FLIGHT FROM OBSESSION CHAPTER I

         FLIGHT FROM OBSESSION   CHAPTER I

     Long legs and short, sun streaked hair along with a ready sense of humor and a deep understanding of her field made Abby a popular professor at Trinity State, but that wasn't making it any easier for her fidgeting students to wait for the final bell of the term.  A warm, early spring day had beckoned from outside the windows distracting both students and professors through final exams.  She sighed; she and her colleagues had one more week to finish before their break would begin.  It would go fast enough, she thought as she gathered up the final exam papers her class turned in.    

     Abby joined the crush of students in the corridors as they escaped their classrooms and poured out into the sunshine.  She crossed to her vintage, candy-apple red Volkswagen camper in the faculty parking lot and dumped the final exams onto the passenger seat and then slid behind the wheel.  Her camper, restored by a retired Mercedes mechanic, was the object of much teasing by her fellow professors but it wowed the student population.  She fell in love with it the day her retired neighbor brought it home to restore.   

     Phantom of the Opera floated from the windows as the little red camper skimmed toward home along the road winding through green, gently rolling hills scattered with farms and vineyards.  Splashes of yellow, blue and lavender wildflowers decorated the hillsides while noisy red-winged blackbirds called out territorial warnings from fence posts and scarecrows mutely watched great flocks of birds swooping down on black, plowed fields, foraging for the recently planted seeds.  She thought, not without irony, “Behold the fowls of the air:  for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet our heavenly Father feeds them.”*

     Abby slowed as she neared the Tanaka’s open air produce stand on a wide out in the road.  The elder Tanakas were born in a Japanese detention camp during WWII but they didn't allow the adversity of that experience to taint their lives; instead, they had married, rebuilt the family business, and raised a new generation of strong, self-reliant children. 

     “Hi, Mrs. Tanaka,” she called out to the slight woman who operated the produce stand while her husband and boys ran their truck farm and delivered their produce north and south along interstate 5 and state highway 101. 

     Abby and Mrs. Tanaka chatted together for several minutes as Abby selected from the inviting array of fruits and vegetables. 

     “How is my youngest son doing in your anthropology class,” Mrs. Tanaka asked?

     “He’s doing very well but I think he’s having a hard time pinning down his major.”

     “Yes,” she laughed, “he’s restless and finds it difficult to focus on one thing.  I hope he behaves in class?”

     “I wish all of my students were as well behaved and as eager to learn as your son.  Whatever field he finally chooses, he will do well.”

     After ringing up Abby’s purchases, Mrs. Tanaka walked over to the flower display and retrieved a bouquet of fresh flowers giving them to Abby, “These are from my garden at home.”

     Delighted, Abby took them and smelled their soft fragrance, “They will look wonderful in one of my pewter pitchers," she said, thanking Mrs. Tanaka as she gathered her bundles and stowed them in the back of the camper.  She waved as she pulled out onto the road. What a lovely, gracious woman, Abby thought to herself.

     Farms and sunny meadows soon gave way to steep, timbered hillsides until the road   felt almost like a tunnel through the dense redwood forest.  

     Cresting the last hill on the way home, it became bright and sunny again as rugged coastline stretched out in both directions.  The afternoon sun glistened on the water as swell after swell came crashing toward the cliffs turning rock into sand through eons of time.  Local fishing boats tacked back and forth searching for schools of fish while further out on what seemed the edge of the world a tanker moved south in the shipping lane. 

     A native of the Mideast Abby decided soon after her arrival in California that if she could ever afford a home it would be here, near the scents, sounds, and colors of the sea.  

     Trinity Cove grew from the shore inland beginning with the commercial fishing pier and fish processing plant built on pilings over the water. At water’s edge stood an old cafe which served breakfast to the commercial fishermen and next door a weathered bait shop and boat ramp squatted in the weeds.  Abby was reminded of "Cannery Row" when she passed this stretch of the harbor.

     She made a sharp right and the road widened into a street of high curbs and false front buildings including a post office, general store, and soda fountain.  Several other small businesses, art galleries and antique shops struggled for the scant tourist dollar while even more stood vacant and boarded up reflecting tough times.

     She stopped while a group of very happy young ladies carrying balloons and ice cream cones straggled across the street while a harried young mother tried to keep them gathered together.

    Abby parked in front of Gurney’s General Store and grabbed a sweater from the back of the camper.  Fred Gurney was stacking cans on a display when she entered the store.  Fred was a skinny man with an acidic tongue and pessimistic nature who seemed to thrive on conspiracies and dire predictions.  She could see he was heading her way and it would be impossible to avoid him so she took a deep breath and braced herself.

     “Hi, Fred, beautiful day,” she said. 

     “Young lady, we got us a strange lawyer been snooping around town and up to the county seat,” he said.

     Abby tried to ask a question but Fred was on a roll and had an audience.

     “You just mark my words, young lady,” he said shaking his finger in her face, “he’s up to no good.”

     Stepping back, she asked, “How do you know he’s a lawyer, Fred, and up to something bad for the cove?”

     “Why, I know he’s a lawyer cause Judge Allen’s boy went to law school with him and he’s one of those 'city slickers' from LA.”

     Not much substance there, she thought, “Fred let’s wait until we know what’s going on before we get all upset.”

     “Just mark my words, young lady, you been warned,” he mumbled all the way to the back room, offended that she had taken his news so lightly. 

     “My husband been bending your ear, Abby?”

     “Hi, Aunt Bessie, he did seem riled up,” she answered as she filled the shopping cart with her weekly supplies.

     Aunt Bessie had mothered Abby since she arrived in town, a mothering Abby accepted easily since she had lost her own mother when she was seven.

     “Fred’s worry button has a hair trigger,” she smiled and patted Abby’s hand.

     Abby finished her shopping and when she got to the checkout counter Fred was still in the back.  Probably listening to one of those talk radio shows he seemed to thrive on.

     Aunt Bessie totaled up her purchases and Abby wrote a check.  

     “Don’t forget the church pot luck this Sunday,” Aunt Bessie reminded her.

     Abby smiled, Aunt Bessie was the last advocate for the old church on Second Street.  She managed to get a once a month preacher from one of the larger inland towns and she kept up regular Sunday school classes for the children of the cove.  Her last Sunday of the month potlucks were well attended by the townspeople and served as a sounding board for the community.

     “I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Aunt Bessie.  I’ll be there with my favorite casserole,” she smiled into Bessie’s kind face.

     “See you Sunday,” she waved as she left the store and loaded the last of her purchases into the back of the camper. 

     She left the harbor and wound up the bluff feeling that surge of anticipation she always felt just before her new home came into view.  It was one of a dozen or so built by the logging executives when Trinity Cove was a rough and tumble logging town supplying the growing frontier with building material.

     She pulled into her driveway to discover that the vacant house next door had come to life.  Doors and windows were open and as she stood by her camper wondering what was going on a tall man with a load of trash came out of the backdoor.

     “Hello,” she called?

     When he saw her the man set the trash on a growing pile and ambled toward her wiping his hands on his jeans.  

     He extended his hand and said, “I guess we’re neighbors if this is your house?”

     “Yes, I’m Abby Cavanaugh and this is my home, but I wasn't aware I was getting a new neighbor.”

     “Not so new," he laughed, "I grew up in this house.” 

     “Good heavens,” she said, “you must be Agatha Wyatt’s nephew.”  Her small hand was engulfed in his warm grasp.

     “Guilty as charged,” he said, “but how could you know Aunt Agatha?”

    She smiled, “Aunt Bessie still talks about her.  I guess they were quite a duo in their day.”

     “Bessie Gurney,” he asked and added at her nod, “I haven’t had a chance to look up old friends yet.  How is Aunt Bessie?”

     “Priceless,” Abby answered.

     “She is that,” he said, “And old Fred?”

     She grinned, “As gloomy as Aunt Bessie is cheerful.”

     He laughed, “I got double teamed as a kid, Aunt Agatha and Aunt Bessie both kept my butt in line.”

     She pictured him as a little boy with frogs and marbles in his pockets and boyhood adventures filling his head.  
     “You had a great upbringing,  if one didn't  catch you the other one would,” she teased him. 

     He grinned and she found herself looking into his laughing brown eyes and flushed.  Self-consciously, she moved to the back of the camper to retrieve the groceries.

     “Here let me help with those,” he said.    

     “That’s not necessary; you probably lugged things in and out all day.”

     “No trouble,” he said, “I’m practicing being neighborly now that I’m going to be living in a small town again.  My neighbor's were strangers in Los Angeles," he said.      

     He followed her to the backdoor and waited as she fit her key into the lock.    

     Abby had turned the old back porch into a sun room with brick floors, lots of plants and a cast iron Franklin stove.  White wicker furniture, picked up at a garage sale, repainted and fitted with bright, blue print cushions created a cozy nook with an enchanting view of the cove. Her black cat looked up and stretched before jumping to the floor and coming over to investigate the stranger she had been watching all afternoon.      

     He leaned down to pet the cat, “Wow, what a great room for coffee and the Sunday paper,” he exclaimed.    

      Abby walked on into the kitchen with the cat following. “Thanks,” she said, “I found the cat out on the pier when she was so tiny she could barely totter around. I couldn’t just leave her there so home she came.  

     He carried the groceries into the renovated kitchen and went back out for the last of the packages while she fed the cat. 

     “I can see from what you did to this house that there are endless possibilities,” he said, bringing in the last of the groceries.

     "I lived in the house for a while before I made any renovations, ideas will come to you,” she said.
     “Thanks for the help, and if there’s anything I can do to help your move, please let me know.” She was already at the sink washing produce. 

      “As a matter of fact, unless you did all of this work yourself, you could help me with the names of carpenters, electricians, plumbers and other craftsmen around town.  I’m afraid I’m not very handy with tools,” he admitted. 
     She laughed, “I did most of the furniture refinishing myself but I’m afraid the rest of the work was outside my area of expertise.  I’ll make a list for you.”    

      “I’d appreciate that,” he said, “By the way, is there a restaurant nearby?  My kitchen’s not in working order yet.”    

     “I’m afraid the only cafe is down by the docks and it’s probably closed by now.  The Bed and Breakfast isn't open for the season yet.  You’ll have to drive inland.”  

     I probably should invite him to dinner she thought to herself.  After all he’s not a complete stranger and he was going to be her new neighbor.

     “Unless you’re starving, why don’t you come back in an hour and have dinner here.  Just what I was planning on fixing for myself,” she warned.

     “I really don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said.

     “It won’t be any trouble.  I have to cook anyway and I was planning on a seafood casserole. Do you like seafood?”

     “I love seafood and I’d be delighted to accept your kind invitation.  Just don’t go to any extra trouble,” he waved and went out the backdoor.

     Waif was circling her feet and protesting the lack of attention she had received.  Abby bent down and picked her up. 

     “Well, Waif, it looks like we’re having company for dinner and I don’t even know his name.  Mr. Wyatt, I guess,” she stroked the cat until she rumbled with purrs. 

     While the greens were draining in a large copper colander she put together the simple shrimp and wild rice casserole she planned and put on some left over split pea soup to warm slowly. That should be plenty with sour dough French bread and some of Aunt Bessie’s peach cobbler from the freezer.  
     Before she went upstairs for a quick shower and change of clothes she threw caution to the winds and put a bottle of Mendocino Riesling in to cool.

     After a quick shower she fluffed her hair and threw on some jeans and a tee shirt then went back downstairs.  
     She was assembling the spinach salad when he tapped on the back door.

     “Come in,” she called. 
     “I’m just finishing up,” she said as he came in and joined her.          
     He was still in Levi's but he had a clean shirt on and his hair was slicked back.

     If you’re not driving there’s a bottle of wine cooling in the refrigerator and an opener there on the sideboard. 
     She set the pewter pitcher of fresh flowers in the middle of the table and added place mats, china and crystal. 

     “Good choice of wine,” he said as he poured them both a glass. 
     “Are the flowers from your garden,” he asked?

     “A friendly gift from Mrs. Tanaka,” she said.

      “Any kin to Ken Tanaka,” he asked?

      “Yes, Ken’s her oldest, did you know the boys?”

     He grinned, “Ken and I grew up together, played baseball on the same team.”

     “Ken and Sherry are growing their own team now.  Wait until you meet his kids.”

     “I can see that I have a lot of catching up to do,” he laughed, watching her move comfortably, around the kitchen very unlike the brittle, coiffed, manicured; gym fit women he met in LA. 

     She picked up her glass of wine and joined him at the window seat where he watched night descend on the cove and lights come on in town. 

     “It just occurred to me that I don’t know your name,” she said.

     Looking startled, he set his wine glass down and said, “I’m usually not so socially awkward,” he laughed sheepishly. 

     “Name’s, Thomas Yancy Wyatt, Attorney at Law,” he announced, with a flourish and bow.

     “And this is ‘Saturday Night Live,’” she proclaimed, giggling at both of them. 

     He laughed at her silliness, liking her even better. 

    As an inkling of a suspicion began to form in her mind, she laughed even harder. She tried to speak but put her hand over her mouth when nothing intelligible came out. 

     Finally under control, she asked, “You weren’t by any chance up at the county seat yesterday, were you?  And did you, by any chance go to law school with Judge Allen’s son?”

     “You’re leading the witness counselor, but yes, to both of your questions,” he laughed along with her.

     “I think,” Abby said quite seriously, “that I was gossiping about you, today, Mr. Thomas Yancy Wyatt.”

     She was giggling again but managed to convey the jest of her earlier conversation with Fred Gurney and her suspicion that Tom was the ‘city slicker’ who’d been ‘snooping’ around town.

     Tom got it, and said, “Poor old Fred, ‘hoisted on his own petard,’ I’ll have to go down tomorrow and set his mind at rest.”

     Abby wasn't accustomed to entertaining strange men, alone in her home but she was unusually relaxed with Tom. 

     “We’re having one of Aunt Bessie’s Church Social’s, Sunday. Why don’t you come and surprise everyone.  It’ll turn into a real party and Aunt Bessie will love it?”   

     “That sounds great,” he said with amusement, “especially if you let me tag along with you. Remember, when I left for college I wasn't much more than a boy and you could introduce me around again.”

     “Sure, I’d be glad to do that.  I don’t want to miss the look in Aunt Bessie’s eyes when she sees you.”  
     Then she said, “You must be starving by now.”

     She placed the casserole on a trivet and a covered basket of warm, sour dough French bread on the table and then filled their water goblets from a glass pitcher of lemony ice water.

     He watched as she filled two bowls with the savory soup he smelled since coming in the kitchen. She caught his eye and they both seated themselves. 

     She lowered her head and said a short blessing for the food before them.

     Tom barely caught himself before reaching for his soup spoon as she said grace. 

     “I’ll bet you’re starving, help yourself,” she said.

     “You almost caught me napping when you said grace,” he admitted, “I picked up some bad habits and lost some good ones over the years.”

     “I was pretty unfocused when I got to Trinity Cove,” she said, “Aunt Bessie took me in hand.”

     The soup was thick and hearty with chunks of ham and potato and the French bread was warm from the oven with real butter.  
     He groaned his pleasure as he said, “Manna from heaven, served by the Good Samaritan.”

     “You’re mixing two testaments and mangling two stories,” she laughed as she took their soup bowls to the sink and brought more warm bread to the table.

     She took the cover off of the casserole, placed the spinach salad on the table and told him to dig in.

     He grinned, “I’m glad Aunt Bessie wasn't here, I could get away with all of that mixing and mangling most places but I’m a graduate of Aunt Bessie’s Sunday school and I’d never get away with it around her.”

     “This is a real treat and all homemade,” he said, “So good after all of the fast food between here and LA.”

     “Actually, the soup was left over from earlier in the week and the casserole is very easy,” she said, “the bread and salad are ‘gimme’s’.”

     “Thoroughly, Modern Millie,’ ‘gimmie, gimmie, gimmie,” he asked?

     She grinned, “I love musicals,” she said.

     “All theater for me,” he said, “from Shakespeare to Mike Nichols.”  

     “Just out of curiosity, are you going to be opening a law office here in town,” she asked?

     “I will be opening a small practice, probably in one of the rooms downstairs if zoning allows it,” he said. 
     "I wrote a law text a few years ago and currently, I'm researching coastal law. My publisher advanced me enough to work on a new text, mostly, boring to the layperson,” he smiled.  

     “Not if it includes off shore oil drilling, territorial fishing rights, and environmental protection,” she said. 

     “Well,” he said, grinning at her obvious interest, “it does, and I testified before several government agencies on the disposal of nuclear waste the last couple of years. What is your particular interest,” he asked?

     She said, shyly, “I’m an Anthropology professor at Trinity State and I also work closely with the local Native American's on fishing rights, methods and other issues.”

     “All right professor, good for you,” he said as he gave her a high five over the china and crystal. 

     “Now that we've 'broken bread' together, Abby Cavanaugh, I think we should be on a first name basis.”

     “Tom and Abby it is then.  Would you like to light the fire while I get coffee and dessert,” she asked?

     She cleared the table and ground fresh coffee beans while he lit the fire.  He sat down on the braid rug in front of the fire and when Abby joined him they sipped coffee in contented silence, quietly watching the flames flicker around the logs.   

     Soon she got up and brought more coffee and bowls of warm peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream.  
     “The cobbler is from Aunt Bessie,” she said, “taking a big bite.”

     “I’d forgotten how good food could taste,” he said, “I was thinking I couldn't eat another bite and here I am wolfing down peach cobbler.”

     “I think the secret to good food is fresh ingredients,” she told him.

      “And good company,” he added, “It’s been such a great evening, Abby.  An evening I didn't look forward to spending alone with my memories.  I’ll sleep like a baby, now.”

     
     She watched the fire play on his face.  He had a strong face but there was also kindness showing.

      He got up, clearly with reluctance, and carried their dishes and cups to the sink. 

     "Thank you again for the great food and companionship, I’m really looking forward to Sunday. What time should we go,” he asked?

     “About one thirty would be fine and I had a nice time too,” she responded.    

     He slipped out the back door, reminding her to lock up after him. 

    She yawned while she tidied up and then locked up and went upstairs to fall asleep as soon as he crawled into bed. 
 @ 2013 karenmaceanruig  

CHAPTERS (I - VII) "FLIGHT FROM OBSESSION" 
                    READY FOR PUBLICATION

Tags: happy, love, humor, faith,