Only Georgia seemed to notice that Cole was gripping his Perrier bottle so hard it looked like he might crack the glass. The young man dropped his hand and stepped back, looking uncertain.
“You sure?” The young man looked quizzical. “Wait a minute, let me look up that panel. You look just like a guy that was on there, a real biotech legend. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his phone.
Cole pushed back his chair, his expression annoyed. “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.” He stood. “Guess I just have one of those faces.” He shrugged, then nodded to the brunette. “Enjoy your time on the island. The whites are particularly good here.” And then without another word, he headed toward the parking lot.
The girl flicked her hair and tugged on the man’s arm. “Come on, I’m thirsty.” She pulled him toward the tasting room. The man followed reluctantly, tucking his phone in his pocket and glancing back toward Cole with a confused expression on his face.
Georgia stood. It seemed their winery visit was over. Cole was already almost at the car, his strides long and determined. Georgia left their drinks on the table and headed for Martha. She practically had to jog to catch up with Cole.
“What was that all about?” she asked as she hopped into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt.
“Nothing,” Cole said shortly, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. “Just a case of mistaken identity.”
18
As Cole pulledout onto the road, Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” came blaring through the speakers. He reached out and turned up the volume, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his expression stony. Georgia watched him, puzzled. What was going on? She had no idea about his past. Star had told her he’d been on the island for almost five years. What had he done before that? Who was he? She didn’t even know his last name. And he obviously didn’t want to discuss any of it.
“Do you mind if we skip the distillery today?” he yelled abruptly over the music. “There’s something else on the island I think you should see.”
“Sure, I’m game,” Georgia yelled back, trying to lessen the tension in the car. They drove in silence until they passed a sign welcoming them to Friday Harbor. Georgia recognized the quaint painted wooden-framed buildings as they passed—the vintage-looking Palace Theatre cinema, the charmingly bookish window display of Griffin Bay Bookstore. They parked outside Kings Market and Cole jumped out. “I’ll be back shortly.” He slammed the door. Georgia waited in Martha, content to people watch. Ten minutes later, Cole came back with a paper bag of groceries in hand and they headed out of town.
“Where are we going?” Georgia asked after a few minutes.
“How do you feel about orcas?” Cole asked.
“As in whales?” Georgia was puzzled.
“Technically, they’re in the dolphin family, but yes.”
“I’m... for them?” she said hesitantly.
“Good. Word around town is there’s a pod in the area. If we’re lucky, we can see them as they head north.” He sounded genuinely excited by the prospect.
Ten minutes later they pulled into a parking spot at Lime Kiln State Park, and Cole led her down a trail to a historic white lighthouse with a red roof. The lighthouse was perched on a jut of rock sticking out from a line of high black cliffs that ran raggedly along the sea. From where they stood on the cliffs, a dozen yards below the water gleamed a swirling silver in the sunlight. It made her a little dizzy to look down at the churning depths. Cole came to a halt at the lighthouse and shaded his eyes. “Current’s going north now. They’ll probably come from the south. They usually follow the current, chasing the salmon.” He led her down a narrow dusty sliver of path along the cliffs’ edge to a weathered picnic table sitting under a twisted red madrone tree. There was no one else around, just the two of them amid the vast panorama of cliffs and sea and sky.
“Oh look,” Georgia cried, delighted to see the friendly face and shiny black head of a creature pop up from the water below. It looked like a puppy.
“That’s a harbor seal,” Cole said, opening the paper bag. “The cliffs drop steeply right offshore here. These kelp beds are hundreds of feet deep. The salmon like the kelp beds, and the orcas like the salmon. And the seals like to sit on the rocks to rest.”
As Georgia watched the seal, Cole pulled a baguette, a pat of Camembert, a tiny jar of olives, and a few other tasty morsels out of the bag. “I know you can’t taste anything, but I got us a few things for a picnic,” he explained. “It’s what you do here. People come and wait for the orcas and have a picnic. So I thought we’d give it a try. Want some wine?” he asked, taking a cold bottle of white out last. “It’s a local one.”
“Sure.” Georgia sat down on the picnic table bench, facing the water, and took a sip out of the paper cup he handed her. He’d thought of everything. The wine was still disappointingly bitter, but she took another sip, this time focusing not on what she could not taste but instead on what she could glean from her other senses. The wine was cold and refreshing on her tongue, sliding down her throat like a mouthful of winter air. She closed her eyes and sniffed the bouquet. Ripe apricots smashing open on gray rocks, the smell of cut grass. She still could not taste anything but bitter in the wine, but she could feel it, feel where it had come from. She turned the bottle around and read the description, smiling at the words “ripe stone fruit” and “mineral complexity.” She gave a little hum of satisfaction and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, paper cup in hand. The vista was spectacular.
Cole sat down next to her and laid out the picnic. He offered Georgia some of everything, and she accepted, focusing not on the bitter taste, which was still there, but on the creamy fullness of the cheese, the gritty seeded texture of the fig jam, the crisp crunch of the baguette’s crust. She found that if she concentrated on other things, the bitter taste wasn’t as bad.
They sat in companionable silence, eating and enjoying the view. For the first time in a long time, Georgia felt herself start to relax completely. It was delightful, this sensation of letting herself be in the moment. She was always striving, always thinking one step ahead. She awoke each morning already in motion. Productivity and efficiency were her golden rules. To be still, to savor—how long had it been? She was ashamed to say she had no idea. Perhaps not since those magical early days in Paris. They had been brutal—so much rejection, so many refusals—but she had tasted the beauty and the newness of the city and it had been intoxicating. She had felt so alive, every sense heightened,every corner revealing some new delight. When had she lost that, the ability to be so wonderfully surprised? She had missed the feeling without even knowing it was gone.
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, luxuriating in the knowledge that she had nowhere to be and nothing to do at this moment. Her job at present was to just... be present and try to find delight, to open herself up to wonder. Her eyes popped open, and she found Cole watching her intently. Embarrassed by the scrutiny, she sought a diversion.
“Did you grow up by the water?” Georgia asked, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation toward him. After all, she had just spilled her life secrets at the winery; the least he could do was give her some small crumbs of personal information. She reached for an olive and nibbled it. Still bitter, but she ate it anyway, enjoying the rubbery squeak it made against her teeth.
“No.” Cole helped himself to an olive. “I grew up in Phoenix, Arizona. Pretty much the exact opposite of this.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, a glass bottle of San Pellegrino in his hand. He looked like he belonged here, a part of the rugged, striking landscape.
“Do you miss the desert?” Georgia asked, wondering how much he would share with her. Prying information from Cole often felt to her like shucking an oyster from its shell. He was closed tight. Her mind flashed to Kelsey’s comment. Could he be someone famous? Or a government spy?
Cole took a swallow of his mineral water and stared out at the horizon. To her surprise, he answered the question. “Sometimes. I miss going out into the desert with Aunt Justine. My dad split before I was born, and my mom raised me alone. She was the hardest-working woman I knew, but we were always struggling to keep our heads above water financially. She worked asa receptionist at an insurance agency in Phoenix and also took some night shifts at a bar down the street from our apartment. She kept a roof over our heads, but there wasn’t much time or money left over. I was a lonely latchkey kid who watchedCaptain Planetand dreamed of saving the world.” He frowned. “Then Aunt Justine came to stay, sleeping on our couch for a week that turned into a lot longer. She wasn’t the cuddly or maternal type, but she was kind in her own way and sharp as a tack, and she had time for me, which was the biggest thing.”
He chuckled, his gaze distant. “She appreciated me, her nerdy little nephew with my oversize glasses and obsession with recycling and superheroes. She’d take me on walks, and we’d pick up litter or sometimes we’d check out books from the library on plants and animals of the Southwest. On weekends when Mom was working, Aunt Justine would drive us out into the desert in her old beater car, and we’d spend all day out there, seeing how many plants and animals we could identify. She helped me feel less alone and gave me a sense of purpose, even as a kid. She told me I could make a difference in the world, and that’s a powerful message for anyone to hear.” He shifted on the hard picnic table bench and took a swallow of water. “My mom passed away when I was in my early twenties, and Aunt Justine was all the family I had left. She and Star gave me a place to call home here on the island. I’m grateful for that.” He gazed out at the horizon contemplatively.
