The Compass Rose

[Huntress]

Maureen Catlin

Exiting Kitty’s, Maureen noted how many more vehicles were parked out front than when she’d arrived and considered herself lucky to have avoided the breakfast rush. It was so crowded she literally had to squeeze between a van and a compact to reach the street. Something, a scratching at her awareness, an uncomfortable pinprick of consciousness, made her glance up as she slid past the passenger side mirror of the van. The driver, his face obscured by a full beard, was still sitting behind the wheel, gazing at her boldly. For an instant, their eyes met. It was Maureen who broke contact feeling suddenly stripped bare by the man’s blatant assessing stare. She found herself blushing furiously as she hurried across the street, grateful for the cool morning fog relieving her cheeks of the telltale pink stain.

“Coward,” accused a little voice, which echoed in her mind. “That’s it run away. Scaredy cat!”

It looked as though the fog was going to stay inland today, despite the sun’s earlier promise and Maureen was very glad of the sweater’s warmth as she walked down Main Street toward the beach. Wisps of fog swirled across the pavement and brick facades, wraithlike, thick in spots then clearing magically at an intersection where even the slightest breeze was capable of sweeping it away. The ethereal beauty of the white-gray mist was even now as enchanting as it had been during her childhood when she’d played in an abandoned orchard, running through waist-high grass in search of “crystal fairy necklaces”; spider webs covered with beads of dew. That sweet memory of discovery and wonder was still tugging at her heart as she stopped in front of a neat white clapboard, two-storey house with the numbers ‘35’ clearly painted on the curb.

A starchy looking woman was waiting on the front porch scribbling notes on a clipboard, with a briefcase at her feet. Her mouth was set in a grim line which gave her face a stern forbidding appearance. As the little picket gate squeaked open, she looked up from her notes riveting Maureen with a stare that was not hostile, but certainly not warm as she scanned Maureen from head to toe appraising. “Hmm… I guess not every one in a small town is going to be another Aunt Bea.” Putting on her best corporate façade, Maureen straightened her shoulders and strode up to the steps extending her hand.

“Good morning. Mrs. Peterson? I’m Maureen Catlin. We spoke last week about the bungalow. It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

Mrs. Peterson blinked twice and smiled. The effect was disarming. Suddenly she was all warmth and charm.

“Oh! Mrs. Catlin. So glad to meet you, too. I didn’t expect to see you so early. I’ve only just arrived myself and it seems that my client isn’t at home right now. She must have stepped out to run an errand. I have keys, so I can go ahead and show you the cottage, if you’d still like to see it.”

Maureen wondered at the woman’s abrupt change in attitude but chalked it up to something akin to her own “city manners”. This was business, after all.

“Yes, please. I’m anxious to see it.”

A sloping stone path wound around the left side of the house and led to a beautiful English style garden full of hollyhocks, ivy, roses, coral bells and primroses. Maureen held her breath as Mrs. Peterson pushed open a gate in an ivy covered wall. It opened onto a second, smaller garden and a picturesque little white-washed cottage that looked as though someone had uprooted it from the English countryside, shipped it overseas intact and set it down right on the bluff overlooking the ocean. Mrs. Peterson was looking at her curiously and Maureen realized she must have been staring open-mouthed at the little house without even knowing it. Recovering her composure she turned to the real estate agent saying, “Oh, Mrs. Peterson. It’s absolutely lovely! May we go inside?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

She unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the wrought iron thumb latch. The heavy iron-bound wood door swung in silently to a stone entryway that opened out into a spacious living room with hardwood floors and a fieldstone fireplace. Maureen could not believe her good fortune. Something like this in San Francisco would have rented for upwards of two thousand dollars, not five hundred.

“This is the largest room in the cottage, the bedroom, bath and kitchen are pretty small. I expect you’ll have trouble fitting all your furniture in here,” Mrs. Peterson said with the assurance of someone who knew all about city folk. “I’m going to go back up to the main house and wait for Mrs. Burroughs, so if you want to look around, go ahead.”

Maureen nodded dumbly, fearing anything she said would break the spell of wonder that enthralled her. The door closed with a ‘snick’ and a silence beyond anything she could have expected descended on the cottage. Even the sound of the breakers was muffled. She turned around taking in the leaded glass windows, antique sconces and the stone hearth. It was so romantic. So beautifully quiet.

She walked down the narrow hallway off the living room and peeked in at the bedroom. It was small, but should accommodate her queen-sized bed, especially if she jammed it under the windowsill. Another memory rose to the surface of her thoughts; college days in a cramped room, a floor littered with fabric samples, scissors and a ridiculously small quilting frame. She shook her head remembering her roommate, Constance, yelping as she trod barefoot on a pin and cursing a blue streak. Connie’s proper Bostonian façade was never the quite same after that.

The bath was indeed tiny but the kitchen wasn’t too bad. At least it had a four-burner stove and room for a small table, plus the view was spectacular. The image of taking coffee in front of that window nearly made her giddy.

"Oh, God... please let it work out. I deserve to have something good happen to me for a change!"

She hoped Mrs. Burroughs would take a liking to her and that Mrs. Peterson wouldn’t do another about-face and sour the deal.

“Start praying now, Mo. Pray hard!”

 

[darrenfate]

PETER McWATT

They were ushered into a room overlooking the Detroit River, high up 30 floors in the cylindrical silver tower of the Renaissance Center, that was now GM's world headquarters.

Peter was the head of his negotiating team, brash and confident. As Senior VP of Sales, he had spent his entire career in the auto industry here in Detroit. He was at the peak of his ability, and having just turned 40, he knew it. The procurement officers held their bid in his hand. 30 million axles over the next 5 years, for GM's fleet of SUVs. His small company was ready, and had built capacity to be able to deliver even though they had to borrow to the hilt to do so. . Designs had been approved, QC obtained. Production would start in 60 days since the incumbent supplier was insolvent. This deal was their's.

"Gentlemen, your bid is good very good. But it is not enough. There are two other companies that can do better, they are here in other rooms. We make this decision today. Give us your best offer. " With that he pushed their proposal forward and left the room.

Peter naturally spoke first.

"They are bluffing. We know that the competition has no capacity. They play a game with us. No deal. " They all knew the stakes. An argument ensued, but finally Peter's view held the day. They submitted the same numbers.

And lost.

Peter held his head in his hands, his eyes filled with tears as he had watched his company fold over the next 60 days. Vultures swept in, bought the assets, thousands of workers thrown out of jobs. Existing contracts were filled out of off shore plants. Peter had numbly watched lives being ruined, all because of him.

He had ceased to care. His house, cars, possessions, sold, sold, sold. His wife left him, the shame too much to bear. Not to mention she had loved his money. His friends consoled him, then one by one fell away as they realized he was no longer a player.

That was 4 months ago, when he had boarded a west bound Greyhound with a small bag and a few dog eared journals to write in. If it took pain to be a great writer, Peter was well on his way to being the next Hemingway. California was an inhospitable place for the most part for a man with very little ambition and no plans for the future.

His new room at the Piper did have one redeeming quality. It looked west, over the ocean. He spent last night watching the sunset. Peter never saw the mornings, his late night drinking assured that ...

 

[captainb]

Bill

"What kind of work did you actually do at the restaurant back home, Bill?"

He shrugged and looked out the window, twirling an apricot in his hand. "Oh, I worked mainly for a couple of fast-food restaurants. Nothing fancy." He gave a quick summary as she set the coffee and plates on the table, about his sliding into the manager's position at a frozen yogurt store when the previous one quit, then being transferred to another, larger Mexican-food franchise owned by the same company. "It was weird," he mused. "I'd never planned to get into the restaurant biz. One day I turned around and realized I'd spent seven years teaching myself how to run the stores, and wondered how I ever got there in the first place."

She placed the food in front of him and sat down. "You must have been good at it if they gave you a larger store."

"Well, I was," he said frankly. "I've got a good work ethic, and I think I handled the stores pretty well. I left there to take a job with another restaurant, still sort of fast-food but with 'real' food. You know, cooking chicken and turkey breast, sidedishes... I was a pretty good trainer, got along well with the kids." He leaned back in his chair. "But the store wan't making enough money and after a couple of years the company closed it. Said it was a bad location. They gave me the choice of moving to a store closer to the city for the same pay or taking a severance package. I took the money," he said with a smile. Wrenna was looking at him with a curious expression.

"It was more than that," he continued. "I was tired of dealing with the kids who worked there. High school, college age... it gets old, their attitude. And despite all the boss's talk about 'quality of life' for their managers, I just didn't feel I had any."

The train of thought can move at lightspeed. He saw a sense of disappointment in her eyes. Was she wondering if I'd work here? he thought. This has been strange, meeting up with her so fast out of the blue. She's so different, yet so much the same. The way she's been looking at me; last night in the hallway, her sheer nightgown; the scent of her hair when they had hugged; the way that knit top clings to her when she turns just right. Working at this place, cooking seafood? I'm no chef, and she's the manager. I swore I was through with restaurants. But this would be different... would it? Maybe for a while, but what if me and her... Oh man, you're moving way too fast buddy. It's barely been nine hours and people do change.

"But I can see you've put a lot into this place," he said, looking around at the room. "It means a lot to you." She smiled and nodded. "Why don't you show me around? I'd like to see what you'll be serving here."

He picked up his dishes and followed her into the kitchen, noting the new equipment and decorative touches, even in here. He followed her about the rooms as she pointed out where the tables and chairs would go when they were delivered this afternoon, and nodded approvingly when she proudly showed a sample of the plates and bowls that would bear the Compass Rose motif.

As he followed her outside to finish the tour, Bill was noting the shape of the building and the colors used. Man, I sure got into the wrong line of work. I could have had a lot of fun designing a place like this. Not for the first time, he regretted his wandering, wasted years through the university system. At least he had the sheepskin for his resume. And just what the hell are you going to do with your life, Bill Davis?

 

[Huntress]

Maureen Catlin

Meeting Mrs. Burroughs had been the second high point of Maureen’s day so far and had given her a great deal of insight into the chilly reception she’d received from the real estate agent.

After she’d finished her tour of the cottage and poked around the garden a little more, Maureen returned to the main house and climbed the steps to ring for an “audience” with her (hopefully) prospective landlady. Her heart sank into the pit of her stomach when Mrs. Peterson answered the door. The woman still had a chilly edge that rubbed against all the doubt and flagging self-esteem Maureen carried around these days.

“Come in, come in. Mrs. Burroughs is back and she wants to meet you.”

Steeling herself for the worst, Maureen gave her best cocktail-party-oh-I’m-so-thrilled smile and followed the stocky, competent woman into a formal parlor. Two elderly women were seated in a pair of identical wingback chairs with a low table between them holding a teapot and enormous array of cookies. They looked up in unison, faces beaming benevolently and invited Maureen to take tea with them. A growing sense of dread which had threatened to tie knots in her gut disappeared like fog in the wind. Mrs. Peterson even poured her a cup of tea as she made the proper introductions.

“Dicey” Burroughs was a frail looking eighty-seven year old widow who lived in the main house with her sister, Alice Dougherty, also widowed and several years younger than Dicey. Both ladies were beloved of Mrs. Peterson from childhood and had an innocence that was truly remarkable given their age and breadth of experience. This alone might have explained Mrs. Peterson’s wary attitude, but there was a more compelling reason for her role as the formidable protector.

Apparently, there had been an incident several years prior involving an unscrupulous, and unnamed, tenant who had attempted to gain control over the sisters’ finances and real estate holdings. The pair had nearly been convinced to sign a power of attorney allowing this person sole authority as to the disposition of their assets but decided at the last moment to consult their banker. Wisely, he had phoned Mrs. Peterson requesting she intervene on their behalf which she’d been only too happy to do. The miscreant was sent packing that very day, escorted to the city limits by Sheriff Daniel Peterson, who, by happy coincidence and luck of birth, was Mrs. Peterson’s nephew. Since that time Alberta Peterson had been the staunch defender and guardian of the ladies’ interests.

Maureen shared her story with the odd trio, deciding that candor was required given their past experience. Dicey and Alice immediately expressed their condolences and offered her more cookies. Even Mrs. Peterson seemed to soften a bit after hearing the tale. She assured them all there would be no adverse repercussions from Richard’s nefarious activities – his former partners had agreed in writing to hold her harmless when she’d signed over all interest in the company to them. The sisters made sympathetic clucking noises while Mrs. Peterson scowled menacingly. If Richard had been present, Maureen was sure she would have boxed his ears and had him run out of town on the proverbial rail.

By eleven o’clock (two pots of tea and many cookies later) Maureen was holding the keys to her new bungalow and feeling as though she might simply float back to the hotel on a tide of relief and elation.

It was amazing what could transpire over a simple cup of tea.

 

[artful]

J.W.

Unlocking the van, I was careful to not bang my door against the powder blue convertible, that had snuggled up too close to my van. Bending forward to ease myself through the narrow opening,
I heard a menacing voice behind me say, "Don't move, and you won't get hurt!" I thought, "Well, if he only wants what little money I had in my pocket, no problem, but the fucker wasn't gonna take my van!"I had been thoroughly trained in
MOSHIMBWA, ...it was a combined military hand to hand combat discipline,that the general public heard absolutely nothing about.

There were 5 forms:
1)Passive posturing
It rarely was effective with more than one adversary,and was used solely for disengagement.

2)Defensive posturing
A simple but effective form of maintaining a position till help arrived.

3)Disabling posturing
A somewhat complicated technique of putting an adversary out of action.

4)Crippling posturing
A lesser demanding form which broke arms,legs,joints etc., rendering the adversary useless for an extended period of time.

5)Deadly posturing
Requiring only one movement,to not only penetrate the adversaries defenses,but on the same movement deliver a killing blow.

My old ticker not quite up to par, I quickly settled upon Form #1. Standing there with one foot in and one foot out, bent forward in a semi-crouched position, was beginning to tax my endurance. The voice spoke again, saying gruffly, "If you value your life my friend, you will take me back inside with you, and buy me a cup of coffee." "Mendoza you dumb fuck!" I slid back out of the half crouched position, with a shit eating grin on my face, and turned to embrace him. We hugged, patted each other on the back, and
exchanged greetings, as we walked back inside.

Mendoza led the way to a corner table near the windows, and before we could even sit, another waitress had crooked her fingers through a couple of cup handles, grabbed coffee pot, and was pouring coffee for us. "Uhmm, J.W. I don't think I've introduced you two." "Sally meet J.W.!" The introduction went smoothly and I noted how Sally creamed and sugared Mendoza's coffee. Chuckling to myself, I considered just how well Mendoza was accepted in this little village. "Mendoza was either liked or hated," I thought, "Well he was my friend, no matter what, we had been through too much together."

Of course, I had written to Mendoza many times since my retirement. He was the major reason I had decided to come back to Spyglass Cove. I was tired of trying to match myself up with a woman, I just wanted to live out the rest of my life in peace and friendship. Only problem was, I kept getting hard ons. Damned if ya do, and damned if ya don't. Sipping our coffees, we discussed the little shack he had in mind to lease to me. The land had been in his family's possession for 3 generations, and 20 years ago, before he married, he had built this small cabin, just southeast of The Compass Rose.

From time to time, he used it to throw beer parties, or have weekend poker parties. We finished our coffee, and I followed him in my van,the short distance to where it sat, somewhat removed from the mainstream of the small town. Located on a small point overlooking the ocean, it appeared to set secluded, within hollering distance of The Compass Rose, and that was just fine with me. From the outside, it appeared to be very rundown, and in need of repair, but the inside had been well taken care of. A small kitchen, a large living area, one average sized bedroom, and a HUGE bathroom with separate shower, and oversized tub with jacuzzi, which he pridefully told me how he had installed it himself.

Well, no doubt, this was just what I had been looking for. We struck the deal, shook hands on it, and Mendoza broke out a bottle of Crown Royal to seal the event. He would leave the furnishings as they were, and when I replaced something, he would come by to pick up whatever I no longer had use for. We promply went to the bank, made it all legal, and set up an account for me to make my monthly deposits. Handing me the keys, Mendoza told me about his securing a new job at the Rose, and pointed out to me, the Rose was looking for someone to sing a few songs in the evenings.

Odd I thought, and told him about the woman who was sister to the owner, "Calla Mallory, I think she said, had a small scar on the right side of her face? She also had mentioned to me last night about working at the Rose." ~"Mallory huh? I was wondering what last name she was using now. She moved back home, uhmmm lemme see, about six months ago I think. I been kinda looking out for her, but she has been very reclusive since coming back. She doesn't get out much, every time I see her, she seems to be in a hurry, afraid of her own shadow."~ That had been my impression also, recalling how she made obvious efforts in keeping Blade between us, on the beach and parking lot last night.

Having used up all morning in chatting with Mendoza, looking over the small shanty, and taking care of the legalities involved, I had acquired an appetite. I offerred to buy him lunch, but he declined saying, he had to check with Wrenna about what she was having placed on her menu's, and ordering meat and produce from the local distributors. He wasn't sure about exactly what day she had planned her 'Grand Opening', but he needed a couple of days to make preparation for it.

Giving each other a friendly hug, he walked toward his car and grinning at me said,"Won't do to have a grand opening and not have any food to serve." We waved our goodbyes, and I headed back to the dinerfor lunch. Knowing I would get Sally's table, if I had to wait on it, I was NOT gonna be served by whatsername!!

I was tickled pink about finding the little cabin, it was a place where I could kick back, write a few songs, and keep my hungry dick out of trouble.

 

[Niamh]

Wrenna Mallory

"The hardest part of the whole enterprise has been getting the staff together," Wren said with a smile, idly circling the rim of her coffee cup with one finger. "You can do quite a lot long-distance, but hiring is not one of them. I really felt I had to use people I knew. And luckily two old friends from cooking school happened to be looking for jobs when I first started searching. Fernando and Timmy will be our head chef and our evening chef, and will drive down from San Francisco this weekend. Then we have to get our servers hired...and a bar tender...." She shrugged. "It's a lot to do. And everyone has to be trained."

The sun was higher now. Its rays, filtered through the window, brought out the bright red highlights in her hair. She was starting to warm up, in every way. She felt easier with Bill now that she had asked him her questions. Of course, his answers had both lifted and dashed her hopes. Clearly he had had his fill of the restaurant business. On the tour of The Compass Rose, he had been very supportive of her ideas and had seemed to genuinely be impressed with all she had planned. He had not asked her for a job, however. Nor did she have the feeling he would unreservedly accept if she offered him one.

Not that she planned to, of course. She was not the world’s best businesswoman, but even she knew that physical attraction was a poor reason for hiring someone. And romance with an employee? Recipe for disaster, Compass Rose style. Of course, there was no romance with Bill on the horizon. Or...was there?

"The menu has been worked out long distance with Fernando and Timmy -- you should have seen my phone bill! -- and has kind of an international flavour . The mainstay of the menu is a selection of Mexican seafood dishes like Seafood Flautas and our signature Mixed Ocean Grill in Corn Husks – but with dashes of the Old World thrown in too...and some nice Cajun stuff ...."

Bill was nodding his head politely, but she had the distinct feeling that cooking was not his real interest. "I’ve let both Fernando and Timmy choose their own assistants, and my Nana has...umm...gotten Manelito Mendoza from the Buccaneer Barbecue to help out at the grill at lunchtime." She found herself shaking her head. I will never forgive Nana for hiring that crazy man. "I think he’ll be coming by in the morning. If nothing else, he will be worth taking snapshots of to show the folks at home if you're still here tomorrow. He’s...kind of colourful."

"If you're still here tomorrow...the folks back home." Just go ahead and beg him not to leave you, Wren, why don't you! You sound like a desperate woman. Stop!

As her voice died away and she realised she had been talking for almost two hours, she felt the old flutter of panic taking hold of her again. The unreasonable, completely unjustified panic that she felt every time she realised that Bill was only passing through, and that the possibilities she had self-indulgently allowed herself to ponder through the dark hours of the night would almost certainly never come to pass. She hated women who thought the way she was thinking now. She hated wanting to hold onto someone just because he was there; just because she did not want to face her new life alone; just because she wanted a few precious days of human companionship.

It was not as though she were in love with Bill. She did not even know the man he had become. But they had a shared history, and that bond was a hard one to dismiss with a cheery "Great to see you, Bill!" at the end of the day. And it could be tonight that she had to say it, she realised. He had never said that he would stay over again. For all she knew, he might have plans to move on after breakfast.

Will you paste this short space of time with me into your memory like a snapshot taken with a cheap camera? Bad lighting...bad composition...just a spur of the moment shot of something that caught your eye. "I had one shot left to finish out the roll." One shot left.

She took a deep breath and smiled. "If you don’t have plans elsewhere tonight, I was thinking we might have a picnic on the beach. Or...maybe you need to be heading out?"

I make the best clam fritters on the whole Central Coast. Say yes. Please?

 

[AngelicVixxxen]

Calla

Several times she had driven up and down Main Street and beyond, searching for it. She had walked up and down every street in Spyglass Cove, looking for it. She had scanned the ads, made phone calls, and questioned friends and strangers, trying to find it. She knew that it was nearby, but for some reason it was being annoyingly elusive. In the end, it was the sea that led her to it.

The bright yellow sea kayak glided silently through the fairly calm water on the bright California day, leaving barely a ripple in its wake. It had been the first purchase Calla had made upon her return and she made every effort to take it out for at least an hour a day, her starting point being Nana’s house where it was stored. A few times she had been so far out that she had been thrilled by the presence of the dolphins playing around her, but this time she paddled closer to shore... intent on her mission.

She passed The Compass Rose and could see a couple of vehicles in the parking lot, perhaps belonging to people making deliveries. She hoped that the lot soon would be crowded with cars belonging to happy, friendly customers who would tell all their friends about the wonderful little restaurant by the sea. The Rose disappeared from sight as she slipped past a rocky outcrop.

Her search for a suitable house was proving frustrating. One that she had been eyeing for a few days had been snapped up just this morning before she had a chance to check out the interior. She sighed, examining the houses and cabins as she passed them slowly... making a decision quickly was something she had forgotten to do, and she knew that she needed to change this behaviour or she was going to lose out on everything that she wanted.

She would have missed it if a seagull hadn’t left his calling card on the kayak at that precise moment. As she glared up at him, she saw it. Sitting back from the shore and almost hidden among the trees, the large log house looked abandoned and forlorn. No one appeared to be home, so she decided to investigate and cautiously paddled closer, calling out Hello? several times. All was quiet as she stepped out of the kayak and dragged it up onto the shore. She circled the house, peeking in the windows that she could reach, and could see that it was badly in need of repair. But that was all right... after all, she had books and tools! Okay, so the house in Vermont never needed this kind of work. If I can’t do it, I’m sure I can find the right combination of brain and brawn to help me.

She walked around to the other side and followed the overgrown dirt track several hundred feet until she came out onto the main road leading into Spyglass Cove. No wonder I never saw this road... it’s almost completely hidden! She smiled at the thought as she walked back to the house, but her smile was quickly replaced by a worried frown when she realized she didn’t know who owned this house or if it was even for sale. This is mine... I just know it is. It’s within walking distance of everything, it’s quiet, it’s hidden, there’s a lot of room for Blade… it’s perfect!

She wanted to abandon the kayak and walk, or run, into town right away to stake her claim but had to go back the same way she had come. In her impatient state, the relatively short trip seemed to take forever.

*****
Hours later, after much investigation, she had discovered that the owner had died last year and his son had delayed putting the house on the market because he thought he might commute and spend weekends in Spyglass Cove. She had caught him at a good time for he had been laid off work recently and was now more than willing to sell. The price was so low that it was almost obscene... a good thing, too, considering what it was going to cost to give it a new life. Calla knew she would have no difficulty renting the house if her future took her down a road leading away from Spyglass Cove, but for now it felt like the right thing to do and she was happy and at peace.

She was growing up, unfurling her wings, preparing to fly.

 

[darrenfate]

Peter

Peter gathered his two blue journals, his fully sharpened yellow pencils and headed for the local diner to write. In his first few weeks of learning to write prose, he had come to find out a few things about himself.

One was that he did his best writing surrounded by other people in a public setting. Another was to always leave with a good idea yet unwritten. It was far easier to start up again with a beginning point.

He wrote when he awoke, and always quit about 4 pm. He frequented a seedy local bar never talking to anyone, just observing all that went on around him. Tonight, he saw the two sisters set up what he called the Venus Fly Trap . The first woman was short, with a dark tan. The other, about the same height obviously had had plastic surgery. Her face was shiny and drawn impossibly tight like packed snow on a tobaggon run. No one else seemed to notice. They both wore the same outfit night after night. Tight black tops with plunging necklines and designer jeans. They would come in and sit at the bar one empty seat between them. They drank little at first, until they they could lure a man to buy their drinks for them.

Then they drank heavily as the unwitting man was led to sit between them. Of course there were those rare occasions when two men fell into their web, bit that is another story. What did it all cost them? A blowjob in a pickup truck at most, by the darker one, usually. Life Bret thought played on.

That night on his way back to the hotel he walked slowly by a new place that was due to open A Compass Rose . He was dissatisfied with writing at the diner. He needed a better foundation for his alcohol. Bret pressed his face up to the glass and saw that this place looked perfectly suited for him. He knew that he would try it out on its first day ...

 

[captainb]

Bill

Bill gave a great stretch in the beam of sunlight that had broken through the clouds. He put on his sunglasses, then looked at the paper in his hand. She’d offered him clam fritters. How could he refuse that? Her face had lit up when he had agreed to the picnic. Bill had explained that he wasn’t on a particular timetable. This trip was all about floating wherever his impulse and the bus schedules led him. Like to you on the beach, he thought as she swept up the dishes with practiced efficiency. He watched her as she went to the kitchen, noting the smooth figure-eight movement of her rear with each step. He’d always had a memory of affection for Wren, even an unevolved attraction for her. But they had been barely out of childhood, and he had never had graphic thoughts of her, or her body, or of kissing her. Not until now.

The arrival of a moving van woke Wren up more than a whole pot of coffee. The furniture had arrived early, and suddenly she was everywhere directing traffic as tables, chairs, and equipment were unloaded into the restaurant. Bill found himself backing up several times to avoid the workmen, and after one particularly baleful glare he told Wren he was going into town for a while. She asked him to wait and picked up a pad and paper, then was interrupted by a new arrival, quickly introduced as Mendoza, the lunch cook. The Mexican was friendly enough, but he quickly turned and jumped into the competition for Wren's attention. She pressed a list into Bill’s hands and asked if he wouldn’t mind picking up a few things and charging it to the Compass Rose account and to take his time and no the hutch goes there…

The relative silence of the street was a welcome change as he started towards town. He felt an odd twinge of disbelief at the way things were turning out. An evening picnic on the beach. Wren really seemed to be enjoying his company. He certainly liked talking to her. She was familiar enough to get past the awkwardness, but mysterious enough to excite him. I’ve changed a hell of a lot, too. We’re so much more than our brief memories of the other. Women can lust just as much as men, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. That was the part he knew was true, yet he was always taken by surprise at it. But the evidence was there. His view of the two sisters making love. The sight of her body backlit through the thin cotton nightgown. Did she know how much I could see? It’s her outfit, wouldn’t she know? And if she did know… He saw the way her eyes stayed on him, the way she touched her hair, the little body-language symbols that sent a rapidly crystallizing message. I might get laid tonight, he chuckled with amazement. Yeah, right. Just like in Frisco. An image of warm blue eyes appeared. Their warmth had faded so quickly. and he wondered again about the little yellow bus.

A tall dark-haired woman was striding toward town on the opposite side of the street. He noticed her body first, then saw the smile on her face. Her obvious happiness touched his, and he arrived at main street feeling alive, and looked up and down the street as if for the first time. He stopped at a couple of stores to pick up the last-minute things on her short list, taking his time. By the time he finished, it was about noon and he was hungry. Nothing he'd bought was perishable, so he turned towards the diner. He noted the van from the parking lot was parked outside, and scanned the room as he entered. It was a fair crowd, considering it was lunchtime. There were two men inside with full beards, but he couldn’t be sure either was the driver.

After a light meal, he walked up the road a bit, looking for a familiar street. It took an hour before he stood outside what he was pretty sure had been his family’s house. The new coat of paint had thrown him off, but aside from that it looked surprisingly the same. He waited for some kind of feeling, some sense of happy recollection to arise, but felt nothing. It was just a house, there was nothing of his life remaining there. He felt oddly relieved, and continued through town following the outer streets. By mid-afternoon he had completed his exploration of the inner town and was thirsty. A stop at the general store yielded an ice-cold bottle of Coke, and he stood on the main street intersection yet again, watching the cars and people pass. At the end of the street he could just make out the side of the Compass Rose peeking out. He gazed at it as he sipped, wondering at the odds that someone would have the chance to relive part of his past life, and what might be done differently.

 

[Niamh]

OOC to Everyone

Unfortunately, I have fallen ill with a most virulent bug which refuses to let go of me. Please accept my apologies, but I doubt I will be able to post for some days yet. By all means feel free to write around me. The Compass Rose is very dear to my heart, and you will greatly speed my recovery if you do not let her sink into oblivion. Many thanks in advance, both to my fellow writers and to those who are reading along. *~* Niamh

 

[Huntress]

Maureen

Sometime during the hours she had spent becoming acquainted with her landlady, filling out the rental application, sipping tea and eating buttery, crumbly pecan sandies and signing the lease for her little cottage, the morning fog had retreated out to sea. Maureen squinted as she emerged from Mrs. Burroughs' dim entryway into glaring sunlight which now baking the oft-painted floorboards of the front porch. She considered her options for a moment and decided to risk a breech of etiquette by removing her heavy pullover right there rather than leave it on and endure what would certainly be a sticky, uncomfortable walk back to the hotel. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was out of the ladies’ line of sight through the living room windows she quickly drew the bulky sweater over her head and tossed it over her arm, unconsciously smoothing her off-white linen blouse and hair as she descended the steps and walked to the gate. She hesitated for a moment at the end of the front walk. There was really no reason to return to the hotel and on such a glorious day, the idea of staying inside was simply intolerable. “Wait a minute. There was something else I wanted to do today. Another place I wanted to check out. Oh, that’s right… The Compass Rose.” Pushing open the gate, Maureen turned toward the beach and strode down the tree lined street smiling as a growing sense of purpose and lightness of spirit she hadn’t felt for ages welled up inside her.

A hundred years before, some enterprising sea captain and a couple of scheming nurserymen had introduced eucalyptus trees to California in response to hardwood shortages and increasing demands for lumber in the state. The effort was supported by various government agencies and the University of California, even luminaries such as Jack London, who planted 100,000 blue gums on his ranch in Sonoma, endorsed it’s propagation. Unfortunately the “eucalyptus boom” was a bust. The lumber produced by these fast growing trees was not suitable for home building or furniture manufacturing because the wood warped, cracked, twisted, and became too tough once cured and it was found that the projected enormous yields would take many more years to be realized. By the time these dismaying facts were recognized, over twenty three thousand acres of California’s land had been planted with the Australian immigrant.

Spyglass Cove was no exception. Stands of towering, fifty year old blue gums served as windbreaks and shade trees throughout the town and lined almost the entire length of Main Street beginning at the highway. Here at it’s westernmost end, they gave way to native trees; gnarled, grey-barked cypress and Monterey pines, whose aromatic resins filled the early afternoon air with a crisp, pungent fragrance. Sunbeams filtered through the sparse, dark canopy of needles and twisted branches along the path leading toward the beach creating complicated lacework shadows. Maureen inhaled deeply and slowed her pace. She could see a stretch of sand in the distance beyond the bluff framed by knobby trunks. It was for this, the landscape with it’s bent and wizened trees, the sharp scent of pine carried on a sea breeze with an underlying tang of kelp and saltwater, the feeling of freedom she always experienced so near the ocean, that she’d come to Spyglass Cove.

A sudden movement in the periphery of her vision drew her attention, reconnecting thoughts to present surroundings. She’d stopped at the corner of a split rail fence bordering a parking lot where a moving van was backed up to the broad veranda of what might once have been a large house. It soon became evident from the quantity of tables and chairs being unloaded that there was more than a household’s worth of furnishings in the truck. Just visible above the top of the trailer was a sign hanger. Although Maureen couldn't make out what was painted on it, she had little doubt that she’d just found The Compass Rose.

Given the obvious European charm of the furniture, it was clear Mr. W. Mallory had excellent taste. He’d also chosen an outstanding location for his new restaurant. She wondered if the décor was just a gimmick to lure the tourists away from the center of town or if the fare would be as remarkable as the fittings. If the menu was appealing and there were still openings for staff, The Compass Rose might just well provide her with an ideal employment opportunity.

“Only one way to find out, Mo. Just get yourself up there and ask.”

Prodded by curiosity and eager to find out about possible job openings, Maureen crossed the parking lot and stepped onto the wide veranda. She didn't want to interfere with the men who were emptying the van or disrupt the activity by just inviting herself in, she moved toward a large bay window which might afford her an unobstructed view of the interior. The varying mirrored effect of light and shadow playing across the glass made it impossible to see directly inside the building so she shaded her view with one hand and peered through a pane, watching as the movers carefully placed tables and chairs about the left side dining room. Their movements appeared to be well orchestrated and that didn’t happen without specific plan or direction. She suspected Mr. Mallory was somewhere nearby overseeing the arrangement. “Well, where is he?”

As she turned to look right, she was startled by a pair of enormous eyes looking straight back at her from a distinctly feminine countenance. She jerked her head away from the window as though she'd been burned, although the only heat she felt at that moment was the familiar crimson of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. Rather suddenly she realized she'd probably made a huge error about W. Mallory's gender and responded to the to the woman’s curious stare and puzzled expression with a slightly sheepish grin.

On impulse, she mouthed a question through the glass and pointed at the dining room.

“Are you hiring?”

 

[AngelicVixxxen]

Calla

It was a toss-up as to whether elation or panic would win, and for a few moments they were running neck and neck.

One minute Calla was floating on air when she thought of the log house that was now hers, and the next minute she was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. Oh... my... God. I’ve got a mortgage again! How the hell did that happen?! It was unfortunate that she was in front of the diner on Main Street when all semblance of sanity deserted her, and in the ensuing wave of dizziness she tripped over Blade and sat on him. His four legs splayed in all directions as he collapsed on the pavement with a loud moan.

Rolling away as soon as she was able to gather a few of her remaining wits, Calla eyed every possible escape route hoping that no one had witnessed her little misadventure. Damn, was that Wrenna’s friend, Bill, across the street?! And that guy in the van passing by looked like the one the other night on the shore! People suddenly appeared from all directions and several hands helped her up as she was bombarded with concerned questions. The next thing she knew, she was seated in the diner accepting a glass of cold water. Well, I wanted to meet some of the citizens of Spyglass Cove, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind! Blade, having recovered with no ill-effects, was enjoying the attention being lavished upon him... and the greasy hamburger which he wolfed down in two gulps.

After promises that she was fine and, yes, she’d come back soon, Calla sidled towards the door armed with a couple of recipes and invitations to a barbecue and a baseball game. Aiming her car towards the house, she muttered to herself, Well, wasn’t that a lovely impression that I just made? She blushed as she tried to imagine how she had looked, sitting there on the pavement with her dress bunched up around her thighs. She groaned in embarrassment, hoping that no one had thought she was drunk.

Although this was her third trip to the house today, the path off the road was so well-concealed that she drove right past it and had to make a U-turn. The small inconvenience only made her smile because she knew how difficult it would be for anyone to find her; unfortunately, this included her welcome visitors so she’d have to devise some type of marker for them.

Everything had worked out so smoothly regarding the house… a little too smoothly, she thought suspiciously. I wonder what’s going to go wrong. Although the closing date was still a month away, the owner had agreed to let her rent the house during that time and use anything that was in it. Her lease on the other house ended in two weeks, so she wasn’t out very much money.

Dragging a couple of suitcases inside, she gave Blade a dirty look and wished that he would grow a couple of arms so that he could help out a bit. He thought it was all a lovely game and seemed to revel in leaping back and forth in front of her as she struggled with several boxes containing books. Finally, she showed the dog where his water was, poured a glass of white wine, and wearily made her way into the Great Room dragging her backpack in her other hand. Sinking down into a huge plush recliner that she had every intention of buying from the owner, she stared out through the wall-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water and smiled at the beautiful sight.

“Bella Vista... that’s what I’ll call my house. It’s not a home yet, but it will be!”

Feeling inspired, she grabbed a scrap of paper from her backpack and wrote “TO DO”, followed by:

1. Take California driver’s test; get license!!! [She shuddered at the thought of her 3,000 mile trip from Miami without a valid driver’s license, car insurance, or vehicle registration.]
2. Move over the rest of the books and pathetically few possessions.
3. Buy a bed, table and sofa to start with.
4. Buy a car legally and ditch the other one somewhere. A quarry???
5. Take recipes over to Wrenna and offer to help prepare something special on opening night.
6. Invite the veterinarian to the barbecue. Yeah, right!
7. Find a phone book at see if Sean still lives in Spyglass Cove.

She didn’t know what made her think of Sean just then. He was the only other man she had ever loved, and a stupid argument they had when she was 23 was the reason she had left the village. She wondered if he had ever married and had children, but most of all she wondered if he had ever thought about her in the past 11 years. She sighed as she tried to decide whether or not to cross off no. 7. Maybe some things are best left alone.

 

[photographer]

Harve

Harve, refreshed, coffee mug steaming, disengaged the auto-pilot and eased Nashanabe into a slow turn.

"I know, Nash, a wasted night! Don't nag! Didn't feel like working. OK?"

The old boat pitched in the swell, indicating her disappointment over a wasted night on the ocean.

"Awww, come on, Nash - we all need some time off every so often."

She rolled, making Harve stumble at the wheel and splash hot coffee over himself.

"Ohhh baby! In a mood are we?" He laughed.

He set a heading back to the coast, letting the GPS and Sat Nav retrace his night-time course. Soon, the headlands of Spyglass Cove were visible on the horizon.

Making a sudden decision, Harve took control and headed for the jetty beneath the restaurant he had noticed the day before.
The Nashanabe puttered slowly into the jetty, Harve watching the depth sounder anxiously, but there was plenty of water beneath the hull and in minutes he had cut the engines and drifted alongside the wooden jetty.

He expertly lassoed the one and only bollard and warped Nashanabe against the pier with two diagonal lines, securing her.

He stepped ashore and stretched.

"Now you be good. No mischief while I'm away!"

He smiled and chuckled as he negotiated the steep path up to the building, wondering at his sanity in talking to his boat as if she was a real person.

As he reached the top, he saw the sign board "The Compass Rose".

He laughed again to himself. "And how high did it rise, I ask myself!"

He turned and shouted down to the jetty:
"If anyone else arrives - tell them to piss off - WE have the jetty. OK?"

He stumped up the steps and walked into the large room. Two women were holding a sign language conversation through the window.

He went back outside and approached the dark-haired woman who was mouthing with exaggerated facial expressions to the woman inside.

"It'll be a hell of a lot easier if you just go inside. Follow me."

He turned and walked back, the young lady following. With a bow, he ushered her into the Compass Rose.

"This, my dear, is a door. It allows free entry into the building. There is absolutely no need to stand outside and make a complete idiot of yourself."

He looked around at the tables and chairs. All unoccupied.
Selecting one, he drew the chair out and sat down.

He watched the ladies talking for a minute or two, getting impatient. Being ignored was not one of his favourite experiences.

"HEY!"

Two heads turned, startled.

"Breakfast!"

Eyes opened wide in two female heads, good looking women too, but he was too starved to worry about looks right now.

"Or must I make it myself? It would certainly be a lot quicker than the service around here!"

 

[artful]

J. W.

Gawking at the people now crowding the broad sidewalk in front of the shops, I nearly passed by the little diner. The only thing that prevented me driving right by it, was the acrobatics performed by Calla whats-er-name, the woman I had met last night on the beach.

I wouldn't have recognised her, but for Blade. Laughing to myself at the picture of her trim legs flailing in the air, as she tumbled over Blade, I knew JUST how she felt. Parking the van, I stopped to scratch the big dog behind his ears before entering the diner. His tail wagging back and forth actively, he rubbed against my leg in the same manner that had caused the similar mishap with me last night.

Giving him a final pat on on the side of his neck, I stepped inside to wash my hands before sitting down. The place was packed, and a small group of concerned people, had formed about Calla asking questions,...making sure she was allright. I strolled past as she lifted a glass of water to her lips, and noticed how the scar had turned a bright pink in her excited state. It somehow didn't appear to be a mar,...but adorned her as a beauty mark,...a natural formation to compliment her complexion.

After taking care of unpleasantries, and washing up, I walked back in to find many customers had cleared out,... evidently taking Calla with them. Sitting at Sally's table, we bantered a bit in between her trips back and forth, and soon,I could no longer find a plausible excuse to sit there.

Leaving her a tip and paying the check, she waved bye to me as I exited the door saying, "Come back Sweetie! and soon." I nodded my affirmation to her as I waved bye, and stepped out in the narrow foyer. I then headed to my new home, to unpack the van and get settled in!

 

[captainb]

Bill

The moving truck drove past Bill with a wave as he wandered back up the dead-end road. A couple of figures were still moving behind the windows of the Compass Rose, but it was hard to make out much more against the reflection. He skirted around the building and stopped at the top of the wooden stairway, looking in surprise at the boat tied up at the bottom. It was pretty old and looked like it had plowed through some pretty serious seas in its time. There didn’t seem to be any crew around. Maybe they were in the Rose? Fresh fish delivery? That didn’t seem too likely, he thought as he descended the steps.

It was a wooden boat, named Nashanabe. From a distance it looked picturesque. The scrapes and stains showed up close, but there was also evidence of care. The ropes and netting were carefully coiled and stored on deck, and the stains were due to age, not deterioration. Bill walked along the dock along the boat’s length, stopping with a smile as he saw the old guitar lying on a bench near the wheel. Another ancient item, not polished like a showpiece but shining from years of use. A wave rocked the Nashanabe and its tire bumpers bounced against the jetty, a rhythmic splash of white spray peaking and fading within a few moments.

He stood for a few minutes, riding the slowly rolling wharf like a bongo board, then walked back up the stairs and circled the house again, arriving at the front door. He pushed it open and found Wren talking earnestly with an older man sitting at a table. Bill knew in an instant that he was from the boat. He would have known even if they had met on a bus in Nebraska. The wind and sea had weathered his face, and his fingers that gestured with an old curved pipe were thick and strong.

A woman stood behind them, looking at the pictures on the walls. She glanced at Bill as he came in and smiled. He returned the smile, recognizing her from earlier on the street. Striking, he thought again, as she looked from him to Wren and back a little uncertainly. She was dressed casually but smart, with her purse over one shoulder and a sweater folded over her arm. Feeling a sense of business goings-on, he nodded politely and moved towards the kitchen. Boxes were piled in the corner and on counters, a few opened showing glassware and Compass Rose dinnerware. He found an old cup in a cabinet and opened the refrigerator, looking for iced tea or something. When he straightened up from behind the door, the woman was standing at the kitchen entrance.

“Hi,” she said. His first impression was that she was nervous, but she washed it away with a bright smile and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Maureen Catlin. I was just talking with Ms. Mallory, but she got a bit sidetracked. Am I bothering you?”

“No, not at all,” said Bill, releasing her hand. “I'm Bill Davis. Would you like something to drink?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, thank you.” She brushed her dark hair back and smiled again, her blue eyes large and shining. “I was wondering, would you know if there are any positions open here?”

Bill leaned against the counter. "Well, I'm pretty sure Wren's still looking for some wait-staff. Wren, that's Wrenna Mallory. She's got the kitchen angle taken care of, I think. Have you worked in restaurants before?" he asked with a not-unpleasant sense of deja vu. He sipped at his drink. "You sure you're not thirsty?"

 

[Niamh]

Wrenna Mallory

"I have been jostled by a jangling piano until my hips are black and blue; I have been forcibly taught the opening measures of the tango by a peg-legged Mexican fry-cook brandishing a fish-skewer between his teeth, and if you think, Sir, that I am likely to be intimidated by your bellicose insistence that breakfast be served forthwith, then I fear that one of us is seriously delusional. And it is not, I hasten to add, me."

For ten minutes she had been expostulating with the newcomer. She was not sure he was in possession of all his faculties. However many times she told him that The Compass Rose was still under construction, even gesturing around her at the various crates and boxes still unpacked, the furniture with delivery-tags still attached, he still did not seem to get the message. He continued to demand breakfast, and Wrenna’s cordiality diminished with every passing minute. She was hot, and flushed, and the sunlight glaring through the glass was giving her a headache. She felt increasingly dizzy and as the minutes ticked by, her voice became more shrill.

Usually Wrenna would have been more circumspect, even to an intruder as strange and rude as the quarrelsome old salt who now occupied one of her freshly-delivered tables, spreading a most unsavoury smell of fish and tar throughout The Compass Rose. Unfortunately, her professional demeanour had been rumpled as badly as her linen dress during the course of the morning’s happenings: the advent of Mendoza especially had tried her patience. It was no wonder that Barnacle Joe had been so keen to be rid of the man. His ideas for lunch-time entertainment alone would have been grounds for summary termination (if not arrest) in any civilised society. ("My dear Mr. Mendoza, though I thank you sincerely for your desire to put The Compass Rose on the map I do not really think that our insurance policy would cover such proposed diversions as selecting a diner at random and rewarding him with a free lobster dinner if he survives your attempts to outline his silhouette on the back wall with a selection of cleavers!")

It was clear that Nana possessed a sadistic sense of humour. Nothing else could possibly account for her having hired such a person as Mendoza to man the grill. Wrenna was distractedly trying to frame some sort of scheme to get rid of the man (preferably by means that would not get her a life sentence) when she was startled by a dark-haired woman making faces at her through the window. A few awkward seconds had passed before Wren grasped the fact that the woman was trying to communicate with her; she was posing a question of some kind. It seemed to be Are you hiding?

Which probably meant that Mendoza was still out there, circling the restaurant like a shark. Wrenna’s heart sank, and she motioned earnestly for the woman to go away. She did not think any unaccompanied female was safe with Mendoza on the loose. She could still feel the heat of his breath against her cheek as he crushed her body against his and took off with her in an impromptu caminata across the newly-waxed wooden floor. The famed "peg leg" of Calla's memories had been thrust painfully against her belly as he deftly maneuvered her through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. Faced with so much unabashed virility, she had been too appalled to speak. She had, however, been conscious of Bill at the corner of her vision, and had tried without success to make eye contact. She certainly had not wanted him to go, and would have told him so if Mendoza had not chosen that very moment to fling her backwards over his brawny arm, as effortlessly as if she had been made of silk.

All of this had happened hours ago, of course. Bill was back now, thankfully. He had taken charge of the dark-haired woman in the kitchen and was presumably finding out what it was that she wanted. She was grateful to him for that. It left her free to deal with the cantankerous old sailor who could not seem to grasp the fact that The Compass Rose would not be open for at least another week.

Wrenna squared her shoulders and imagined the Crimefighters page that would appear tomorrow morning in The Spyglass Cove Gazette:

1:53pm. Pugnacious individual of indeterminate age and nationality forcibly enters Compass Rose on Main Street with woman (hostage?) in tow and demands breakfast.

"I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, Mister," said Wren to her unwelcome guest, looking straight at him with a flush of anger rising to her cheeks. "But this restaurant is not open for business, and no amount of caterwauling on your part is going to change that. If you would like a cup of coffee, I will be happy to get you one for the road. But when you have finished it, I want you and your tugboat off of my property. Got it?"

Suddenly she went pale. She turned her head and looked out the window at the Nashanabe. It couldn’t be. But it was! The same beautiful, graceful lines; the same air of noble age. This was the ship she had been admiring through the window all yesterday. This was the captain she had made up so many romantic stories about. The cruelty of her delusions hit her like a gale-force wind.

It was all too much for one day. Wren’s eyelids fluttered. A second later she had collapsed in a heap at the strange man’s feet, out cold.

"I always did know how to make an impression," said the sailor to no one in particular. "Now where the hell is my breakfast?"


OOC TO EVERYONE Profound and heartfelt thanks to all of you for your valiant efforts while I was ill. You certainly did not let The Compass Rose flounder. In fact, I could hardly catch up with you!!! Kisses and hugs and much gratitude *~* Niamh

 

[Huntress]

Maureen

Her pantomimed exchange with the woman on the other side of the window was cut short by the unexpected sound of a man’s voice. "It'll be a hell of a lot easier if you just go inside. Follow me." Startled again, she flinched and turned toward the voice’s source, hands still raised to the glass, caught in mid-gesture, and stared blankly at him.

He stood not more than five feet away from her, with a pipe tucked into his shirt pocket and one corner of his mouth quirked into a semblance of a grin. It was clear from his complexion and garb that he spent a lot of time on the water and not solely for pleasure. His dungarees and shirt bore evidence of being exposed to rough duty as did the deep color and texture of his hands. Even his figure attested to a great familiarity with hard work. It was lean, even a bit wiry and without the slightest hint of the paunch which plagued most men of his age.

Despite his appearance being so incongruous with the present surroundings, Maureen never gave it second thought, so logical was his statement, his manner so cocky and self-assured. She found herself trotting right along to the entrance in his wake.

"This, my dear, is a door. It allows free entry into the building. There is absolutely no need to stand outside and make a complete idiot of yourself."

Her cheeks flushed and she opened her mouth to object but thought better of it as the fellow boldly entered the dining room and made himself comfortable at the nearest table. She wasn’t sure if she should apologize for his impertinence or pretend he didn’t exist and find a polite but rapid means of extricating herself from the embarrassing situation. Maureen quickly decided that she was not responsible for the old salt’s behavior and it was better to ignore him completely. After all, she had a valid reason for being here and refused to be thwarted by someone who obviously needed exposure to an etiquette primer before he was fit for public consumption. With a renewed sense of determination, she strode to the window where her former sign-language partner stood staring at them incredulously and introduced herself.

“Hello, my name’s Maureen. I saw your advertisement in the local paper and since I’ve just rented a cottage up the street, I thought I’d stop by and make your acquaintance. I’m afraid I let my manners to take a back seat to my curiosity. I do apologize for the intrusion. I can see you’re really not in a position take social calls right now. Perhaps you’d allow me to come back in a couple of days when things are a little more settled?”

As she spoke, it was impossible to ignore the signs of stress on the woman’s face. Her large eyes were shadowed by deep blue under the pale skin and there was a bright pink spot on each cheek, a dead give-away to rising blood pressure. For a moment, Maureen’s latent maternal instincts nearly made her take the woman by the hand and sit her down with a cup of tea or suggest that she take a deep breath, count to ten, and exhale very slowly. Fortunately she was saved from proving the sailor’s assessment of her intelligence by a shout from across the room.

“HEY!”

Both Maureen and the woman turned to stare at the interloper.

“Breakfast. Or must I make it myself? It would certainly be a lot quicker than the service around here!”

A look of utter fury crossed the beautiful pale face beside her and suddenly Maureen was standing quite alone. The sailor however was getting his ears burned, and quite skillfully, she noted, by the young woman.

She sighed deeply. Well, she was only human and though she wished she’d gotten off to a better start with Ms. Mallory, perhaps the “captain’s” presence had actually been a blessing in disguise. He certainly had taken the spotlight. With any luck, W. Mallory would only have a dim memory that she’d come in with the fellow and not develop any negative attitudes toward Maureen as a result. She could always hope that was the case…

Just then a slender man wearing a red and grey flannel shirt and blue jeans sauntered through the dining room and went straight into the kitchen. He seemed awfully comfortable and familiar with the place which set Maureen to wondering again about the identity of W. Mallory.

“Murder! Just when I think I’ve got it all figured out, somebody throws a monkey wrench into the works! I’d better get this straightened out once and for all.”

Trying to ignore the scathing lecture being delivered to the captain, Maureen skirted round the other side of the room and made for the kitchen. She stopped just inside the doorway, looking for the man she’d seen only moments before. The place was a veritable warren; boxes stacked head high on counters and the floor, dishes half unwrapped and crates filled with canned goods and other non-perishable items scattered about the room. Even the large commercial oven had not been spared being pressed into service as temporary storage. The refrigerator seemed to be the only appliance which had been left relatively unaffected and sure enough, it was there she spied a pair of feet from under the door. Wanting to avoid startling the fellow and causing a catastrophe in the cramped space, she waited until he’d turned round and spotted her before she spoke.

“Hi. I’m Maureen Catlin,” she said, extending her hand to him. “I’ve just rented a cottage up the street and thought this was just too good an opportunity to pass up. Stopping in, I mean. It’s so close to home. I’m afraid my timing was rather poor.” She gestured toward the dining room with a smile. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He shook her hand firmly and introduced himself as Bill Davis, then offered her something to drink. She shook her head and said “No, thank you.” Hesitating briefly, she decided to push on and asked, “I was hoping to find out if all the staff positions had been filled. Do you know if there are any openings?”

Bill said something about Wrenna Mallory and having the kitchen staff taken care of. “Ah. W=Wrenna. Now I’ve got it.” It was his next question, “Have you worked in restaurants before?” that set her on edge. Suddenly she was aware of the absurdity of the situation. Here she was at her age, a time when she was supposed to have had everything figured out, looking for job. Something she hadn’t needed for so long and was so ill-prepared to seek out. Her smile felt pasted on at an odd angle as she caught the left side of her lower lip between her teeth and self-consciously brushed the hair back from her face. If she’d had just a little less concern about putting on a good face, the tears lurking behind her eyes wouldn’t have remained there long.

She looked down at the floor trying to gather up what composure she could get hold of when a loud thud sounded from the next room. She turned and saw Wrenna lying in a heap on the floor. It only took her a instant to react.

“Bill, find two or three dish towels – get them wet and be sure to use cold water, squeeze them out well and bring them to me.”

In ten strides, she was kneeling beside Wrenna, checking her pulse and smoothing her hair away from her pale face. Her pulse was a little faster than it should be, but seemed to be slowly returning to a normal rate. Bill appeared with several towels and an anxious look on his face. Maureen smiled at him, recognizing the tenderness and genuine concern and said, “Don’t worry, Bill. She’s probably just been overdoing it. Stress can literally knock you for a loop sometimes. Is there a sick room or some place where she can be made more comfortable?”

“Yeah, she lives upstairs. We can take her up to her room.”

“Good. And you, sir,” she barked at the captain, “You can help us take her there.” With a meaningful glare in his direction, she stood aside so that he and Bill could lift Wrenna’s unconscious body and carry her to the upper floor.

Maureen shook her head as she followed the odd trio up the stairs, the cold wet towels in her hand dripped profusely leaving behind a trail of water spots on the steps, and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“I prayed real hard. I asked for a fresh start and a bit of adventure. If this is Your idea of the best way to answer my prayers, You have a very weird sense of humor.”

 

[photographer]

Harve

"I have been jostled by a jangling piano until my hips are black and blue; I have been forcibly taught the opening measures of the tango by a peg-legged Mexican fry-cook brandishing a fish-skewer between his teeth, and if you think, Sir, that I am likely to be intimidated by your bellicose insistence that breakfast be served forthwith, then I fear that one of us is seriously delusional. And it is not, I hasten to add, me."

Harve battled to keep a straight face. This lovely young woman, cheeks flushed, standing so aggressively before him, letting him have it from both barrels was a joy to behold.

"I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, Mister," said Wren to her unwelcome guest, looking straight at him with a flush of anger rising to her cheeks. "But this restaurant is not open for business, and no amount of caterwauling on your part is going to change that. If you would like a cup of coffee, I will be happy to get you one for the road. But when you have finished it, I want you and your tugboat off of my property. Got it?"


"Tugboat! TUGBOAT!!!!! Madam!" he roared "THAT IS NOT A TUGBOAT! She is my home, my friend, my life and my livelihood. She is the good ship Nashanabe. She is old, mature, beautiful and willing to go wherever I ask her too. And you call her a damned tugboat!!???. You have no soul! And I have no breakfast!! ........... Oh, and let me say, young lady, without fear of contradiction, you are really beautiful when you're angry! And another thing ....... I am NOT caterwauling!"

She took a deep breath, about to berate him again, when her eyes suddenly widened and she turned to look out of the window. Her angrily flushed cheeks paled dramatically. She stared for a moment at the boat by the jetty, turned to face Harve and slowly and quite gracefully, crumpled to the floor on the other side of the table in a dead faint.

"I've heard of the term 'drop-dead gorgeous', but this is ridiculous"

Harve muttered the words to no-one in particular as he leapt from his chair, pushing it back with such force that it toppled backwards. As he moved around the table to help, the dark-haired sign-language lady appeared and immediately took charge. She was followed by a young man holding a couple of dripping dish towels.

The two of them ministered to the collapsed lady on the floor. They arranged to move her upstairs where she could recover and rest. Harve moved back, comfortable in the knowledge that she was in good hands. No sooner had he stood up, the dark-haired lady almost snarled at him, blue eyes flashing.

"And you, sir, you can help us take her there."

Harve grasped a pair of trim and shapely ankles and helped to lift and carry the unconcious young lady up the stairs to her room. The two men laid her gently on the bed. Harve gently pulled a coverlet over her. Ushered out of the room by the dark-haired woman, Harve couldn't resist one last parting shot .....

"I suppose a bite to eat right now is out of the question?"

The young man, already half-way down the stairs, turned and looked back to Harve, starting to laugh as he realised that Harve had been teasing the entire population of the Compass Rose since his arrival. Harve put a finger to his lips, silently asking the young man to go along with him. Harve received a quick nod of understanding from the man as he turned and continued down the stairs.

Harve smiled to himself and turned to face the flustered young lady at the bedroom door.

"Well? How about it? The boss-lady is out for the count, it looks like you've got the job, the cook is back in the kitchen, what could be simpler? Unless, of course, you'd rather I indicated my breakfast preferences by sign language!"

With that, Harve negotiated the stairs and returned to his table, righting the fallen chair and waiting ........

 

[artful]

J. W.

As I pulled up in front of my new home, placing the gear shift in park, I saw Mendoza leave The Compass Rose at a dead run, headed straight toward me. I laughed as I cut the ignition ,and got out to wait. He was bounding through the tall grass, as a frightened white tail deer would, in the middle of hunting season. His arms were cast high overhead, each time he leaped, to hurdle over a hindrance to his intended path.

His teeth flashed white, as the midafternoon sun struck his rugged brown features,just prior to his stepping into the shade of a somewhat squalid tree, which appeared dangerously close to actually being alive. He slowed to a walk, as he came out of the tall grass, and I thought to myself as he neared the house, "What IS it about Mexicans that give them such beautiful white teeth?"

He came up to me, threw one sweaty arm about my shoulder, gasping, nearly out of breath, and busted out in a prolonged fit of laughter. It was contagious,...I couldn't keep from joining him as, in between the bouts of riotious laughter, he said,"Let's go inside my friend,...I will tell you ALL about it."

After we had opened our beers, sitting at the small wooden breakfast table, Mendoza related the events that had transpired since we had parted earlier that day. At the end of his story, was where he lost control, and erupted in another fit of laughter."Oh yes I did J. W.!!!" The wailing sirens were piercingingly painful to my ears,even as we sat inside the cabin. The 'Ooooogah'....... 'Ooooogah' of the fire trucks, the bleeping ,'Woop
Woop Woop' of the ambulance, all raised to a high pitch at the same time, and seemingly were doused by the throwing of a single switch.

Mendoza had just finished telling me how, in order to get peoples attention to the fact of, The Rose being once more an active part of the community, he had used the opportunity of Wrenna collapsing in a faint, to dial 911. Walking out side, he had JUST relayed to me how the 911 conversation had been manipulated by him so he would NOT be held responsible for a FALSE alarm.

It went like this, "Yes Sir,...all I know is that the owner was knocked down, and I don't know whether the smoke is from the grill, or there is ACTUALLY a fire, but people DID rush upstairs, and one of the men that came back downstairs said plainly,"I wonder what in the hell she was doing with all those candles up there anyway."

"No sir,...my name is Mendoza, and they won't let me go upstairs to see,...one of the men told me everything is under control, and I am thinking maybe,...JUST maybe, ...they don't want BAD publicity about the restaurant, and they MAY be trying to put it out themselves without alerting anyone!" followed by, "No sir, I saw NO fire,...I am just letting you know SOMETHING bad is taking place here,...and I am LEAVING,...BYE!"

Mendoza fairly cracked up, as The Rose parking lot was soon filled with curious onlookers. I also laughed at the bustling activity on the same parking lot where I had spent a restful sleep as recently as last night.

 

[captainb]

Bill

In the confusion of caring for the unconscious Wrenna, Bill had been surprised yet had not reacted to see the Mexican watching them from the kitchen doorway. Must have been out back when we were in there, he thought in passing, then his attention turned back to keeping Wren’s butt from bouncing off the stairs. The captain (for want of anything better to call him; ‘seaman’ called to mind too many jokes) was almost tender as he covered Wren and turned away, letting Maureen lay the cold towels on her forehead. Bill started back down the stairs when the captain said, “"I suppose a bite to eat right now is out of the question?"

Unbelievable! Bill thought as he looked up in time to catch the other’s wink.

"Well? How about it?” said the captain, turning back Maureen. “The boss-lady is out for the count, it looks like you've got the job, the cook is back in the kitchen, what could be simpler? Unless, of course, you'd rather I indicated my breakfast preferences by sign language!"

Bill rolled his eyes and went down the steps, followed by the captain who proceeded to sit right back at the table as if nothing had happened. Bill folded his arms and leaned in the doorway, looking up innocently at the woman still on the landing. Interesting how the balance of power had shifted in the last few minutes. From a battle of wills between Wren and the captain, to Maureen assuming command and Bill obeying before he even realized it, to the captain now putting her on the spot.

She looked back at Bill, as if expecting him to correct the “customer.” He just cocked one eyebrow back at her, then glanced at the captain, who may have been suppressing a smile behind his fiddling with his pipe. A sigh of exasperation came from the stairs, and she determinedly marched down with her eyes on the captain.

Whatever she was going to say was lost as the distant sirens suddenly grew louder. Three pairs of eyes turned to the window as a yellow fire truck ground to a halt in the parking lot, followed by an ambulance and another smaller truck. Bill glanced at the others then headed for the door as it was hurriedly opened.

“Did you report a fire?” a fireman asked him, his eyes scanning the room.

“No,” he said. “There’s no fire here. Nothing inside, at least.”

“We’ll still have a look, if that’s okay,” said the fireman, already moving to the kitchen.

“Sure,” Bill said to his back. Another man in a black and yellow coat entered and went up the stairs.

“There’s a woman resting up there, she’s not feeling well,” Maureen cautioned. He nodded and continued up.

Bill met the fire chief on the porch and explained that the only person who worked there was the owner, who was up in bed, and that there was certainly no fire inside. Other vehicles had arrived by now, several of them sporting blue flashing lights. There was also a growing crowd of onlookers, mostly standing behind the trucks, but some walking around the Compass Rose and looking at the renovations, and a few at the dock near the Nashanabe. The captain had wandered out and was standing at the top of the wooden stairs, keeping a stern eye on them as he puffed away at his pipe. By the time the chief had finished grilling Bill, the other firemen had returned shaking their heads.

“We don’t get many prank calls in this town,” the chief said, eyeing Bill and Maureen dubiously. “You ever hear of a fella named Mendoza?”

“Maybe,” Bill said. “Wrenna might have mentioned that name, but I can’t say for certain. There was somebody here earlier, he might have been Mexican or Spanish. I don’t know where he went or if it was him.” The chief looked at Maureen, but she shook her head.

The chief nodded. “Well, I think we know him. Have Miss Mallory give us a call when she wakes up, okay?”

Bill nodded, and the trucks started to drive away.

“Everything okay?” asked an older couple nearby. “False alarm, huh?” Bill nodded with a smile. “Are you folks open?”

“What are ye, daft?” croaked the captain as he came up behind them and pointed at the empty window. “Can’t ya read? They’re not open yet!” He gestured to Maureen and Bill. “Come back then and these folks’ll fix ya up with a pile o’ crab legs, but for now, they’ve still got unpacking to do.” With that, he trooped back through the door and sat at the table again. “Now, what does a soul have to do to get some service around here?”

 

[photographer]

Harve

The sound of sirens caused all three of them to turn to investigate. Harve was surprised and concerned as a firefighter entered the room.

“Did you report a fire?”

The two staff members responded negatively, causing Harve to leap off his chair and rush out to check on his prescious boat. It was with an enormous amount of relief that he saw all was well.

He stood out on the balcony rail, watching a multitude of official vehicles, sirens blaring, lights flashing, congregate in the lot, haphazardly parking.

Onlookers appeared as if by magic. One minute the place was all but deserted, the next, police, fire and ambulance vehicles followed almost immediately by curious thrill-seekers. A few of them, obviously disappointed at not being able to watch the Compass Rose burn down to the ground, headed for the jetty to investigate the Nashanabe.

Harve watched, pipe clenched between his teeth. A couple of people glanced up, noticing him, realising from his clothing and stance that he was the owner, and wisely chose not to investigate the boat any further.

Harve turned as an elderly couple approached the young man at the door, asking if the place was open.

“What are you, daft?” Harve pointed at the sign in the window: “Can’t you read? They’re not open yet!”

He glanced at the two young people in the doorway, pointing them out to the couple.

"But remember these two. They'll look after you like royalty when the place opens. I personally guarantee it."

"Oh!" the old lady said, smiling, "thank you! Are you the owner then?"

Harve smiled at them, his entire face lighting up, causing the old couple to smile back.

"No, dear friends, I'm not. This place is owned by a cranky, bad-tempered young woman who spends more time flat on her back than working towards getting the place open! But, I'm sure, when she finally returns to a vertical position, she'll put in an hour or two and open the joint in the next month or two!"

The old couple gasped, turning to each other with a bemused expression as Harve continued, gesturing to the staff.

“Come back then and these folks’ll fix ya up with a pile o’ crab legs, but for now, they’ve still got unpacking to do.”

Under his breath, he muttered: "Assuming they know where the hell to get the crab legs, that is...."

He eased himself around the people in the doorway and returned to 'his' table, catching the young, dark-haired woman's eye, “Now, dear girl, what does a soul have to do to get some service around here?”

She looked at him, wide-eyed with amazement that, after all the excitement of a fire call, with all the 911 services flooding the car park, he could still be intent on persuading, or bullying, her into providing him with a meal, and this after his bare-faced verbal assault on Wrenna's character!

 

[Huntress]

Maureen

"I suppose a bite to eat right now is out of the question?"

If looks could kill, Maureen’s glare would have dropped the captain right where he stood. He asked another question, but her temper was on the rise and she didn’t hear a thing. Lucky for the captain he had the good sense to leave the room just then because he avoided another scolding, this one wouldn't have been so eloquent as Wrenna's.

With a deep sigh that cleared away much of her infuriation she sat on the edge of the bed, folded one of the towels to a manageable size and gently laid it over Wrenna’s forehead. “Poor dear,” she thought. “You’re just wiped out.” She placed her fingers under the back of the young woman’s jaw and checked her pulse again. Steady and normal, the florid spots had gone from her cheeks and a healthier rose tinged the pale skin now. “Good,” she sighed. “I think we’ll just let you sleep a bit… while I deal with the captain.” Removing the cool towel, Maureen tucked the coverlet up under Wrenna’s chin and went downstairs.

By the time she hit the last step, her ‘black Irish’ temper was showing again. Maureen rounded on the captain, her anger fairly sparking. Just as she opened her mouth to let loose a stream of invectives at her target, the sound of sirens interrupted her.

“Damn. Cut off again! This is getting to be a habit – and I don’t like it one bit!”

She sighed, crossed her arms, and resigned herself to wait until order was restored. She fully intended to take up where she’d left off with the captain as soon as the firemen cleared out. It was the sailor’s reply to an inquiry about the restaurant’s status and the twinkle in his eye as he demanded, “Now, what does a soul have to do to get some service around here?” that finally cut through her ire.

Maureen just stared at him for a minute completely taken aback. Unable to summon up her irritation, she started to chuckle at the turn of events and was soon powerless to contain herself. Bill raised his eyebrows and looked at her as though she’d lost her mind, but as her laughter grew, coming from deep in her belly, he succumbed to the infectious, bubbling expression of mirth with a baritone guffaw. When the captain’s deep bass chimed in, all three of them began cackling hysterically, until tears were streaming down their faces.

Bill’s sudden cough and splutter put an end to the hilarity. Wrenna had appeared at the foot of the stairs, her linen dress wrinkled and hair slightly disheveled, with a quizzical look on her face. The laughter quickly faded to an exchange of sheepish glances, each one feeling a bit like a kid who’d been caught looking at dad’s Playboy collection. Both Bill and Maureen began to explain what had happened, talking rapidly and tripping over each other’s words in the rush to appease Wrenna. Instead of understanding, Wrenna looked even more confused. It was hopeless. Maureen caught Bill’s eye and they began to laugh again.

Finally she managed to catch her breath and pulled out a chair for Wrenna. “Oh my, I think you’d better have a seat while we get hold of ourselves,” she gasped. “Bill, do you think you can muster up a pot of tea or some coffee? I think we could all use a cup of something and I suspect this good lady would love to know what the hell happened after she fainted.”

Turning to the captain with a smile, Maureen held out her hand. “You, sir, are a rascal. You really had me going there. It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard and I thank you. I’m Maureen, and this, if I’m not mistaken, is Wrenna Mallory, proprietress of The Compass Rose. I don’t know if you met Bill formally, but since I’ve already put my foot in my mouth by being so forward, allow me to introduce you to Bill Davis.”

“Now, would you be so kind as to tell us just who you are?”

 

[Niamh]

Wrenna Mallory

Wrenna opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. From the direction of the light streaming in through the full-length windows to her right, it appeared to be late afternoon. Downstairs she could hear the rise and fall of voices – animated voices – none of them familiar to her.

Slowly she sat up, supporting her weight on her arms, and felt something slide down from her head to the sheets. It was a wet towel, she saw with surprise. A turn of her head showed her two more such towels, each folded neatly with a bowl underneath to catch the drips. Her temples began to pound painfully. There was a sense of unreality to the whole scene. What was she doing up here alone, while so much apparently was going on downstairs? And how had she gotten here anyway?

Where was Bill? She knew he had been back from his errands before she...whatever she had done to end up stretched out here. Her hair was tumbling down around her ears untidily. Almost unconsciously she began to pin it up again, twisting the long strawberry blonde braid into a chignon at the nape of her neck. It hung there precariously, too heavy for the few pins she had left. With a sigh she took it down again, unweaving the braid with her fingers until the whole mass of her hair fell over her shoulder in a long and rippled flood.

As her fingers worked, the events of the past half hour slowly began to come back to her. There had been the disturbing interview with Mendoza. (Wrenna winced at the memory and wondered if she really had danced a tango with him as he whispered to her passionately about flying cleavers and free lobster or whether that had been a part of her delirium.)

There had been a woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Catlin and who had mentioned having read an advertisement in the Spyglass Cove Gazette. Could she have stopped by to audition as a singer? The idea was plausible; she had had one of the loveliest speaking voices that Wrenna had ever heard: sonorous and low, with a hint of laughter just beneath the surface, like points of sunlight dancing in the depths of a smooth and crystal-clear lake. Certainly she must be a singer. Wren ought to have realised it sooner. But then, in her own defense, she had hardly had time, what with all the trouble caused by....

"Yes!" she said aloud, and slammed her fist down on the mattress, nearly upsetting the bowl of wet towels. That man. That irascible captain what’s-his-name, who thinks the sun rises and sets around his stomach!

Wren’s eyes narrowed, and a flush of anger spread across her cheekbones, just beneath the liberal sprinkling of freckles. That man brings a whole new meaning to the phrase We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I never thought I would want to turn away a paying customer, but in the case of Captain Crotchetty Crabb, I think I might have to make an exception!

Her anger infused her with new energy, and she stood up from the bed ready for battle. It was odd how protective one could feel of a place when it was one’s own. The Compass Rose had not even opened for business yet, but already Wren was ready to defend her from anyone who dared to call her quality into question. And Captain Cuttlefish Clamgutts had done just that.

Slowly she made her way down the staircase, which persisted in careening crazily at every step. She tried not to focus too hard on any one thing, since everything seemed to be wobbling in and out of focus in the most disconcerting manner.

Her descent had not gone unnoticed. She could just make out what appeared to be three anxious faces (either that or three floating jellyfish rising up from around the table, but she dismissed that possibility has being distinctly improbable).

She was ushered to a chair. She was seated. Bill was requisitioned to make tea. Introductions were made. Wrenna watched all of this with the odd feeling that someone else had just taken charge of things in the Compass Rose. Who was it? Why, it was Mrs. Catlin. Very capable lady for a singer, Wren observed approvingly. Artistic types usually did not have such a knack for organisation.

She would have liked to have said something appropriately charming and authoritative, to let everyone know that The Compass Rose was her own restaurant, and that she, after her regrettable lapse of consciousness, was once more back at the helm. Unfortunately, neither her wits nor her strength were cooperating. She found herself sitting in dumbfounded gratitude as tea was prepared and a steaming cup was thrust into her hand by Bill. She smiled at him, to let him know she was quite well, but he hovered close by her elbow as though he expected her to overset her tea-cup at any moment.

And then she was conscious of a rising puff of very sweet, very fine pipe smoke just to one side of her. It drifted with preternatural slowness through the air, somersaulting and twisting, and she felt like Alice with the Caterpillar as she turned her head slowly to the left and fixed her large green eyes firmly on the extraordinary person who sat not an arms’ length away. Captain TinTug Crabs-in-my-Craw himself.

"Why, you’re not old at all," she heard herself say distinctly, just as Mrs. Catlin stepped in front of her and inquired, "Now, would you be so kind as to tell us just who you are?"

 

[photographer]

Harve

Harve sat calmly in his chair, looking up at the dark-haired young lady who was glaring at him, blue eyes flashing.

Twice she had opened her mouth to respond to his comments, twice interrupted. Her frustration was obvious.

The Compass Rose quietened down. She stood, aggressively, Harve thought, as he gazed up at her flushed face, waiting to see what she was going to say to him.
She had looked at him in shocked amazement at his response to the old couple on the balcony.
Harve was aware that she had followed him back into the dining room, and as he sat and asked, calmly and politely, he thought: "Now, what does a soul have to do to get some service around here?"
She stood, looking at him for a long moment. The play of emotions across her face and in her eyes pleased him enormously. He winked. Anger instantly forgotten, she gave way to unrestrained laughter. The young man at the kitched door lokked on, surprised at the turn of events and began to smile, began to laugh. Infectious laughter from the staff was too much for Harve. Try as he might, Harve couldn't stop himself, the three of them making enough noise to raise the dead.
And raise the dead they did, for there, at the top of the stairs, looking dishevelled and disoriented was the boss lady. Observing the hilarity, she looked even more bemused as she slowly and shakily negotiated the steps and came down into the large room.

There were implausible and loud chattering excuses for the behaviour, making the poor lady look even more confused. This lead to more laughter, although, this time, Harve remained serious.

Helped to a chair, she didn't seem to recognise that she had been seated next to Harve, who surreptiously looked at her from the corner of his eye as he filled his pipe and struck a match. He drew deeply on the old meerschaum, releasing a soft cloud of aromatic smoke over the table.


"You, sir, are a rascal." the dark-haired woman said, smiling at Harve, standing in front of him, "You really had me going there. It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard and I thank you." She held out her hand "I’m Maureen, and this, if I’m not mistaken, is Wrenna Mallory, proprietress of The Compass Rose. I don’t know if you met Bill formally, but since I’ve already put my foot in my mouth by being so forward, allow me to introduce you to Bill Davis."

Harve gently took her small hand into his large work-hardened hand and shook it, gently, aware of his strength. His eyes twinkled as he looked into hers.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Maureen. But are you telling me you don't really know who the hell this is?" he indicated the sleep-walker in the dishevelled clothing.
She started to giggle again, withdrawing her hand, and turning away to hide the laughter that was threatening to bubble through again.

Harve shook Bill's hand feeling the strength in the young man's firm grip, and knowing that he had just made a friend.

Maureen sat back, looking intently at Harve. She smiled again, realising just how effectively they had all been taken in by the gruff boatman.

"Now, would you be so kind as to tell us just who you are?" she asked, leaning back, eyes wide, still smiling.

Harve turned to look at Wrenna. He slowly extended his hand, which she took, her hand disappearing completely in his.
"My name's Harvey Piscatorious, fisherman, wanderer, sailor and procurer of fine things. Friends call me Harve. Others call me captain. You can call me Harve."

"Why, you’re not old at all," Wrenna murmured, and was rewarded with a face-changing smile from Harve.

"I'd be happy to supply your fine establishment with the fruits of the sea. But I don't fish for stock. I fish to supply your daily needs. Always fresh, and I can't guarantee what will be caught, so I'd suggest you don't promise what you can't provide to customers. I sail the sea in an antique fishing boat, the good ship Nashanabe, who is my partner in this endeavour. She looks after me and I take her wherever she wants to go."

Wrenna looked confused at that last statement, Bill grinned in understanding and Maureen went to stand by the window, gazing wistfully down at the Nashanabe, visible through the window.

Maureen turned back, Harve catching her eye ......

"And all this talk is making me extremely damned hungry. Too late for breakfast now! What's for lunch?"

 

[captainb]

Bill

"What's for lunch?"

Maureen stared back at Harve incredulously, then looked at Bill.

"Well, hell," he said. "I'm hungry, too." He put a hand on Wren's shoulder. "Are you feeling okay?" She looked up and managed a smile.

"Yes, thank you," she said. "I don't know what came over me. I just need a few minutes..."

He gave her shoulder a parting squeeze and turned to the kitchen. "I think there's enough supplies here to throw some sandwiches together."

"And soup," said Harve. "Soup would be very good." He puffed on his pipe, looking quite content to stay implanted in the chair for as long as he liked.

"Riiiiight. Soup. I'll see what I can do." He mouthed "good luck" to Maureen and ducked through the doorway.

Fortunately, Wrenna hadn't planned to go hungry. He weighed a can of vegetable soup in one hand and a can of bean with bacon in the other for a moment, then opened two cans of the latter. "Hahrr, 'tis a manly soup," he chuckled as the gas flame leapt to life. Some sliced ham and swiss cheese made for a pile of quick sandwiches, and by the time he located a case of relatively cold beer the soup was bubbling. He poked his head out to hear Harve nearing the crescendo of some sea tale and asked, "What would you like to drink? I'm having a beer."

Wren tried to rise and help, but Maureen scooted past her and brought the drinks and silverware out while Bill served the rest. "Here you are, Miss Mallory," he said. "The first meal on your own official dinnerware."