By the time Harry returned to the path, his trousers were soaked from the calves down. He was even cuter than she’d thought, which was pretty darned cute.

  “On Saturday and Sunday mornings Peggy serves the best pie for like a dozen counties around. Fliers from all over come in for it.”

  As if to prove her point, a small plane buzzed above them before turning to line up on the runway. She pointed a crutch and Harry looked skyward, this time having enough sense to stop walking while he looked up from the path across the field.

  They reached the big hangar. She led Harry through the people-sized door that simply said, “PIE. Saturday and Sunday while it lasts.”

  Harry stumbled while crossing the high threshold.

  High windows let light into the big interior, but most of it was in shadow. A monstrous yellow biplane dominated the space. It had two open cockpit seats with tiny window cowlings and pointed it nose to the sky because its tail rested on a tiny rear wheel. The struts between the wings and the trim were painted a gloss black. Even in the shadows, it gleamed. The last time he’d seen it had been a dozen years ago when it was a stack of exposed frames, a mostly-intact fuselage, and pallets of metal parts. It now glistened.

  Beyond it was parked a small helicopter that seated four or six and was painted in the same brilliant colors. Across the nose of each was painted “Naron’s Goldfinch Air.” Of course, her aircraft were the colors of the little birds.

  On the far side of the hangar was parked a moderate-sized RV. It had its stabilizer pins down and he could see that full hookups had been run out to it. Peggy must live there. It was one of the cut-above brands, he’d seen enough go by as bankruptcy assets to know. It would be very comfortable inside.

  The front corner closest by the door had broad and generous bay windows facing out onto the airfield.

  He watched the high-winged, blue-and-white Cessna 174 that had buzzed by over their heads drop down onto the tarmac with an amateur’s hard bounce before settling into a smooth roll. A couple of big picnic tables were tucked up close to the big bay windows.

  “Quick,” Becky called to him. “Pick your flavor before they all get here.” Through the thin walls he could hear the plane pulling up to the hangar as well as car doors slamming nearby.

  To the side of the door there was a counter filled with pre-cut pies all neatly labeled. Several apple-rhubarb and peach pies sat beneath a warming lamp. A cherry cobbler and five pumpkin pies sat on open glass shelves, and a glass-fronted refrigerator case held several lemon meringue and a chocolate-peanut butter with a crunch topping. Every pie had a server under the first piece, except for the apple-rhubarb which was missing several pieces already. In the refrigerator case there was also a line of whipped cream canisters, the good kind that restaurants used with nitrous, not the pre-packaged ones like at The Puffin Diner.

  There was a stack of paper plates and plastic forks next to a jar that said, “Five dollars a slice. Whipped cream included. Must eat here.”

  Becky noticed where his attention had gone. “People used to buy whole pies and she’d run out in the first ten minutes.”

  “Smart lady.” He shoved a twenty-dollar bill in the jar.

  “She only asks for ten for both of us.”

  “I want my Becky to have two if she feels like it. If they’re as good as they smell, I certainly am.” He hadn’t meant to add the possessive to her name. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

  Her brilliant smile was far too bright for a treat of two pieces of pie and showed that she had absolutely heard it.

  He’d never been possessive about a woman in his life. My Becky. Well, if there was ever one to feel that way about, she was dishing up a slice of apple pie and another of pumpkin. He’d always had a weakness for lemon meringue, a pie Mom had been especially good at. He took a slice of that and would decide what else to try later.

  He was carrying Becky’s pieces, the pumpkin nearly lost in a mound of whipped cream, over to the table she had crutched to when the hangar door slammed open. Two guys in their forties stumbled through the door, “Wow, Josh wasn’t leading us on. That’s a nice change.”

  Close behind them Cal Jr. walked in.

  “Buddy!”

  Harry barely had time to set down Becky’s slices before Cal came over and wrapped him in a bear hug with a bone-bruising thump of greeting on the back.

  “Hey Beck! Peggy got any of her rhubarb?”

  “She sure does.”

  “And you’re not having a slice? That is so wrongheaded, girl. Almost as goofy as shacking up with some sharpie N’Orleans lawyer type. So high and mighty he doesn’t even remember who his drinking buddies are on Friday Poker Night.”

  Harry had completely forgotten. Cal had mentioned it back at the wedding, but as neither of them had expected him to still be in Eagle Cove, he’d hadn’t bothered to pay it much attention. Besides, last night he’d been curled up in a fetal ball like—

  “Totally my fault,” Becky rescued him. She even said it with a grin.

  “Lucky S.O.B.!” Harry managed to absorb some of the shock of Cal’s next congratulatory buffet with a sag and twist. “Save me a seat.”

  The two fliers sat at another table as two more planes pulled up in front of the hangar.

  Harry doubled back to the big urn of coffee and slipped two more dollars in the jar. Becky was a cream-and-sugar woman, easy to remember because she was so bright and sweet herself. He pulled himself up sharp for a moment. That was the kind of trick he always used to remember a date’s preferences so that he looked more attentive than he actually was. In truth, after the first trial break he could tell you how every single juror drank their cuppa and he wouldn’t forget. He didn’t like using those kinds of games on Becky.

  You know how she likes her coffee. That’s all that matters, Slater.

  And it was.

  He arrived back at the table just a single step ahead of Cal which was all that secured his seat directly across from Becky. He’d thought of sitting beside her, but decided that the chance to play footsie and just look at her made sitting across a better choice.

  Cal sat beside him rather than beside Becky. “Guy’s gotta sit where he can be in the glow of a smile like that one. He’s really lighting you up, Beck. Looks good on you.”

  “Feels good too, Cal. We have to find a girl for you.”

  Cal grimaced and took a forkful of the apple-rhubarb. “Not a lot of girls who think a grown man who goes to bed at eight and gets up by four to bake bread is a whole lotta fun.”

  “But it’s such gooood bread, Cal.” She drew it out with enough innuendo to have Harry’s body heating up. She caught his reaction, fluttered her eyes closed and groaned in a way he’d learned was an indicator that he was doing something really right.

  He could see Cal swallow hard and the two flyboys stop eating for a moment to look over and see just what was causing her to make that sound.

  “Just like this is such gooood pie.” Under the table she ran her good leg up the inside of Harry’s.

  Harry’s pulse picked up another couple notches until Cal shoved his shoulder against Harry’s hard enough that he’d have gone off the end of the bench if it wasn’t up against the wall.

  “Beck, cut that out,” Cal complained. “I’m a single guy for crying out loud, not even getting it regular like some lawyers.”

  “Shut up and eat your pie,” Harry told him, then whispered, “Loser!” as he held his forefinger and thumb in an “L” against his forehead.

  And that set the three of them laughing.

  He’d missed Cal. Good friends like him didn’t come along every day. He’d seen him half a dozen times in twice as many years and he felt like his brother more than, well, his brother. Nothing that wrong with Greg, but he and Cal had been close.

  “So what you’re saying is I gotta find a girl who loves me for my bread?”

  “Hey, you think I’d have caught a lawyer without my beer?”

  “It is truly good beer,” Cal agreed. “Mighta had some of it last night.”

  Odd. Harry only now realized that he had yet to have a taste of it. Jessica had apparently served Becky’s beer at the reception—which he’d carefully flown in too late for—but only champagne and cider for the wedding.

  While he wasn’t watching, Cal stole the last forkful of his lemon meringue.

  “You need to make lemon meringue beer, Beck. Just stir in some of this pie and do whatever it is you do.”

  Harry laughed, but he could see Becky go thoughtful.

  “It would have to be a lighter beer.”

  He should know by now that brewing was the one subject she never joked about.

  “A pale ale, like an IPA,” Cal suggested.

  “A lager,” a deep voice declared like law from the end of the table. The Judge stood there holding a piece of the lemon meringue. “Anything heavier would overwhelm the subtlety of Peggy’s pie. As good as your ma’s,” he pointed a plastic fork at Harry’s chest. “May I?” he nodded toward the seat beside Becky.

  “Please,” she patted it for him to sit beside her.

  Just as Cal had been wanting in on facing a package as cute as Becky, now Harry was faced with his father and wanted nothing to do with it.

  “How’s the leg doing, Becky?”

  “Good as can be, sir. Your son’s been taking good care of me.”

  Cal turned to waggle his eyebrows meaningfully at Harry.

  “He’ll never be a great brewer, doesn’t have the passion for it, but he’s been a very handy assistant.”

  Cal knocked his knee sideways into Harry’s.

  Harry knocked his knee back against Cal’s.

  Then Becky kicked him sharply in the shin with her Wellington—hard enough to make him yelp—at the same moment she was smiling up at the Judge. A glance down showed a big muddy boot print on the leg of his last clean slacks. And he wouldn’t be surprised if a blood stain formed there in a moment. She’d kicked him hard.

  Harry might be a successful lawyer and an incredible lover, but there was still a major dweeb in the mix. It really was like watching the two high school stars of the Pufflings soccer team fooling around in the back of the classroom rather than paying attention. And between them they’d just banged her bad leg hard enough to hurt.

  Unlike Harry and Cal, who sat with their backs to the hangar, she’d seen the Judge’s approach. She’d almost missed it, as he’d circled around behind the aircraft, but he could only have come from Peggy’s RV. Which also explained why Peggy had avoided answering the tease about her late arrival to knitting yesterday afternoon. What man had she been busy with that she was so late? Gina’s barb had hit dead center even if no one knew it. It seems that Peggy had taken her own advice after knitting last night.

  The Slaters were never the quickest lot. Now Peggy’s comment made perfect sense.

  Becky wondered what that bit of information would do to Harry’s presently adolescent brain. But if Judge Slater wanted to be discreet, she wasn’t going to spoil it for him.

  Peggy came out of the RV with a loose-hipped saunter that Becky would absolutely be doing if it weren’t for the crutches and leg brace. At the moment Becky knew she was about as sexy as a forklift, but Harry wasn’t complaining so she shouldn’t be either. A couple of the fliers stopped Peggy at the Stearman biplane. They were obviously geeking out over the restoration. It was just as well because the Judge’s reaction was as plain as day.

  His attention hadn’t just drifted to Peggy, it had zeroed in, and one of his quiet smiles eased the lines on his face. Thankfully neither of the boys noticed.

  Becky rested her hand on the Judge’s arm to distract him. It took him a moment to shake off his thoughts and turn to her. Now that he had, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Are you looking forward to being a grandfather?” It was the first and dumbest thing to come into her head.

  The Judge’s look acknowledged that without having to say aloud, “Is there anything that you want to be telling me, young lady?”

  Then he smiled softly as if setting the question aside.

  “As I consider it, I find the thought to be rather new. I am deeply sorry that my wife didn’t live to see how happy they are.”

  “You can be happy for them too, Dad,” Harry’s voice was harsh.

  Becky spun to look at him.

  Harry’s face had taken on a grim set. The Judge merely looked sad. She’d seen that anger before between son and father, but hadn’t seen it so blatantly displayed.

  Becky shot for another subject change, “Will you be ready for Salmon Days?”

  “I do not understand why I must open on the weekend for tourists,” the Judge looked relieved at the subject change. “But my daughter-in-law insists and I agreed to follow her guidance in order to promote Eagle Cove.”

  “Salmon Days?” Harry’s look slowly shifted from aggressive to puzzled. A good change.

  “Pay attention, dude!” Then Cal smacked him on the back of the head.

  Harry’s expression shifted to a different kind of irritation—now aimed playfully at Cal instead of at his father with a load of anger. Thank goodness.

  Cal continued as if Harry’s attitude was utterly meaningless to a man of his size. “Your sister-in-law is a marketing genius. Why do you think the town is so busy? She did a whole number on the snowbirds using September to travel down the coast toward their winter homes. The campground is solid with RVs and the hotels are mostly full even though tourists have to go out of their way and cross a pass to reach us from Highway 101. Next weekend is the first weekend in October, time for the big Fall celebration: Salmon Days.”

  “And we,” Becky held up a palm to Cal who smacked it with a high five, “are going to kick it!” She got a high five out of the Judge as well which surprised her and apparently shocked his son.

  “Doing what?”

  “Beer tastings!” Becky called out. “And a beer garden at events.”

  “Amazing baked goods!” Cal declared.

  “Feeding tourists breakfast on the weekend,” the Judge’s tone was dead dry but his smile gave him away.

  “Airplane and helicopter rides!” Peggy sat down next to Cal, playing it a little coy by sitting opposite the Judge. Becky half wondered if they’d soon be playing footsie under the table, though it was hard to imagine the Judge doing something like that. Then Peggy smiled over at her in a way that said the Judge might not have a choice on whether or not that happened.

  “Greg is doing his gourmet thing,” Becky started ticking off on her fingers. “Salmon Fishing Derby for the biggest fish, the youngest and oldest fisherman to make a catch, and a couple of other things. Wood chopping contests with a raffle to benefit community hall projects, not to mention firewood for the town’s old folks. Sunday we have a chainsaw art demonstration that is drawing carvers from all up and down the coast—they each get an eight foot section from Saturday’s Jack and Jill handsaw event. We have a couple boats coming down from Depoe Bay for the weekend to do gray whale spotting tours during their winter migration south. The whole town is really doing it up.”

  “Huh,” was Harry’s thoughtful input.

  Actually, Huh! Was appropriate for her, too. She’d only cooked a single batch of beer, and too many things had gone by the boards this week. Next week was going to be a hard push to get ready.

  Time for play was almost over.

  It hit her like a punch to the chest. She tried not to look at Harry, not directly, but time for play was over. Or near enough. By Monday she’d have to be in full scramble mode no matter what shape her knee was in.

  Maybe, if she was careful and didn’t mind not sleeping much, she could carve out the rest of the weekend with Harry, but their fling really was coming to an end.

  It ripped at her heart, but being a practical girl, she’d have to face that.

  Really soon.

  But not quite yet.

  Chapter 9

  Harry spent the day doing his best to make everything perfect. He took Becky for a drive along the coast. They had a chilly picnic at the stone gazebo perched high on the cliffs above Yachats. They drove up the Alsea River just because Route 34 along the valley was so beautiful in the fall where it wandered through the Siuslaw Forest.

  At the Alsea Mercantile, the only real store in the town of a hundred-and-sixty, they worked on naming the twelve-point Roosevelt elk whose head was mounted above the front door along with a display of old saws and rifles. They bought a pint of Tillamook Caramel Toffee Crunch ice cream and wandered up and down the hardware aisles making up purposes for bizarre pipe fittings. He took turns feeding himself and Becky by the spoonful as she still had her crutches. The game was a little spoiled because Becky knew everything about almost anything hardware, whereas he was stumped by even the simplest item.

  “I’m a lawyer, not a brewer, so sue me,” he grumbled at one point. He wasn’t used to environments where he knew less than anyone else in the room.

  “Deal. Can I hire you to sue yourself?”

  “Sure.” The way he was feeling, he might sue himself just on general principle.

  “Good, come here.” They were somewhere between sump pumps and engine cleaners that smelled as sharply oily as the water had when he’d had to personally visit the site of a coastal spill. She pulled him down into a sloppy, sweet, caramel-flavored kiss that had him curling his toes it was so good. He cursed that his hands were filled with ice cream and spoon so that he couldn’t take more advantage of the moment before she broke it off.

  “What was that for?”

  “Down payment. Consider yourself hired. Defendant is one Harry Slater. Go get him, Counselor!”

  “How do you do that?”

  “What?” She crutched off into ducting and air conditioning. How did anyone sell air conditioning in coastal Oregon?

  “The legal talk thing.”

 

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