Cindy Miles - Those Cassabaw Days

“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.

“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”

“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”

“I know that, Dad.”

Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.

“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.

Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.

“Didn’t expect you till next week.”

It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then, she supposed.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I decided to come a little early. Just got in.”

“Who is it?” Jep Malone grumbled, peering in Emily’s direction. He wore the same white cap and light blue short-sleeved coveralls she remembered. She was surprised he hadn’t worn the same thing to the funeral. Quite a character, Jep Malone.

“It’s Alex and Katie’s oldest girl, Dad,” Owen told his father. “Cora’s niece. Emily. We saw her at the funeral.”

Old Jep stared in Emily’s direction and waved a hand. “’Bout time you came back home. Your dock’s got a big hole in it, missy.”

Emily laughed. “I see that!” she called back. “I’ll add it to my fix-it list. My Jeep just died on me, too. You wouldn’t happen to know a good mechanic?”

“Sure do,” Owen hollered back. “One of the best.”

“Great!”

“What about that dock?” Owen asked.

In reality, Emily had thought she would do as much of the work as she could. But now, staring down at the missing planks, the rotted ones and the water below, she wondered how successful she’d be. It was a bigger job than she had thought, and the café entered her mind. She definitely had a lot on her plate. “I’ll probably need someone for that, too.”

“I’ve got just the man for both jobs. I’ll send him over directly.”

Emily smiled and waved. “Thanks, Mr. Malone!”

“You bake, Emily Quinn?” Jep asked.

She cocked her head, still smiling. She liked the Malones. Nice men. “Yes, sir, I do.”

Jep stared in her direction. She didn’t need to see his face. Digging back into her memory, she had a perfectly picture of the tanned, weathered skin and lines around his eyes from the sun. He may have looked like an old sea dog, but she recalled that his startling emerald gaze held a lot of warmth. And mischief. Just like Matt’s.

“Good. I like pie.”

“Dad,” Owen chided.

“Well, I do!” Jep grumbled. “You any good at it?”

Emily chuckled. “Pretty fair.”

Owen shook his head and waved. “Ignore him. Let us know if you need anything, Emily. And you should stay off the dock until it’s fixed. It’s too rotted. I’ll send your man around directly. And don’t let him charge you too much.”

“No, sir, I won’t. And thanks!”

Emily started back down the dock. She had been home for only twenty minutes, and already had a mechanic and a fix-it man. She made a quick plan to bake a couple of pies to take over to the Malones after she’d settled in.

As she stepped off the dock and back onto the dirt path, Emily pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and made her way through the shade to the front porch. Grabbing her travel bag and a box of renovation magazines from the Jeep, she climbed the steps. Looking to the left, she took in the porch, scattered with dead leaves. The swing she and Reagan used to spend hours playing on with their Barbie dolls sat on its bottom; the white paint was faded, and the chains hung limp. Poor old Cora must’ve had a hard time keeping the place up by herself. Although, the property itself looked to be in decent shape. The azalea bushes were trimmed, and the grass cut. Pulling the key out of her shorts pocket, Emily unlocked and opened the front door and set her belongings down. Keeping it open, she stepped inside.

The aroma of lemon hung in the warm interior, and hazy sunlight filtered in through the windows. The estate attorney had arranged for a cleaning crew to go through the house, and they’d done a pretty good job.

Painted wood walls reminded her of Irish cream, and the ceiling rafters were exposed. Upon a polished wide-planked wood floor sat sheet-covered furniture, still as ghosts. A fairly new sixty-inch flat-screen TV filled the space above two bookcases. A small brick-faced fireplace with a white-and-green painted mantel faced the opposite wall, its gaping mouth dark and hollow. Above it sat a large photo in a frame. Emily moved toward it, and swallowed hard. She grazed the polished wooden frame with her fingertips, and her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her; herself, Reagan and their parents, sitting on their dock at sunset. Emily sat in their father’s lap, while Reagan sat in their mother’s. Their mom rested her head against their father’s shoulder.

Emily remembered the day Aunt Cora had taken that photo, three weeks before the accident. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Could she do this? Could she make it through all this? By herself?

Yes, yes she could. She had to. Stop questioning yourself, Quinn. Sheesh.

Emily drew a few deep breaths and moved slowly through the small, quiet river house, down the hallway to what used to be her and Reagan’s bedroom. From the shapes beneath the sheets, Aunt Cora had turned it into an office, more than likely running the Windchimer’s finances from home. She would have to dig in right away and see if she could make heads or tails out of all that paperwork. Emily’s eyes roamed the room, to where their twin beds used to be. Reagan’s had been all pink and frilly; hers was Scooby-Doo. She continued down the hall, peeking inside the bathroom and then her parents’ old room. More white ghosts sat dormant in the filtered light. A huge sheeted bed, minus the mattress and box spring, rested catty-corner, and a small pair of French doors opened up onto the covered porch. Emily turned and headed back up the hallway. Aunt Cora hadn’t been a pack rat—that was for sure. Just the bare necessities, so it seemed. The movers would arrive tomorrow with Emily’s belongings, and then she could start settling in. For tonight, though, she had her overnight bag, a pillow, sheet and blanket.

Across from the living room, Emily walked through a white-trimmed archway leading into the kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. A smile pulled at her mouth as she made her way to the mammoth white porcelain sink, its vast picture window facing the marsh and Morgan’s Creek. With her eyes closed, she could easily see her mom, clear as day standing there, baking oatmeal-raisin cookies, or cooking supper.

Slowly, Emily opened her eyes. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the magnolias and shot right through the window. Dancing bits of dust swirled in the light like so many diamonds. She waved her hand through it—