“God-damned dog,” Jason mumbles under his breath. As he turns toward town, aggravation glints in his moody gray eyes. Once again, he finds himself no longer wanting a drink, but needing one.
He gives a wide berth to the off-leash dog park and crosses Fourth Street to catch the Larrabee Trail. Fog hangs heavy on the path and the foliage framing it. The map shows that the trail cuts through the Dirty Dan Harris homestead where it connects with Harris Avenue. Once he turns right, the Visitor Information Center will be less than a block further on the left-hand side. Fueled by need, Jason makes quick work of the route.
He grasps the handle of The Farthing Bar & Grill while shouldering the door. It takes a moment for him to realize that the entrance is locked. Anger mounting, Jason spots the posted hours and checks his watch, painfully aware that it isn’t yet seven in the morning. Where the hell is that creperie? It’s got to be somewhere in this God-forsaken town! He yanks the map out of his pocket and recalculates his bearings.
Jason rubs his shoulder as he walks with steady determination to Mount Bakery Café only to discover they don’t open until eight. Eyes blind with fury, he steels himself against the urge to smash his fist through the showcase window. He turns on his heel—the town’s shops are little more than a blur—and strides back the way he came, stopping when he reaches a park bench at Padden Creek Lagoon.
He glares at his right hand, trembling, as it clenches the crumpled map in his balled fist. Son of a bitch! He extends his left hand, turning it palm up for closer inspection. It, too, is shaking. I need a drink, but I have at least an hour to kill.
Surrounded by a dozen historical markers, Jason walks from plaque to plaque reading. Not what he’d planned for the morning, but by the time he heads back to the café for coffee, he’s learned quite a bit. Playing it back in his mind, he adds his own two cents worth:
“Fairhaven, Washington was founded in the late 1880s and is now part of the City of Bellingham. It’s on the south side of Bellingham and borders Puget Sound on the west, and Western Washington University on the northeast. Its center is the Fairhaven Historic District.” Where I’m walking right now. “It features a seasonal farmer’s market.” Who cares? “As well as numerous restaurants and shops.” Yes, but they’re not open when you need them.
“The district is a popular tourist destination.” God only knows why! “All newly-constructed buildings in the historical district are required to conform in outward appearance to the community’s traditional 19th-century style.” My task in life has been to conform in outward appearance to the rest of society.
The tinkle of the shop bell announces his arrival. Jason’s nostrils widen in appreciation of the heady smell of warm baked goods mingled with the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. His stomach lurches. So focused on getting a drink—a single drink goddammit!—he hadn’t realized how hungry he was. While placing his order, the pleasant woman behind the counter looks at him with concern.
“Are you okay?” she inquires, her glasses perched precariously close to the end of her nose.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Jason says, smiling at the woman. “You must be Maggie. Niall told me to tell you he sent me. I’m at Pines & Quill this month and stayed up late following the thread of a good story. I ended up pulling an all-nighter.” He shoots her a manufactured, embarrassed grin. “I didn’t realize until this morning that I’m out of coffee.” I hope this broad doesn’t know how well stocked the cottages are.
Jason turns at the tap on his right shoulder and sees a man wearing a clerical collar.
“I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re staying at Pines & Quill. I’m Father Patrick MacCullough, Niall’s brother. Welcome to Fairhaven. I hope you’ll join us at St. Barnabas while you’re here.”
When hell freezes over! “Thank you. I don’t think there’ll be time for that.”
Maggie wipes her hands on a cloth, leans over the glass display case, and asks, “What are you writing about?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Jason winks. “It’s cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“Oh dear! Well we can’t have that now, can we?” Maggie says, with a conspiratorial smile as she fits the plastic lid on a large to-go cup of black coffee.
Jason pauses at the door and turns back. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I’ll be back.” He smiles. “By the way, can you tell me where the nearest liquor store is?”
“Old Fairhaven Wines is just up the street,” Maggie says. “They have a large assortment of local vintners including Oregon and California, and a great selection that spans the globe.”
“I’ll remember that for my hostess,” Jason says. He’s seething with impatience, but his face is a mask of diplomacy as he continues. “I mean hard liquor like scotch, gin, and vodka.”
Father MacCullough interjects, “Oh. That’ll be Washington State Liquor out on Old Fairhaven Parkway.” When he sees Jason’s eyes widen in urgency, he adds, “But they don’t open until ten.”
“Is it within walking distance?”
“It’s about a mile and a half from here.” Father MacCullough points west. “Near Interstate 5.”
His words fall on deaf ears as the door shuts with a resounding bang and the tinkle of the shop bell echoes after Jason’s retreating back.
It’s eight o’clock now. The liquor store doesn’t open until ten. I’ll go back and hitch a ride into town with Niall. I can’t waste any more time. I want to be there when UPS delivers my packages.
The walk back to Pines & Quill is much slower as Jason eats the baked goods and sips at his hot coffee. He sits on a fallen tree. His hawkish features are frozen in concentrated effort as he thinks about his next
