rusty truck, the passenger-side visor flopping loosely as they hit ruts. They bounced along, both of them scanning the woods and meadows for the tell-tale signs of spring.
“Lavender!” Lizette shouted as they rounded a curve. The slope beside them was thickly carpeted in dusty gray-green spikes that would flower purple across the hillside the moment it warmed it up.
“Abaya worked on the lavender farm last summer, helped with harvest,” Poland said, a hint of pride in his voice. “She did it for no pay, too, so she could get the boxes of soap and lotion, must have got a hundred of em.
“Why’d she want all the boxes?”
“For the potlatch. We called one to honor our sons and our family.”
“Greg told me,” she said, hating to mention his name.
“Something’s wrong with that guy.” Poland frowned. “If Hal Cutler was alive, he’d run him off. Trash. I don’t like him around the place, around Marian. She’s a good girl.”
“He’s a Dog,” Lizette started to explain, thought better of it. “He uses drugs.”
Poland didn’t comment, but Lizette could tell he’d tucked the information away, confirmed his own suspicions.
“Abaya has been working on the potlatch for a long time, making baskets, carving, weaving, beading,” he said, changing the subject. “She never stops.”
“Why’d you call a potlatch?”
“It’s been a long time since the tribe called for one.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter and leaned forward, studying the winding road he drove every day, swerving to miss potholes. “You know we lost Johnny, our middle boy, in a logging accident a couple of years ago. That’s three sons lost to accidents, one went to Vietnam.”
Lizette looked down, bit her lip. The whole island heard what happened to their sons. She said nothing about Raven being in Seattle.
“After Johnny, that’s when Abaya wanted a potlatch,” Poland said. “She said it was time.”
“She couldn’t stand the pain anymore, you mean.” Lizette looked at him sideways to see how her comment went down.
Rounding a curve, the driveway to the Moran Mansion branched off from the road, the massive slate gray roof and white sides visible through the trees. Built around the turn of the century by the mayor of Seattle, the house was known to locals not just for its size and view of the water, but also for the famous people who came for lavish parties. Sometimes they’d drive their fancy cars and use the ferry or they’d come by boat, tying up their yachts at the harbor below the big house, causing a flutter of conversation at the hardware store the next day.
“Suzie Two Deer used to work there as a maid,” Poland said as they flew by the entrance. “Says they have an organ in there with big pipes and carved wood from ships. Old man Moran built ships in Seattle. You know?”
Lizette nodded, having heard the story of the Morans many times since she was a girl, locals never failing to mention the estate’s history. She’d seen and heard the organ because the estate had been a hotel and restaurant for as long as she knew.
“Very rich people go there,” Poland continued like she was a tourist. “The place sits on my grandfather’s old summer hunting ground.”
Lizette knew this, too.
“The deer liked to browse the grasses on the flats. But, now it’s a big hotel. Robert Redford, the movie cowboy came once.”
“Did you meet him?” She stared out the truck’s window as trees and water whizzed by, bored by the conversation.
“Naw, but me and Abaya saw one of his movies once in Bellingham.”
Lizette knew they were close to Poland’s farm when they came to a long line of split rail fence. She’d watched Poland and his sons build the weaving fence in sections over several summers. Then the white, single-story house came into view. They turned into the dirt driveway and followed the fence line to the dooryard. Smoke puffed from the chimney and Abaya stood on the front steps in a
“Lavender!” Lizette shouted as they rounded a curve. The slope beside them was thickly carpeted in dusty gray-green spikes that would flower purple across the hillside the moment it warmed it up.
“Abaya worked on the lavender farm last summer, helped with harvest,” Poland said, a hint of pride in his voice. “She did it for no pay, too, so she could get the boxes of soap and lotion, must have got a hundred of em.
“Why’d she want all the boxes?”
“For the potlatch. We called one to honor our sons and our family.”
“Greg told me,” she said, hating to mention his name.
“Something’s wrong with that guy.” Poland frowned. “If Hal Cutler was alive, he’d run him off. Trash. I don’t like him around the place, around Marian. She’s a good girl.”
“He’s a Dog,” Lizette started to explain, thought better of it. “He uses drugs.”
Poland didn’t comment, but Lizette could tell he’d tucked the information away, confirmed his own suspicions.
“Abaya has been working on the potlatch for a long time, making baskets, carving, weaving, beading,” he said, changing the subject. “She never stops.”
“Why’d you call a potlatch?”
“It’s been a long time since the tribe called for one.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter and leaned forward, studying the winding road he drove every day, swerving to miss potholes. “You know we lost Johnny, our middle boy, in a logging accident a couple of years ago. That’s three sons lost to accidents, one went to Vietnam.”
Lizette looked down, bit her lip. The whole island heard what happened to their sons. She said nothing about Raven being in Seattle.
“After Johnny, that’s when Abaya wanted a potlatch,” Poland said. “She said it was time.”
“She couldn’t stand the pain anymore, you mean.” Lizette looked at him sideways to see how her comment went down.
Rounding a curve, the driveway to the Moran Mansion branched off from the road, the massive slate gray roof and white sides visible through the trees. Built around the turn of the century by the mayor of Seattle, the house was known to locals not just for its size and view of the water, but also for the famous people who came for lavish parties. Sometimes they’d drive their fancy cars and use the ferry or they’d come by boat, tying up their yachts at the harbor below the big house, causing a flutter of conversation at the hardware store the next day.
“Suzie Two Deer used to work there as a maid,” Poland said as they flew by the entrance. “Says they have an organ in there with big pipes and carved wood from ships. Old man Moran built ships in Seattle. You know?”
Lizette nodded, having heard the story of the Morans many times since she was a girl, locals never failing to mention the estate’s history. She’d seen and heard the organ because the estate had been a hotel and restaurant for as long as she knew.
“Very rich people go there,” Poland continued like she was a tourist. “The place sits on my grandfather’s old summer hunting ground.”
Lizette knew this, too.
“The deer liked to browse the grasses on the flats. But, now it’s a big hotel. Robert Redford, the movie cowboy came once.”
“Did you meet him?” She stared out the truck’s window as trees and water whizzed by, bored by the conversation.
“Naw, but me and Abaya saw one of his movies once in Bellingham.”
Lizette knew they were close to Poland’s farm when they came to a long line of split rail fence. She’d watched Poland and his sons build the weaving fence in sections over several summers. Then the white, single-story house came into view. They turned into the dirt driveway and followed the fence line to the dooryard. Smoke puffed from the chimney and Abaya stood on the front steps in a
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