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Chapter 8

Readers! Welcome to the Peninsula, where sparkling inland lakes dot the landscape among farms, orchards, and small towns. The Peninsula is surrounded by Big Omann Lake, and nearby is the area’s major city, Domhnall Hills. On this lovely June evening, we find our 24-year-old protagonist Brigid in her room at Cairn Cottage, where she is spending the summer with her nearly-estranged grandfather Morgan. Melodramatic Grandpa Morgan and peaceful Brigid get along famously, and are very much enjoying getting to reconnect, although he seems to be unreasonably obsessed by lake stones, especially those that are polished and set into jewelry. Brigid is getting ready for her first official date with Gabe, a cherry orchard owner and sometime-boat-delivery-guy who she met when he delivered a neighbor’s new Sunfish sailboat. They had a true, Earth-stopping romantic encounter already, but that’s Chapter 6.

This scene was written well before our lives were infected by COVID-19, and I had a particular joy editing it recently. I’d love to step into Brigid and Gabe’s healthy and safe world, as they go in and out of restaurants and tiny concert halls with carefree abandon. I thought you might like to escape there as well.

If you are a fan of heart-warming schlock, the end of this chapter is for you. If you’re not, never fear… the romance storyline is only one element in this novel full of mystery, family drama, Earth-based spirituality, and self-realization.

CHAPTER 8

He had called the next morning.   A smile illuminated her face as she slid deeper under the covers, shivering at the memory.  The stone at her throat caught the light filtering through smudged window pane. 

Domhnall Symphony Orchestra was playing an outreach concert in Birch Glen, the little fishing village nearby. The Pines of Rome.  He had tickets and could pick her up at seven. 

At five minutes to seven, she had raced down the stairs to find her purse, her shoes, her phone.  Morgan stood at the kitchen island, a whiskey and water in his hand.  He smiled at Brigid and waved her over before placing a folded handkerchief on the counter.  Oblivious to his granddaughter’s rush, he unfolded the cloth with reverence. Pulsing vermilion and raven silver sparkled in the light.  “Your grandmother’s,” Morgan said.  “It was a special bracelet.  The most special one. Look.” His gnarled finger tapped the stones.  “Jasper. This Jasper pulled from Big Omann Lake.  Jasper will bring passion, but also steadfastness.” 

Brigid forced herself to stop, give him her attention. Her fingers brushed a cinnamon-colored stone.  “Ah,” said Morgan.  “That is Hessonite.  Hessonite, so you remember your worth.”  He patted her hand.  “You are worthy, Brigid.”  She covered the choke of emotion with a tight smile.  Worthy?  No one spoke to her like this.  To push the embarrassment away, she pointed to the jagged black stones.  They seemed out of place in this warm, resonant bracelet. 

“What are these?” she asked.

“Those stones were birthed from volcanoes that once existed under these waters,” Morgan said, proud with the knowledge.  “The red stones represent the fire, but this stone… she is made from the fire.”

Brigid subtly looked down at her watch.  This supply of odd jewelry seemed to be bottomless.  She could hear Gabe’s truck rumbling down the driveway and she still hadn’t located her shoes.  “It’s beautiful, Grandpa.  I’d love to look at it in more detail later.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me, sweet girl,” said Morgan.  “I brought it out to give to you.”  He pushed it across the countertop.  “Wear it, Brigid.”  He clasped her hand again, searching her eyes. 

“I couldn’t,” she said, with a tone she hoped was polite yet firm.  The bracelet was certainly interesting, but it didn’t quite go with her meticulously planned outfit.

“Take it.”  Morgan waved away her refusal, and, taking up her slim wrist, fixed the gold filigree clasp.  “It is meant to be yours”.”  She looked across the counter at her grandfather, feeling a shiver run up her arm as he clasped her hand in his own.

A knock on the back door turned the old man gregarious, and he bustled down to the hall to welcome Gabe. The men shook hands before Morgan took Brigid to him and kissed her forehead.  “Have a lovely evening with your gentleman.” Brigid couldn’t suppress a grin and she hugged her grandfather back before turning to leave with Gabe.  Morgan followed them to the back porch, waving them off.

The ride down the curvy roads was alive with laughter and twenty minute drive to Birch Glen passed in a flash.  When they arrived at the renovated schoolhouse, Gabe ushered Brigid to their seats, his hand warm on the small of her back. The interior was cavernous; the simple clapboard walls adorned with landscapes created by worshipful local artists.  The orchestra trilled and stretched rainbows of sound as they warmed up.

“I actually played the viola in middle school,” Brigid whispered.

“Oh yeah?” Gabe grinned at her.  “Which one is the viola?”

Brigid pointed discreetly at the orchestra. “The violists are in the middle.  It’s a slightly bigger instrument than the violin, with a richer timbre.”

“Why the viola?” asked Gabe. 

“Well, the violin is what everyone chooses.” She gestured conspiratorially.   “Then the cello  – the cello is very popular; very intellectual.  Sort of sexy,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Hmm, I see,” he said.  “In that case, I’m shocked that you’re not the female Yo Yo Ma.”  Brigid blushed and rolled her eyes. 

Gabe winked at her and looked out at the orchestra.  “What about the double bass?” he asked.  “No bass for you?”

 “Oh please,” Brigid said.  “I don’t have the stamina to carry the bass.  It would’ve been great though, because it’s different.  My main goal was not to be ordinary.  Anything is better than be ordinary.  So, the viola it was.”

“I bet you were really good,” Gabe said.

“Oh my God, I was terrible!”  Brigid laughed. “My pinkie finger is abnormally short – look at this.” She lifted her left hand to show him. “Every time I would play a scale, the first four notes would be perfect and the fifth would be so flat.  My teacher would say, ‘Tune that instrument, Brigid!’  Use your ears!'”

“I don’t believe you,” said Gabe.  “Let me see this rogue pinkie.”  He made a spectacle of measuring her pinkie and ring fingers, comparing them to his own, placing his hand palm to palm with hers. Suddenly the room erupted in applause. They both looked up to see the conductor ascending the podium and their hands separated to join in the ovation.  The conductor bowed to the room, turned to the orchestra, and struck the air. As the woodwinds glittered through the air in Respighi’s opening salvo, Gabe reached for her hand.

The fluttering intensity of the music barely registered in her racing body.  Brigid peeked at Gabe. He was so confident, seeming to always know what to say, when to look, how to smile.  She was smart enough to have reserve, to sense a game.  Surely it was ridiculous to think she was falling for anyone so soon.  And that he could possibly be falling for her.  But he was kind.  And the way he looked at her, for a fraction of a second longer than he should…   Brigid forced herself to relax into the music, feeling his warm, calloused hand on her skin.  Just as she surrendered in the rapture of the crescendo, the horns blasted their interruption.  Gabe and Brigid startled together, involuntarily gripping hands.  He looked down and her and all composure broke. His shoulders fell and his tightened bicep relaxed.  Collapsing into stifled giggles, they leaned into their own elated reality.

After the concert, they walked hand in hand along the harbor, peeking into the fishing boats of the locals and the polished pleasure craft of the summer residents.  Both unwilling for the evening to end, they landed at the Captain’s Seat, a greasy-spoon restaurant with an outdoor patio overlooking the harbor.  The bartender watched their laughter and non-stop banter, deciding not to push them out at the official closing time.  Smiling at the besotted couple, he poured himself a nightcap and ignored the clock. 

The moon was high by the time they drove back to Cairn Cottage.  At ten minutes before midnight, he stopped the truck on the main road, on the edge of the long driveway.  Her heart raced as she prepared herself for his kiss. Before she could decide how to react, he was out of the cab and opening her door, offering her a hand that already seemed like a part of her life.  As he handed her down, she said, “Not escorting me to the door, sir?” A teasing smile played at her lips.  “I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely escorting you to the door.  I just am not going to shine the headlights all the way down that driveway into the bedroom windows of your sleeping neighbors.”  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smiled down at her as they walked down the moonlit driveway.  Far too soon, the path ended at her late grandmother’s garden.  He looked at the tiny purple-bordered buds, indigo heart and sunshine soul reaching to the moon. “I thought those were violas,” he said.

“They are.”  Brigid could feel her heart racing in her chest.

“But you played the viola… I’m so confused,” he said, smiling.  Brigid saw his feet shifting in the sandy dirt and smiled to herself. He was stalling.   

She playfully punched his hard arm with her other hand. “You’re just hilarious,” she said.

Gabe turned toward her.  He released their hands and slid his fingers to the small of her back.  The other hand found her cheekbone and wove its way into her hair.  Without thinking, she echoed his movement, brushing her hands up his broad chest and wrapping them around his neck.  The undulating light of the moon passed through the veil of clouds and adorned her face.

 Looking down at her, a feeling like lightening shot through him, and he had to root his feet to the earth to hold onto the embrace. 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered

Brigid answered by rising to her tiptoes and touched her lips to his.

All thought left her mind as she surrendered to his gentle kiss. Every worry, every question of being enough melted away in the softness of his lips. She felt his arms encircle her back, steady like the branches of the trees that bowed over the long country roads.   His tongue opened her mouth, gently.  She clung to him, specks of stardust sparking through her nerves, reaching, joining. Nothing in the world mattered except this moment, the taste of his mouth upon hers, her body cradled in his arms. 

The low, mournful call of a loon burst through their reverie

Slowly, shaking, they drew themselves apart.  Brigid gazed up at him.

“What now?”