After a brief stop in Marysville, the conversation in the van turns to the indigenous Indian tribes of Washington. “The Lhaq’temish, the Lummi Nation, are the original inhabitants of Washington’s northernmost coast and southern British Columbia,” Mick tells them. “For centuries they’ve worked, struggled, and celebrated life on the shores and waters of Puget Sound. They’re a self-governing nation within the United States. The third largest tribe in Washington state, they manage thirteen thousand acres of tidelands on the Lummi Reservation.
“Is it true that Pines & Quill is located on an ancient Indian burial ground?” Emma asks.
Theatrically lowering his ebony eyebrows, and with a melodramatic voice, Mick answers, “We’re not on an Indian burial ground, but we do have our share of ghosts. Fairhaven Village was founded in the late 1880s, but it’s now part of the city of Bellingham. The Mount Baker Theater is home to a woman, though long dead, who wants nothing more than to watch over her property and its current owners.
“The Shuksan Nursing Home has rooms with moving objects, call-lights going on and off by themselves, and they say that you can hear someone walking with a walker in the middle of the night.”
In the rearview mirror, Mick sees a wide-eyed captive audience and continues in a hushed, eerie tone. “The Eldridge Mansion has disembodied voices and screams. People who work at the Old Town Cafe have seen dishes levitate for minutes at a time, then set back down. Some people have even heard piano music, but there’s no piano. Others have seen the shadow-thin spirit of a woman looking down at them from a second-floor window.
“In the Sunset Theater, there’s an apparition of an old woman who sits in the back of auditorium one, while a childlike waif roams auditoriums three and four. Employees have reported hearing unnerving noises and whispers and experienced cold sensations down by the screen while cleaning when no one’s there.”
Jason’s tension-filled laugh erases the silence in the van. “You’re making that up, right?”
In the rearview mirror, Mick sees time-etched tiny crow’s feet at the corners of Cynthia’s liquid-brown eyes. She knows I’m not kidding. And with that, they round a bend and stop at a massive wrought-iron entry gate, its overhead sign silhouetted against the cloudless sky beckoning, Welcome to Pines & Quill.
“If you wear a watch, you won’t need it,” Mick smiles. “The pace of life here is much slower. Libby, my sister, says that ‘Time at Pines & Quill passes like a herd of turtles in a jar of peanut butter.’”
The three women laugh.
Mick presses a button on the remote attached to the visor over the driver’s seat. The huge gate swings open and the vehicle sensor buzzes in the main house, notifying the occupants that their guests have arrived.
Niall turns the burners to simmer and removes his blue-and-white striped bistro apron. “Hemingway, our guests are here. Come on, boy, let’s go find Libby.”
Although well-traveled, this tranquil location, separated from the rest of the world by a long road and acres of trees, is Mick’s favorite on the globe.
He notices the women’s appreciation of their forested surroundings and uses the automatic controls to lower their windows as he takes the lengthy drive to the main house, slowing so they can drink in the beauty.
Tall trees flank the smooth road—like soldiers—their canopied shade expansive, with a few rays of light piercing the foliage in certain spots. The effect is mystical. The scent of evergreen fills the van as it glides around familiar curves. It carries with it a certain mellowness that only pines bestow.
At the end of the drive, the trees open into a natural space, and the main house comes into view. The two-story home sits on a gentle rise, accentuated by a large circular drive surrounding low, well-maintained shrubs and bushes.
Jason’s gaze sweeps the area, taking everything in, as Mick eases the van into the roundabout. He makes a mental note of the side road off the circle leading to a large garage and what appears to be a workshop. He also notices the nearby, two-car parking space with plantings that integrate it into the landscape.
Casual yet elegant, the drive widens at the front door. It’s here that Mick pulls to a stop and activates the sliding side doors on the van. Once open, Niall, Libby, and Hemingway step forward to greet the new arrivals.
Emma stretches out her hand and wiggles her fingers. Hemingway knows an invitation when he sees one. He shifts into a happy, full-body wag and steps to the open van door, plunging his whiskered muzzle into Emma’s hand. She tosses her head back in laughter as his cold, wet nose makes contact. “I can see that we’re going to be good friends.”
Libby steps forward and takes hold of Hemingway’s collar with her left hand while extending her right. In a rich, warm voice, like whiskey by a fire, she says, “I’m Libby MacCullough.” She nods her head toward Niall, and with a loving smile, continues. “And this is my husband, Niall.”
Emma takes her hand. “I’m Emma Benton. It’s so nice to meet you both.”
“Let me introduce you properly to this big lummox.” Libby turns to Hemingway, taps his rump, and says, “Sit.” When he does—his wiry tail dusting the ground behind him—she continues, “Good boy. Now give Emma your paw.”
Hemingway lifts his massive paw, and Emma takes it in her hand.
“Emma, this is Hemingway. If he becomes a nuisance, just point to the main house and tell him ‘go home.’ If you’re lucky, he’ll leave.”
“You’re like a small horse,” Emma says to Hemingway while scratching behind one of his ears, the only unassuming thing about him. Within moments, one of his back legs starts twitching like a rabbit’s.
“You’ve found his spot.” Libby laughs. Under awning-like eyebrows, the now-delirious Hemingway’s eyes roll back, and his long, pink tongue lolls out the side of his
