Running Wild in Reno

Here he could believe in the magic of the waters. They hadn’t worked for him. Maybe because he wasn’t born in Precious Waters, Pennsylvania. He was a Montana boy, born and reared until he moved to Los Angeles and later to Precious Waters. He knew about the legend. It was what had brought him there. But now. Three years was as long as he needed to understand that the fountain was not working for him. It was a good thing he had someplace to go.

Dipping his hand in the water, he let the cool wetness slip through his fingers. Waving them back and forth, he felt as if he’d miss the fountain, miss the town, now that he was leaving.

Looking up, Alex saw the bus coming. It was a signal he’d been waiting for. The lights in the early morning mist glinted off something on the ground. Reaching down, he picked up a small jar of water.

"Who left this?" he asked no one, but his gaze tripped between the fountain and the jar in his hand. His voice was low in the silent morning. He knew it was filled with the fountain water. Grit adhered to his wet hand. Brushing it on the cold stone of the fountain wall, he kept the jar. The bus stopped short of the fountain. No one got off and no one got on. The engine chugged and coughed as the driver arched it into a circle and returned in the direction it had come. Alex crossed the square and slipped behind the wheel of his SUV. His belongings covered the back seat and cab. As the bus had done, Alex started the engine and followed the same road. The fountain was the last thing he saw as he left Precious Waters.

He didn’t know the future. Part of his past was fuzzy. Nothing spectacular had happened here to change his world. Yet, he somehow knew that no matter how long he lived, Precious Waters would always be part of his memory.

Alex sighed as he spun one of four suitcases away from the bedroom window. He dropped down onto a comfortable lounger that afforded him both the sounds of the Atlantic Ocean and a substantial place to rest for a couple of minutes. He’d been traveling for two days and finally arrived at Blythe Cove Manor on Martha’s Vineyard. He’d driven his SUV to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, but arrived as the last ferry was halfway across the Sound. Sleeping in his car, even in a spacious SUV, wasn’t the best place for a six foot two, thirty-five-year-old man with all his worldly goods taking up most of the space. By the time there was room on the ferry, it was well into the afternoon, and he was both tired and hungry.

Blythe Cove Manor was a large white house with black shutters that could have been built a hundred years ago or only a decade earlier. It was very well maintained, faced the ocean and gleamed in the bright sunlight. Ringed with shrubs and flowers, it was welcoming, reminding him of the ranch where he’d once lived and the flowers his mother maintained in her small garden.

Alex booked a room there for his first two nights on the Vineyard. Now it would only be one night. As a child, he’d been on the island a couple of times, but he was too young to remember much of the details. He remembered swimming in the ocean, since Montana had lakes, but nothing like the vastness of the Atlantic.

This time, as he had in the past, he’d stay at his aunt’s house. There was still much to do there by some designers who should be finished the next day. His mother used to say that her sister never lived for long in the same place and even if she did, she changed her surroundings, so they looked different. Alex didn’t want to be in the way or to stand around idle while they finished working.

He needed a breather and recommendations told him Blythe’s Bed and Breakfast was the place to stay. A shower, a full meal that did not consist of food from a gas station quick-mart, and a good night’s sleep would put him right again. He got none of those. He fell asleep where he sat, the ocean water and body fatigue lulled him to close his eyes. Waking three hours later, the sun had set, and the room was dark.

Momentarily disoriented, he sat up. Hearing muted voices, he turned toward the sound, then remembered he was on the island. Raking a hand through his hair and down his face, the five o’clock shadow told him the time. His stomach growled. Alex stood up and stretched. Blythe Cove Manor was a Bed and Breakfast. It was unlikely he’d find a meal in the dining room downstairs. However, the proprietor with the unlikely name that matches the cove itself was friendly and could point him to a place nearby that would still be serving food. Alex had lived in Los Angeles for five years before moving to Precious Waters. Like New York City, Los Angeles never closed. Prior to that he’d spent his life in Waymon Valley, Montana, a place that closed with the setting sun. Maybe Martha’s Vineyard was somewhere in between. He hoped so.

After a quick shower and changing into clean clothes, Alex went down the stairs. The voices he’d heard earlier were other guests that appeared to be in the dining room.

"Mr. Christensen," Blythe said as he came face to face with her. "We’re having wine and cheese for the new guests. Would you like to join us?"

"I’d love to, but what I need is food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning." If he could call a vending machine egg sandwich breakfast. "Wine probably isn’t a good idea. Maybe you could suggest someplace I could get a meal."

A slight impish smile curved her lips. "Come with me."

Alex followed her to the kitchen. Before reaching the door, he saw a small table set for one. It had a white tablecloth and a bud vase with three carnations, two white and one red. Alex looked at the owner of Blythe Cove Manor.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said. "I saved you a meal."

Alex had the sudden feeling that she knew about his travels, how long it had taken him to get to the island.

Blythe disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with a tray of food. It smelled delicious and Alex’s stomach growled in response. Blythe appeared not to notice.

"I thought a B&B only provided a bed and breakfast. I didn’t expect dinner." He looked at the plate she put in front of him. "It smells delicious."

"Take your time," she said. "Enjoy. And when you finish, if you want, you can join the other guests." She indicated the dining room.

Alex could see several outlines through the French doors. People moved about talking to each other, but he could only hear the murmur of voices. Concentrating on the food, he thought it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. The steak was to his exact likes, the glazed carrots had the right amount of sweetness, and the broccoli was fresh with a crunch that melded with his palate. Alex often cooked for himself. Growing up on a Montana farm, his mother had given him as many cooking lessons as she gave his sisters. He could still hear her saying, "Someday, you’ll be out in the world, so you need to know how to cook."

That wasn’t what had him hanging onto her every word and paying close attention to her instructions on cutting butter into flour, simmering sauces, and kneading dough. It was when she said, "Women love a man who can cook," that got his interest.

Alternately, his dad taught them everything from when to plant wheat and corn and how to read the weather, to fixing a tractor engine and driving an eighteen-wheeler. Alex smiled at his thoughts. They reminded him that he needed to call his parents, hear their voices, and let them know he’d arrived safely.

He finished his meal in silence, savoring the tastes as if he hadn’t eaten in years and this was his first home cooked meal. Lifting his glass, he drained the last of the iced tea. As he replaced the glass, he saw someone move inside the dining room. Alex glanced in that direction and did a double-take. A woman stood at the door but disappeared in the space of time it took him to look twice. A small window in his brain opened and closed before he could grasp the memory it refused to unlock.