life for the last twelve years. Otters, orca, and cougars (and raccoons and bears and coyotes), I love you all.

And best for last: to the miniature humans who share this house and who aren’t so miniature anymore. Thanks for letting Mom and Dad talk make-believe at mealtimes so we could breathe life into Hollie and Ryan. And guys, the kitten is hanging from the light fixture again.

Eliza Gordon is actually two people: the Wyfey, Jennifer Sommersby (“Eliza”), writer and editor, and Husband, Gary Young (“Gordon”), screenwriter and visual FX artist extraordinaire. Gordon helps build the skeleton; Eliza packs on the meat and rearranges the limbs. Combs the hair. Fixes the teeth. You understand. After meeting and marrying in Los Angeles, this American-Canadian duo moved to the Great
White
Rainy North where they live with their collection of children and one very spoiled, high-flying kitten.

The name Eliza Gordon was chosen to honor two amazing people, Martha Elizabeth (Porter) Young and Kenneth Gordon Young, who sadly left us in 2005, just four months apart. Not a day goes by that we don’t love and miss you. Your love for one another continues to inspire.