Page 40 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

“I once let a co-worker talk me into going on a three-day, twenty-five-mile hike through Yosemite Valley to Glacier Point, ending up at Bridalveil Fall, a waterfall that plunges six hundred feet straight down. But to get there I had to go through treacherous terrain with exposed ridges, dangerous drop-offs, and cliffs that turned me into a believer. I needed my head examined for trusting a woman with absolutely no empathy or willingness to take a break.”

“I thought Bridalveil Fall was near the entrance to Yosemite Valley.”

“Not if you’re a screwed-up sort with a death wish who insists on coming in from the opposite direction.”

“Yikes. Who was she?”

“Rebecca Scarsdale, a woman I thought I wanted to impress. Turns out she was the female version of Bear Grylls.”

“That would be Megan Hine. In real life,” Rowan pointed out. When he gave her a confused scowl, she went on to explain, “I watch a lot of TV. Megan Hine is the survival expert behind all the stunts. She tests out everything, makes sure the celebrities stay alive. You know, during all those adventure shows that Grylls does with famous people who don’t have anything better to do than crazy crap. Hine has survived living in the desert for three weeks. She’s been chased by people carrying AK-47s, and surrounded by hungry lions—not all on the same trip, obviously—but she claims she knows how to start a fire with a tampon. She knows a thing or two about how to live off the land and eats disgusting stuff—like lizards and bugs—to prove it.”

Daniel glanced down at his plate, pushing it away. “I draw the line at eating lizards and bugs.”

“Same here,” Rowan said with a laugh as she got up to serve dessert. “Ready for pie?”

“Nice segue.”

“That’s me. You definitely want me at your next party. I’m a conversation starter and ender. Nothing like going from lizards and bugs to warm apple pie.”

“I prefer the pie.”

“Then why don’t we eat our dessert on the front porch? You go on and I’ll bring it out.”

“Are you sure? I’ll help you with the dishes.”

“I’ll do them later. Go.” She watched him disappear out the front door before turning back to the counter to slice the pie. After sliding a piece onto a small plate, she carried it out to Daniel, who waited for her on the swing.

The earthy aroma of summer permeated the air, with a hint of rain lingering in the distance. One of the neighbors had mowed their lawn. Rowan could still smell the fresh grass cuttings wafting through the neighborhood. The first hints of budding lilacs spread their showy fragrance carried on the crisp evening breeze as it mingled with the heavy scent of night jasmine.

She inhaled it all in before taking a seat next to him and handed off the pie.

“What? You’re not having any?”

“I just ate my way through my favorite dinner of all time. I’m stuffed to the gills. Promise me you’ll take some of that pie home tonight.”

“Ouch. That’s a subtle way of saying I’m not staying.”

“Okay. Take some home in the morning. But you mentioned how you needed to head back to Vanilla Bean tonight.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” He took his first warm bite of fluffy pastry filled with baked apples. “This is incredible. What woman knows how to bake pies these days?”

“I dug out one of Gran’s favorite recipes I found in her safe deposit box. It brought back such great memories of us spending time in the kitchen baking. I was seven or eight the first time she showed me how to make pie crust. By the time I moved in with her, she’d already taught me how to flex my cooking skills. I made my first pie by myself—chocolate cream, as I recall—at eleven. I always thought I was better at desserts than actual meal prep. But Gran wouldn’t hear of things like that. In her mind, I was as much of a whiz at throwing together a meatloaf or whatever meat we could afford at the time as I was at making a chocolate cake from scratch.”

“You can make a cake from scratch?”

“I can,” she said with a grin. “I’d simply forgotten I could cook like that. Living single who takes the time to cook when I can pick up the phone and order takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the street?”

“Cooking is a dying art. How did she force a surly teen to cook?”

“Who says I was a surly teen? She didn’t force me. I volunteered to learn. When you’re used to having a mother who doesn’t even bother stocking up on the basics—milk, bread, cereal or peanut butter, let alone a box of mac and cheese to make for supper—you realize you’re grateful for a real meal. And my turn to cook was always on Saturday nights. I made sure we had dessert on hand while watching her old movies. Remember, Gran never had cable TV. We had to rely on a station in Santa Cruz that showed classic films like Casablanca. As I got older, though, we’d sometimes settle for mixing up a batch of chocolate chip cookies on Friday night before settling in on the couch for a salute to Humphrey Bogart or a Katharine Hepburn marathon. But I’m convinced Bogie was always her favorite.”

“It sounds like you and your gran were incredibly close.”

“She was my rock, Daniel. I suppose I was an old soul whenever I was around her. And do you know what’s even weirder than that? I never wanted to disappoint her. Even when I started dating, I knew I didn’t want to end up like my mom. I stayed away from the fast crowd, the people who did drugs or drank heavily. I’d seen enough of that road to hell to last a lifetime. Instead, I hung out with the nerds, volunteered to make signs or do whatever project that allowed me to draw or paint.”

“I’d like to see some of your early artwork.”

“It has to be around here somewhere. Although, to be honest, I haven’t really seen anything other than the painting I did when I was fifteen that Gran hung in her bedroom.”

---