Sail Away with Me Page 5

  As always, Iris focused on her customers’ needs and tried to find them the perfect book, be it a thriller by reclusive island author Kellan Hawke, a history of Destiny Island, a travel guide to some exotic destination, or a slim volume of love poems. But even as she worked diligently, Julian Blake was on her mind. He had phoned a few days ago and suggested they get together. Flustered, she’d turned him down. If he saw her again, she’d screw it up, which would tarnish the memory of that perfect afternoon when Julian Blake had been less the celebrity and more a relatable man.

  Iris hadn’t told a soul about those hours at the abandoned commune. There were no words to convey how magical that time had felt, and she enjoyed hugging the secret close to her heart. Still, it shouldn’t distract her from work.

  Destiny residents Thérèse Bellefontaine and her daughter, Marie-Claude, were arguing loudly in the Young Adult section.

  Iris walked over. “Puis-je vous aider?” The Bellefontaine family was fluent in English but appreciated the opportunity to speak French, as did Iris.

  The pair responded in French, talking across each other, conveying their opposing wishes. Up for the challenge, Iris found several books she hoped would satisfy both the older-than-her-years girl and the mom who wanted to keep her daughter a child forever. After some mother-daughter negotiation, Thérèse held up two books. “D’accord?” she asked Marie-Claude.

  “D’accord,” the girl agreed.

  Thérèse gave Iris a rueful smile. “Merci pour votre patience.”

  “De rien.” She breathed a quiet “Whew” as the pair went to pay for the purchase.

  “Pardon,” a male voice said from behind her, “peux-tu m’aider?” Silly her, the husky voice reminded her of Julian.

  She turned and—Oh my gosh. This was no dream, but the man himself, looking amazing in well-worn jeans and a navy T-shirt. Her heart fluttered crazily, like a trapped bird, the way it always did when she was anxious. Except somehow, this time, the feeling wasn’t so scary. She took a deep breath, striving for calm. He was a customer, albeit one with whom she’d shared a few special hours.

  “Bonjour, Julian. Quel genre de livre cherches-tu?” Was he shopping for Forbes, or for himself? As she did with all customers, she studied him more closely, for clues as to his mood. His pose was casual, with his right hand thrust into the pocket of his jeans, yet his body looked taut rather than relaxed. The lean angles of his face were strained, he looked pale under his tan, and dampness glossed his skin even though it wasn’t misty outside. Concerned, she switched to English and asked, “Has something happened with Forbes?”

  “No, he’s fine.” Julian frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  “You look . . .” Afraid, actually; almost ill with fear. But that made no sense. “Stressed.”

  He ran his left hand across his brow and her sharp gaze caught a tremble in his fingers, those fingers that never faltered when he played the guitar. “I’m okay.”

  She didn’t believe him, but wasn’t about to challenge his words. “That’s good. Perhaps I can find a book that will help distract you from your worry about your father.”

  The lines of his face relaxed a little, a hint of curiosity showing. “What book would you choose for me, Iris?”

  About to protest that she knew almost nothing about him, she stopped herself. He had tossed out a challenge, one that was particularly suited to her skills.

  He needed distraction, so perhaps a thriller. He wrote beautiful lyrics, so might enjoy poetry. His songs told stories; he might find inspiration in a collection of short stories. All those things were possibilities, yet they were the conventional choices. An idea struck her. Maybe it was a crazy one, but if so then she’d find him something else. “Give me a minute. Perhaps you’d like to go into the coffee shop? We have excellent coffees, teas, and baked goods.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Thanks, but I’ll wait here.”

  Was it her imagination or had he paled again at the mention of food? Was the man ill? Or perhaps on drugs? She’d seen no sign of drug use in their time at the commune. As she walked through the store, another explanation occurred to her. In the crowded coffee shop, fans might recognize him and pester him at a time when he’d prefer privacy. She hated to even imagine what a life of celebrity was like.

  A few minutes later she returned to find Julian staring at, but not seeming to see, a display of Christmas novels—which seemed to come out earlier and earlier each year. He glanced up, looking relieved. “There you are. What do you have for me?”

  He took his right hand from his pocket when she held out two hardcover books, both longtime favorites of hers. He took them and looked at the one on top: a volume including both Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner by A. A. Milne. Frowning, he examined the second book: The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff. He gazed at her quizzically. “A kid’s book? I mean, I’ve never read it, but Winnie-the-Pooh is for children, right?”

  “Never read Pooh? Seriously? Didn’t your parents read it to you? Or with you?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Mom left when I was four and I don’t have many memories. And Forbes sang bedtime songs rather than reading to me.”

  Iris’s parents, her aunt, and her Yakimura grandparents had all been huge readers. She couldn’t remember when she’d gone from listening to bedtime stories to being able to read the words herself; it had been such a natural transition.

  But Julian had asked a question and she knew how to defend her choices. If a customer said no, she learned from the objections he or she raised. “In these books, you’ll find entertainment, humor, and wisdom. They’ll give you something to relax with, but also ideas to muse on. Who knows, perhaps even inspiration for a song.” She gave a small grin. “As you’ll see, Pooh composed songs himself.” In Julian and in his music, she sensed a connection with nature, the universe, and the principles of the Tao, yet occasionally she saw signs of a deep unrest. She sensed a soul that needed guidance as well as gentle humor.

  He studied her face and she dropped her gaze, accepting his perusal but unable to stare back into his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Okay, I’ll try them. But to be honest, I didn’t come here for a book.”

  “No?” She darted a quick look upward.

  “You turned me down when I phoned. I thought I might be more persuasive in person.”

  Her heart fluttered again and she glanced around. Was anyone watching them, and if so, what did they think about this odd pairing of sexy, popular musician and unassuming island bookseller? More important, what was Julian thinking? Men didn’t ask her out. The only guy she’d ever dated had been a fix-up by her friend Shelley, back in university.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured, her gaze on the tan, soft-soled loafers she wore with sage-green pants, a cream blouse, and one of her aunt’s gorgeous silk-screened scarves. “Why are you interested in me?”

  “Because you’re interesting, Iris. I enjoy your company. You’re easy to be with.”

  She knew she could be interesting, and that some people enjoyed her company. Not just her family, but her new friends Miranda and Eden, her oldest friend Shelley, and the members of the book club she belonged to. But Julian was used to far more exciting female companionship.

  Although perhaps now, with his father in such bad shape, he wasn’t looking for excitement. Perhaps he sought a more peaceful respite from his caregiver responsibilities, and from the unrest she sensed in his soul. So, not a date perhaps, just friendship. Cautiously, she said, “This is a time in your life when you could use a friend who’s easy to be with?”

  His blue eyes, still stunning even though they looked strained today, closed briefly. “I guess I could.” He opened them again, dazzling her. “Will you be that friend?”

  A friend. It was amazing to think he might want her friendship, and ridiculous to wish, for one tiny moment, that they might share something more. Iris believed that one day a man would see and value her many attributes, and fall in
love with her. Her girlfriends supported her in that belief. But no way would Julian Blake be the man. His life path and hers took opposite directions, even if for this short time those paths might intersect. If she practiced mindfulness, she could enjoy that intersection without wishing for the impossible. She breathed, centered herself, and raised her chin. “I’d be honored to be your friend.”

  For the first time, his sensual lips curved into a smile. “The honor is mine, Iris Yakimura. So, when—”

  A loud male voice cut him off. “Behave yourself and do as I say!”

  Tension gripping her, Iris swung around to see a middle-aged man with a boy of eight or nine, the red-faced man grabbing a book from the boy’s hand. She studied them closely, noting that the boy, while pouting, didn’t look particularly distressed. Relieved that intervention didn’t seem to be required, she turned back to Julian.

  He was staring at the man and boy, too, and he looked shocky again, pale and sweating. “Fucking island,” he muttered, low enough that only she could hear.

  “Julian?” What was wrong?

  “Oh, fuck,” he said roughly. “You don’t need to be with a guy like me. Forget it.”

  She gaped at him as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, almost running. He flung open the door and disappeared outside, taking the books with him.

  Chapter Four

  For three days, Iris had puzzled over Julian’s behavior. He had phoned Dreamspinner later on Sunday, getting her father, and apologized for inadvertently leaving without paying for his books. He’d put them on his credit card. He hadn’t asked to speak to her.

  Even if he wasn’t on drugs, he was moody, erratic, irrational. She should, as he’d said, forget all about him. Yet how could she forget the sensitive guy who’d shared his music and his worries about his father, who hadn’t told her she was crazy for being so shy but had instead exchanged coping strategies?

  Will the real Julian Blake please stand up?

  On Thursday morning, she rose, made her bed, and put on her workout clothes. Before starting tai chi, she gazed appreciatively around her room. This, the smaller of the two bedrooms in the third-floor condominium she and her aunt shared, was Iris’s sanctuary. She had chosen minimalist furniture with elegant lines, mellow colors, and a few items of art that spoke to her soul. Her aunt’s room was similar, but also set up for creating fabric art.

  Iris did her tai chi facing the sliding glass door, enjoying the view of Blue Moon Harbor village and docks. In the garden of the condo building, a breeze stirred the last tenacious leaves clinging to the maple and mountain ash trees; dancers in bright yellow and orange skirts, they swirled to its melody. Were they oblivious to, or defiant of, the fact that soon they’d fall and be trampled underfoot?

  On the pale green wall on one side of the balcony door, above a tall mauve orchid plant, hung her Mindful Living calendar. The November photograph was of three small brown bowls with candles burning in them. The quote, attributed to Buddha, was about how one candle could light thousands without itself being diminished, and that the same was true when you shared happiness. Each month, she mused over the saying, parsing the levels of meaning and seeking guidance for her own life. In general, she was a happy person. The same, she sensed, wasn’t true of Julian. Should she try to share her happiness with him, or was that a fool’s errand?

  When she’d finished tai chi, she took down the calendar and turned to the previous page, to refresh her memory. This image was of another little brown bowl and a twig with red berries. The saying, from Søren Kierkegaard, was about patience and how you shouldn’t expect to immediately reap the rewards of what you’d sown. Iris had always been a patient person, so she hadn’t spent much time reflecting on that quote last month.

  But now, again, she thought of Julian. Yes, he had flaws, frailties. But she, the woman whose shyness and introversion in some ways enriched but also in some ways restricted her life, should not leap to a hasty judgment of him, just because he was less than 100 percent mellow and perfect.

  She sensed that he wasn’t a bad person. More likely, a person in pain. If he’d said he had no desire to be with her, she might have believed him. But he had said she didn’t need to be with a guy like him.

  Perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she did. Perhaps he in fact needed her. She had queried whether he could use a friend, and he’d said yes. In her mind, those words resonated as truth. “What shall I do?” she murmured.

  What should she take from the advice about patience? Should she wait and see if Julian returned? Had she done enough to sow the seeds of potential friendship and trust, to share her happiness with life?

  She mused on that as she showered and then dressed for a day at the store. As usual, she chose slim tailored pants and a shirt in gentle tones, and added one of Aunt Lily’s scarves. In the kitchen, her aunt, slim and lovely in a simple cotton yukata kimono in a rusty-orange shade patterned with hemp leaves, was gazing into the fridge. They exchanged morning greetings, speaking in French. When the family members were alone together, they spoke either Japanese or French. Japanese, to honor their heritage and to respect their relatives in Japan. French, because as good Canadians they believed in speaking both official languages.

  Aunt Lily said, “I can’t decide what I want for breakfast.”

  Sometimes they ate Japanese: miso soup, rice, the fermented soybeans called natt, or perhaps grilled fish. Other times, it was bacon and eggs, pancakes, or French toast. Or yogurt, granola, and fruit, or porridge with maple syrup on cold days. So many choices.

  “I feel like having an omelet,” Iris said.

  “That sounds good to me.”

  Iris took chives, mushrooms, and cheddar from the fridge and chopped and grated while her aunt whipped eggs, milk, salt, and pepper. They made individual omelets, each in its own small pan, preferring the symmetry of an entire folded-over omelet rather than a larger one cut in half. Their plates were ivory with a dark blue, geometrically patterned border. The golden omelets oozing cheese, with a garnish of sliced red-skinned apples, looked lovely, reminding Iris of Julian’s comment that her tuna sandwich was a work of art.

  He created art with his music. Her own ways of adding beauty to the world were tiny, yet even small things could be consequential. Perhaps she could ease his worry and pain if he permitted her to. She might suffer pain herself—from harsh words, rejection, or the simple loss of his company when he inevitably left the island—and yet her life would be richer for knowing Julian Blake. When her beloved Grandmother Rose was dying of ALS, Iris had learned that joy could exist, even glow more brightly and poignantly, when there was also pain.

  “Something’s on your mind,” her aunt said as they sat at the small table in the living room, by the sliding glass door. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Iris raised her gaze from her plate and smiled. Sometimes it wasn’t enough to wait and wonder. How could you expect a bountiful harvest if you weren’t diligent about sowing seeds and tending them? “Thank you, Aunt, but I know what I’m going to do.” Their family wasn’t big on touchy-feely conversations.

  “Then I hope it turns out well.”

  “Me too.” Iris rose and went to the kitchen to rinse her plate and put it in the dishwasher. Her aunt remained at the table, sipping coffee.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon,” Iris said before leaving. She was working the morning and afternoon shifts, and Aunt Lily would be at the store for the afternoon and evening. Dreamspinner was open every day except Monday, but the only evenings were Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, unless there was a special event like a reading by a visiting author.

  Iris’s aunt would spend the morning either creating more of her wearable art, going for a long walk, or reading in her chair by the window. Lily was an intelligent, sensitive, beautiful woman. She had never married, rarely dated, and seemed content. If she missed having a life partner or children, she didn’t confess to it.

  In many ways, she was an excellent role model
for singlehood, yet Iris wanted more. The calm, orderly life of an independent single woman was fine, and Iris would always need some personal space and time, but she also craved the noise, mess, and love of a life-mate and kids. Perhaps next spring, in Japan, she would meet that special man, the one who’d love her and want to come to Destiny Island and create a family with her.

  Iris and her aunt co-owned the hybrid-electric Chevy Volt, but today, like most days, Iris walked the kilometer and a half to the store. She enjoyed being outside, stretching her legs, and listening to an audiobook. She alternated French and Japanese ones.

  The Dreamspinner coffee shop was already humming, and a couple of customers waited outside the bookstore, following her in when she unlocked the door. She assisted them, greeted her parents when they arrived, and then holed up in the office, summoned her courage, and called Sonia and Forbes’s house.

  “Hello? Russo and Blake residence.” The voice was Julian’s.

  Trying to sound calm, she said, “A friend doesn’t tell another friend to get lost.”

  There was a pause. “Iris. I don’t think I was that rude, was I?”

  He was talking, not blowing her off. The soil was receptive to the seed she was offering, which strengthened her resolve. “The message was clear. However, you’d also said you wanted to be friends. A friend doesn’t accept a blow-off when it’s delivered out of pain.”

  Another pause, then a hesitant, “Pain?”

  “I could see you were hurting. I think you really could use a friend. Someone who’ll offer support and not be judgmental.”

  “Not judgmental,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Does that include not prying into my issues? Just letting me be?”