He was trying to keep a straight face, but there was a glimmer of a smile playing around his mouth. She wanted to slap it off. “Boorish behavior isn’t funny,” she snapped.
“You’re right,” he said unexpectedly. He rested the head of the axe on the ground and leaned on the handle, looking her steadily in the eye. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve stepped into a... complicated situation. I’ve been churlish. I’m sorry.”
Georgia was taken aback. “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected this glimpse of humanity from Cole. She wondered what complicated situation he was referring to? And who on earth used the word “churlish”? The same man who spoke French, read German philosophy, and worked on an oyster farm in the middle of nowhere, apparently. What was this guy’s deal? This island was harboring more than one secret, she had a feeling.
“Pleasant strangers, huh?” Cole said, raising an eyebrow at her. She cocked her head and surveyed him. With that light in his eyes, in this brief moment of levity, she had the strangest feeling of déjà vu once more. She could have sworn she’d seen him somewhere. But what were the odds their worlds had collided before? She brushed the sensation away.
“Pleasant strangers,” she confirmed. Cole stuck out his hand and she clasped his. It was even more calloused than her own,strong and firm. She glanced up to find him giving her a searching look she couldn’t decipher. It sent a little shiver through her backbone, right down to her toes.
“See you tomorrow, stranger,” Cole said lightly and let go of her hand.
17
At one minuteto noon the next day, Cole pulled up in front of the cottage in an old baby blue Land Cruiser, Kansas blasting loudly from the open windows. Georgia hopped inside to the strains of “Carry On Wayward Son.” Cole leaned forward and turned down the music.
“This is your car?” she asked.
“Hello to you too,” he replied dryly.
“No, it’s amazing. I feel like I just stepped back in time.” Her seat was a little bouncy, and everything smelled like old vinyl and what she assumed was Cole—a pleasing combination of pine sap, coffee, and soap. He smelled wholesome, clean. What she imagined a grown-up Boy Scout might smell like.
“Her name is Martha,” Cole said.
“My father wanted to name me Martha,” Georgia commented, buckling her seat belt. “After his grandmother.”
Cole glanced at her. “It suits the car better,” he deadpanned.
“Is that a compliment?” Georgia teased.
“Take it as you will,” he said evenly, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up. He was wearing worn jeans and a dark waffle weave shirt, pulled tight across his chest, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. She felt like she was in a commercial for something. Gin maybe? Or expensive sunglasses?
“What’s on the agenda for today?” Georgia asked.
“Star made a list.” Cole nodded to a piece of paper sittingon the dash. Georgia leaned forward and picked it up. In bold, slanted handwriting it said:
Georgia’s List of Island Delights
Winery
Cidery
Bakery in Friday Harbor
Lunch at Anemone
“That all sounds very... filling,” she commented, glancing over the list. So much to eat and drink. Star had told Georgia that she was planning a culinary tour around the island for her, but thinking about an entire afternoon related to food felt more daunting than delightful at the moment. Georgia knew Star was hoping that these experiences would spark something in her, that they would act as a catalyst to help her get her gift back, but looking at the list, Georgia saw so many ways she could fail. “Try to enjoy this,” she admonished herself under her breath. The goal was to not have a goal. She could do that, right? But she wished Star had included some other island highlights that were less food-related. The island was small, and there were not many attractions that weren’t linked to food, Star had told her. An alpaca farm, a lavender farm, and some historical sites and parks were about the sum total of it. Georgia sighed, deciding to make the best of it. This was her chance to prove she could still find delight in just being, and she was sure that anywhere on the island would be beautiful and peaceful, regardless of the culinary situation. She could do this.
“We’ll hit the winery first,” Cole said. He shifted into first gear, and the whole car jerked forward, bouncing over the gravel onto the road.
They drove in silence with the windows down, the cool, fir-scented air gusting into the car, classic rock music as their soundtrack. The day was gorgeous with peeks of sun through fluffy white clouds. The roads they took were long, winding ribbons rolling over hills, passing dark stands of evergreens and bucolic pastures dotted with sheep and a few cows on either side. There wasn’t another car in sight, just Martha and the sunlight and the beauty around them. The entire island was steeped in a tranquility so different than Paris, which was always humming with activity, always aware of itself. Georgia had expected she’d miss Paris, but she found she hardly thought of it. The realization surprised her.
She leaned her head out the car window, feeling the cool air ruffle her curls. This was more like it. She closed her eyes and grinned, drinking in the moment, letting her cares melt away. She was determined to put aside all thoughts of Etienne and Michel, of the restaurant and Paris, of getting her spark back, and just enjoy the day. She was on an island. With a handsome, almost tolerable stranger who was taking her to a winery. Life could definitely be worse. When she opened her eyes, Cole was watching her. She flushed, pulling her head back into the car, shaking out her curls and adjusting her scarf.
She’d taken care this morning with her appearance. A Breton striped shirt, a pair of ankle-skimming dark pants, her trusty leather flats, and her favorite scarf tied around her hair like a headband. It was her Hermès scarf, an extravagant gift from Etienne on their second anniversary. She knew she should probably get rid of the scarf and exorcise the memories it evoked, but she couldn’t bear to part with it. Not because Etienne had given it to her, but because she loved the orange geometric design and how she felt in it. When she wore it, she took her place in Paris and in the world. She was her best self in that scarf.
Barely contained by the scarf, her curls spiraled around herface in a burnished halo, wild and free. Her hair liked the cool humidity of the Pacific Northwest. Her curls were going crazy. She took a deep breath, smiling wide in the sunshine, and sneaked a glance at Cole. He was driving with one arm casually balanced out the open window, looking competent and completely relaxed. With his aviators and scruff and corded forearms, he seemed very manly and in control. He also looked almost pleasant, the corners of his mouth curving ever so slightly upward. It was a good look for him.
“We’re here,” Cole announced, turning into the San Juan Vineyard’s property. Georgia gazed around her. The setting for the vineyard was charming. A little white-steepled building that looked like a chapel sat framed by rolling meadows. Rows of grapevines climbed in orderly rows up the hill behind the property.
