Homeplace by Joann Ross Page B

Orca Theater’s marquee announced a Mel Gibson festival while across the street, the smoke coming from the chimney of the Gray Gull Smorgasbord & Grill revealed that Oley Swensen had begun smoking ribs for the lunch and dinner crowds. Although some might not consider barbecue a traditional Scandinavian dish, faithful customers swore Oley made the best ribs on the peninsula.
    Directly below her window, a flock of shiny black starlings strutted across the dew-bright lawn like an army laying claim to conquered territory. In the center of the lawn, a pair of nuthatches splashed in a white stone birdbath surrounded by daffodils; the scattered water from their energetic wing flapping sparkled like diamonds.
    The house was quiet, suggesting the others were still sleeping off the effects of yesterday’s events. Raine tiptoed down the staircase, avoiding the stair that had always creaked like a rusty hinge.
    The country kitchen was blinding yellow—like the inside of a lemon. It had always been this way, at least as long as Raine could remember. The paint strip Ida kept in the kitchen junk drawer referred to it as buttercup , but it had always reminded Raine of sunshine. Winter on the peninsula could, at times, turn unrelentingly gray and wet; the color was an uplifting antidote for the gloom.
    Although Ida’s cooking talents were marginal at best, the kitchen had always been the heart of the house, the room where new days were greeted with fishing reports broadcast on the old tabletop radio and broken hearts were soothed over cups of hot chocolate made with Quick from the yellow can that had been a mainstay in the pantry for as long as Raine could remember. Her own kitchen back in New York was closet-size, certainly not big enough for people to gather, not that she had any time for entertaining.
    She spooned some dark ground coffee from a Starbucks stoneware jar she found on the counter into the white paper filter of the coffee maker, and poured in water. While she waited for the water to drip through the machine, Raine sat down at the pine table in front of the window, intending to make a list of all the things she needed to do today.
    It seemed so strange not to be rushing off for work. Drumming her fingers impatiently on the tabletop, she glanced up at the copper-teapot clock. It was still too early to show up at the hospital. Last night she’d been informed that Ida couldn’t be released until after morning rounds, which began around nine.
    “Perhaps I’ll just check in,” she decided out loud as she compared the silence of the kitchen—disturbed only by the soft hum of the refrigerator—with the beehive of activity of her office. Undoubtedly a host of phone calls had been piling up.
    Conveniently ignoring the fact that Brian ran their little corner of Choate, Plimpton, Wells & Sullivan with the efficiency of the joint chiefs preparing for an invasion, Raine called her office.
    “You haven’t even been away for twenty-four hours yet, Raine,” Brian reminded her, amusement evident in his voice after she expressed concern about the work she’d left behind. “Don’t worry, I’m certainly capable of holding down the fort.”
    “I know.” What had she thought? That Choate, Plimpton, Wells & Sullivan couldn’t survive three days without her? “Thank you, Brian. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
    After laughing at his assertion that he didn’t know what she’d do without him, either, Raine hung up, feeling vaguely dissatisfied by the brief conversation. While she was grateful that things hadn’t fallen apart without her, deep down inside, part of her wished that they also weren’t going so smoothly.
    “What did you expect? You’ve been gone less than twenty-four hours. No one’s indispensable,” she muttered into the stillness. “Not even a Warrior Princess.”
    Since the coffee seemed to be taking forever to drip through the filter of Ida’s jazzy new coffee maker, Raine had just decided to use