me.’
‘Really? Why?’
Stella could hear Anne shifting the phone. ‘You know why, Stella. I mean, look at the way you’re obsessing.’
‘I know, but I just can’t help myself.’ She held the phone against her shoulder and flipped open the paper.
‘Stel, you know if you find out who Tino really is, if you unmask the Pet, so to speak, then he won’t be Tino any more. I don’t understand why you’d want to do that? Why can’t you just enjoy and be satisfied?’
‘It’s your fault,’ Stella pouted. ‘You’re the one who left him with me against my will in the first place.’
‘Don’t blame me. I only did what I was told, hon. It was the Boss’s orders that you have Tino, so take it up with him next time you talk to him.’
‘I just might do that. I mean it’s pretty ballsy him thinking I need a ...’ her voice died away in her throat, as she glanced down at the paper.
‘Stella?’
On page four, she was greeted by a smiling photo of Tino! She plopped her teacup down on the tray, slopping Earl Grey over the crisp white napkin. As she read the caption the scent of bergamot filled the air.
In an unprecedented appearance, Vincent Evanston, reclusive philanthropist, to dedicate new nature reserve near Lincoln City.
‘Stella? Are you still there?’
The ceremony was this afternoon. Forgetting all about her omelette, she held the paper up to the lamp and squinted hard at the photo. The hair was styled differently. The face was shaved clean, and under the photo in small print were the words Archive photo again. And yet, this photo of Evanston made him look even more like Tino than the one on the news feed she’d first seen.
‘Stella? What’s going on?’
Stella jumped at the sound of Anne’s voice, as though she had temporarily been hypnotised by the gaze of the mystery man, even through the medium of newsprint. ‘Um, Anne, I’m gonna need another day here after all. I’m looking at the Oregonian , and, well, I ... I need another day.’
There was a gust-of-wind sigh. ‘Does this have anything to do with Evanston?’
‘Look, Annie, I was coming home a day early anyway, so it won’t matter, right? I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’ She didn’t wait for the torrent of questions she knew she would have no good answers for.
An hour later, Stella had rescheduled her flight, hired another car, and was speeding down Highway 18, heading back to the Oregon coast and to Lincoln City. The road atlas was open on the passenger seat and an enormous latte filled the cup holder. If she hurried, she could just make it.
It was not without considerable effort that she finally found the Fireweed Nature Reserve at the end of a not-so-well maintained gravel road that rattled her teeth and spattered the car with a fine mist of mud. She arrived to a clatter of binoculars and birding scopes. Even the journalists were dressed like adverts for L.L. Bean. She’d left Portland in a hurry. There still had been no time to shop for the great outdoors. With her clingy summer dress, showcasing cleavage and legs, Vincent would see her a mile away and have ample time to cut and run if he decided to. She hoped he wouldn’t.
At the beginning of the boardwalk leading out into the marshes was a dark wooden sign with the words Fireweed Nature Reserve burnt deeply into the wood along with an artist’s rendering of some tall plant covered in bright magenta flowers. She assumed it must be fireweed. At the lower corner of the sign was a stylised drawing of an owl on a branch sitting in front of a crescent moon. As she hurried up the boardwalk to the viewing platform where the dedication was to take place, her heels slid treacherously, threatening to wedge in the cracks between the boards. Tino wouldn’t have cared what she wore, she reminded herself angrily.
She stumbled up the boardwalk just as the introduction finished, nearly falling against a man draped in half-a-dozen cameras.
And suddenly there was Tino, looking
‘Really? Why?’
Stella could hear Anne shifting the phone. ‘You know why, Stella. I mean, look at the way you’re obsessing.’
‘I know, but I just can’t help myself.’ She held the phone against her shoulder and flipped open the paper.
‘Stel, you know if you find out who Tino really is, if you unmask the Pet, so to speak, then he won’t be Tino any more. I don’t understand why you’d want to do that? Why can’t you just enjoy and be satisfied?’
‘It’s your fault,’ Stella pouted. ‘You’re the one who left him with me against my will in the first place.’
‘Don’t blame me. I only did what I was told, hon. It was the Boss’s orders that you have Tino, so take it up with him next time you talk to him.’
‘I just might do that. I mean it’s pretty ballsy him thinking I need a ...’ her voice died away in her throat, as she glanced down at the paper.
‘Stella?’
On page four, she was greeted by a smiling photo of Tino! She plopped her teacup down on the tray, slopping Earl Grey over the crisp white napkin. As she read the caption the scent of bergamot filled the air.
In an unprecedented appearance, Vincent Evanston, reclusive philanthropist, to dedicate new nature reserve near Lincoln City.
‘Stella? Are you still there?’
The ceremony was this afternoon. Forgetting all about her omelette, she held the paper up to the lamp and squinted hard at the photo. The hair was styled differently. The face was shaved clean, and under the photo in small print were the words Archive photo again. And yet, this photo of Evanston made him look even more like Tino than the one on the news feed she’d first seen.
‘Stella? What’s going on?’
Stella jumped at the sound of Anne’s voice, as though she had temporarily been hypnotised by the gaze of the mystery man, even through the medium of newsprint. ‘Um, Anne, I’m gonna need another day here after all. I’m looking at the Oregonian , and, well, I ... I need another day.’
There was a gust-of-wind sigh. ‘Does this have anything to do with Evanston?’
‘Look, Annie, I was coming home a day early anyway, so it won’t matter, right? I’ll talk to you later. Bye.’ She didn’t wait for the torrent of questions she knew she would have no good answers for.
An hour later, Stella had rescheduled her flight, hired another car, and was speeding down Highway 18, heading back to the Oregon coast and to Lincoln City. The road atlas was open on the passenger seat and an enormous latte filled the cup holder. If she hurried, she could just make it.
It was not without considerable effort that she finally found the Fireweed Nature Reserve at the end of a not-so-well maintained gravel road that rattled her teeth and spattered the car with a fine mist of mud. She arrived to a clatter of binoculars and birding scopes. Even the journalists were dressed like adverts for L.L. Bean. She’d left Portland in a hurry. There still had been no time to shop for the great outdoors. With her clingy summer dress, showcasing cleavage and legs, Vincent would see her a mile away and have ample time to cut and run if he decided to. She hoped he wouldn’t.
At the beginning of the boardwalk leading out into the marshes was a dark wooden sign with the words Fireweed Nature Reserve burnt deeply into the wood along with an artist’s rendering of some tall plant covered in bright magenta flowers. She assumed it must be fireweed. At the lower corner of the sign was a stylised drawing of an owl on a branch sitting in front of a crescent moon. As she hurried up the boardwalk to the viewing platform where the dedication was to take place, her heels slid treacherously, threatening to wedge in the cracks between the boards. Tino wouldn’t have cared what she wore, she reminded herself angrily.
She stumbled up the boardwalk just as the introduction finished, nearly falling against a man draped in half-a-dozen cameras.
And suddenly there was Tino, looking
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