Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Yes.” She reached down and pulled out a spiral-bound book from her large purse. “Like this.”
“What is it?”
She wrote quickly, pen flying. This is one of the last copies of a cookbook we did for a church fundraiser back when you were in elementary school. So many of her recipes are in here. Cookies especially, but holiday and special meals too. I saved her copy from the estate sale. When you’re ready, I saved your family photo albums too.
“Oh.” My mouth flopped like a helpless fish, and she came around the table to put her plump arms around me, holding me tightly as I cried. I turned so she could see my mouth. “Thank you. Thank you.”
Releasing me, she signed, “You are loved.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“What happened?” Sam rushed over, looking ready to do battle with his own mother for making me cry.
“It’s all good. Your mom brought me a gift.”
“That made you cry.” Sam continued to frown as I held up the cookbook.
“Mom’s cookies.”
“Oh.” And then he was hugging me too. His mom signed something quickly, and Sam translated. “Mom says to tell her which recipe, and she’ll make anything in the book for dessert on Sunday.”
“The two of you.” I groaned.
“Sorry. Don’t mean to pressure you.” Sam kissed the top of my head, apparently not caring that his mom was right there. “Just think about it?”
I nodded, then, because it felt like Mrs. Bookman’s kindness needed some sort of gesture, I added, “I miss her seven-layer bars.”
“Yes.” She beamed at me as she signed. “I will make them.”
Eventually, she headed out, and Sam and I worked quietly cleaning up, but I had a strange restlessness I couldn’t shake.
“I’m going to take Cal a drink,” I said at last. “What’s he been drinking most this week?”
“The sweetened herbal iced tea Marta dreamed up, the one in the pitcher near the front of the fridge. He’ll appreciate it.” Sam looked like he wanted to say a heck of a lot more, but he admirably restrained himself.
I scurried off with the drink, not entirely sure what I was doing.
“Brought you some tea. It’s hot today.” I held out the cup as Cal looked up from the section of fence he was painting.
“Thanks.” He regarded me coolly, eyes wary.
“I…uh…the patio looks great.” A bead of sweat rolled down my back, making my shoulders shift, as uncomfortable as the rest of me. “Thank you.”
“For the patio?” His mouth twisted, giving his face an expression just shy of insult. “It’s a job, and Sam’s a good one. Happy to help.”
“Yeah.” That I didn’t simply drift back inside had to count for something. “You’re good at that, I guess. Helping.”
“I don’t do the recovery dives for thanks.” Cal cut past my bullshit with a single sentence.
“Why then?” The question tore loose from my throat like it had been waiting far longer than I’d realized. “To solve mysteries?”
“Ha.” He gave a brittle laugh. “Hardly. I’m not Monroe…or Holden, for that matter. I dive because it gives me something to do.”
“Oh.” The word tasted sour. “Hell of a hobby.”
Perhaps that was what I’d been fighting against since my return. I didn’t like being a hobby or a mystery. This was my life, and for better or worse, she’d been my mother, not a puzzle piece. Logically, I understood why people would want to solve the biggest cold case in Safe Harbor’s history, but emotionally was a different story. How dare he make a treasure hunt out of my life? I glared at him until he held up a hand.
“It’s something to do other than lose myself to the darkness. You seem like a guy who knows that feeling, the crushing weight of nothing to do.”
“Yeah,” I allowed softly.
“Some might golf. Write songs. Climb mountains. But I don’t have those talents. I’m a diver. I dive. If I hadn’t kept diving after my discharge, I’m not sure I’d be here.” His voice was bruisingly blunt.
“You’ve got certain skills. Need to use them, feel useful.” My dusty, battered MBA sprung to mind, along with how damn untethered I felt, unable to work in the industry I’d spent nearly two decades in. “I get it.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Cal shook his head. “It’s not about keeping my skills sharp or justifying my time. Each dive for me is like this coffee house is for Sam, or the church is for his dad.”
“Service? A greater purpose?” I struggled with words but was starting to see what he meant. “A way to give back?”
“All of that, but also, it’s…sacred.” He offered me a crooked smile. “Sorry, I know that sounds poetic. But it’s not the warm fuzzy feeling you’re thinking. It’s humbling. Brings me to my knees, over and over. Every damn dive tests me. Guts me too often, and it’s a privilege but the sort no one wants.”