Blue Ice Landing Read online

  BLUE ICE

  LANDING

  By

  KA Moll

  Blue Ice Landing © 2017 KA Moll

  Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of any kind, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition – 2017

  Cover Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Interior Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Editor: Megan Brady - Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Author’s Note

  This story was SO MUCH FUN to write!

  So MUCH FUN!

  Just sayin’.

  And I have so many to thank…

  Kay—for being the best wife ever. I couldn’t do this without you, babe. Una in perpetuum—Together forever.

  Beta Reader Dream Team—Kay, Dana, and Kathy. Your input helped me to shape this work into what it is today.

  Dana—for helping me to make Coby’s experience in AA and her struggle to deal with alcoholism realistic and for Dane.

  Kathy—for your expertise as a reading teacher and your insight into Coby’s struggle to read.

  Paris—for helping me to make Diego the chef that he deserved to be.

  Susan—for your expertise as a nurse. Man, did Coy ever need you!

  Debs—for double-checking to be sure that my portrayal of New Zealand was accurate.

  Alea Hamilton—for your publishing expertise, dedication, and endless patience with my perfectionistic tendencies.

  Megan Brady—for your expertise and for making the editing process a breeze.

  For Kay—my wife, the love of my life, and my very best friend.

  Also by the Author

  Coming to Terms

  Soul Mates

  Haunting Love

  Change of Heart

  For a Moment’s Indiscretion

  Chapter One

  “But you won’t be home for Christmas,” the older woman complained. “And not once, even after you married, did you fail to make your way home to attend church with your family on Christmas Eve. I’ve come to expect that from your brother...”

  “But not me,” Coy finished.

  “No,” Marigold responded, “not you.”

  Coy took a sip of coffee. Her tone softened as she looked away. “Greg’s in the military, all the way over in Afghanistan,” she defended. “He can’t help that he can’t get leave.”

  “He can’t help that he can’t get leave,” Marigold said, “but it’s his choice to be there.”

  “It’s his choice, Mama,” Coy continued, “because he’s doing what he feels he needs to do.”

  Marigold fingered through her short sassy hair. “And your birthday,” she whined on, “you’ll be gone for that too.”

  Coy took a slow breath. “Not necessarily,” she responded, “I may be able to catch one of the first flights out in October.” She reached over to squeeze her mama’s hand.

  Marigold gave a slow shake of her head and met her daughter’s gaze. “Why, Coy Annabelle?” she asked. “Why do you have to go live at the bottom of the world?”

  Coy inhaled a quiet breath and glanced across the table.

  Her dad intervened. “You can’t just keep askin’ her that over and over, Marigold Augusta,” the long-limbed man said. He had a kind spirit and bright blue eyes like his daughter, and thought that was where their similarities ended.

  Marigold’s eyes glistened as she held her husband’s gaze. “I most certainly can, Cyrus Tobias,” she said. She returned her attention to the thirty-three-year-old woman, her spitting image when she was her age. “I’ll have a mind to stop asking my question over and over,” she continued, “just as soon as your daughter provides me with an answer that settles with me.”

  “I’m not sure I can provide you with one that’ll settle,” Coy said with a brush back of her long blonde hair. “I just know that going is what I have to do.” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed. “It’s hard to explain, Mama. I just have to.”

  “It was a terrible thing, Fergie dying,” Marigold blurted out. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “But you stayed right there, slept in the bed you shared, kept your job, and went to church. Not one night did you stay anywhere else and not one day did you miss work. You stayed right there. And now, three years later, you can’t?” She drew in a breath. “Three years, Coy Annabelle,” she repeated. “I just can’t understand, not for the life of me, what possesses you, to out of the blue, turn your life on end after so much time has passed. If you need a change of scenery, come home, or better yet, go on back and finish your residency.” Her head tilted, and her tone softened. “You were almost done, darlin.’ Go on back and finish being a doctor. That’ll give you something new to think about.”

  Coy pinched the bridge of her nose and momentarily closed her eyes. “I don’t want to Mama,” she choked, “I’m a physician assistant, and that’s good enough.”

  “Well, it wasn’t good enough three years ago,” Marigold countered.

  Coy looked to her but didn’t say a word.

  “Leave her be,” Cyrus said firmly. “Just leave her be, Marigold.”

  Marigold settled back in her chair. In the next second, she stood. Her jaw became taut as she cleared dishes from the massive antique table. It was usually open with twelve hungry guests seated around its perimeter, but today it was closed into an even square.

  Coy pushed back in her chair. “I think I’ll step out for a couple of minutes to get some air,” she said. “It’s a warm day; maybe I’ll walk on down by the river.”

  “You want company?” Cyrus asked.

  “Sure I do,” Coy said. She paused to catch Marigold’s eye and added, “Come on, Mama. Join us.”

  “No,” Marigold answered, “I think I best stay back and tidy-up the kitchen. I ought to do some cleaning on those guest rooms too.” She turned up a half-hearted smile as she scooped the remaining trout hash, creamy sausage-studded gravy, and cheesy scrambled eggs into containers. “Got no choice but to take advantage of this ol’ bed and breakfast being empty for a few days.” She had purposely not accepted any reservations during these days, knowing that this visit would be Coy’s last for nearly a year. She shook her head as she bagged the half-dozen leftover biscuits. “Don’t think anyone much liked what I fixed ‘em for breakfast this morning,” she added.

  “We liked it fine, Mama,” Coy said. She slipped on a lightweight jacket and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Rich and deeply satisfying, the southern cuisine was the ultimate in comfort food, but she could feel their collective cholesterol rising by the minute. “It’s just that I typically try to watch my intake of saturated fat,” she said with a quiet sigh, “and I wish you would too.”

  ***

  Magnolia Springs, Alabama was a river community with a charm like nowhere else. It was a quaint little town known for its magnolia trees, majestic oaks, and natural springs. It was the kind of place that you might see pictured on the front of a greeting card. Coy was born and raised just up the road. Her parents had to sell her childhood home during her second year of college. Layoffs had ripped through the area, and her daddy lost his job. When he couldn’t find another, they combined savings with the proceeds and bought what became known as Marigold’s Bed and Breakfast. It had been quite the fixer-upper, one that they’d gotten for next-to-nothing at auction. They’d pla
nned for Cyrus to make repairs over the winter while Marigold painted the walls. If all went well, they’d list it, and be living off the profits by fall. That all fell through when Coy’s mama fell in love with the project. In the fifteen years they’d owned it, the large two-story house with its one-hundred foot porch, eight guest rooms, three sitting rooms, and long river view, had been completely restored. It was named a historic landmark last year and was quite a sight to behold.

  They stepped the long brick walkway toward the front of the property. “How ‘bout we drop down and check the box,” Cyrus suggested. “It’s a tad early, but if we’re lucky the mail might be here by now.” Magnolia Springs was one of only a few places in the United States that still had its mail delivered to riverside mailboxes by boat.

  “Lead the way,” Coy said as she dropped back to navigate the narrow path single file. The trail was one of several that snaked down through the woodland to the water. She paused for a deep breath of chilled air, taking in its hint of earthy mildew. “Your place always looks so nice,” she complimented.

  “Thanks,” Cyrus said. “It’s a job, but I enjoy keepin’ the ol’ place up. Don’t know why, but it gets easier as it gets on toward winter.”

  “Probably because trail upkeep drops off of your chore list,” Coy guessed.

  “I ‘spose,” Cyrus agreed. He stepped sideways. “Watch it now,” he added. “Water came up and left a few slippery spots.”

  “I’m watching,” Coy responded. Truth be known, her footing didn’t concern her nearly as much as her daddy’s shortness-of-breath as he made his way down. “You need to stop for a minute?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head. “Because you sound a tad winded.”

  “No,” Cyrus responded, “not winded at all.”

  Coy pursed her lips. “You know what,” she said, “you might not need a rest, but I do.” She nodded toward a nearby stump. “Keep going if you want, but I plan to sit for a spell, right over there.”

  “Such a strong-willed child,” Cyrus declared. The corners of his mouth turned upward, and his eyes took on a twinkle. “Guess we’ll have to sit for a spell then.”

  “Strong-willed?” Coy responded. She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Do tell, Daddy,” she said, speaking with an extra slow drawl.

  Cyrus’ breathing slowed, and he chuckled. “Could be because you have more smarts than you know what to do with,” he added.

  “Uh-huh,” Coy responded with a slow smile, “flattery will get you nowhere.” She took a breath, pressing her lips together. “So how long has that been going on?” she asked.

  “So how long has what been going on?” Cyrus echoed.

  Coy crossed her arms. “The shortness of breath, Daddy. What have we just been talking about?”

  “Oh that,” Cyrus said. “Not too long.”

  “I do declare,” Coy said with a squint. “Not too long,” she continued, “what exactly does that mean, Daddy?”

  “It means a little while,” Cyrus clarified.

  Coy exhaled. “Have you talked to Doc Stevens about it?” she inquired.

  “No, course I haven’t,” Cyrus answered. “Because it’s not a problem and he’s a busy man. He doesn’t need to be bothered with a little shortness of breath.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” Coy asked. “Sometimes you worry me to death.” She had second thoughts about her upcoming ten-month commitment. What in the world had she been thinking, signing up for that long of a stint? Who in their right mind does that? Who, if they’re thinking clearly, leaves everything they have; a satisfying practice, a comfortable home, friends, family, and maybe a sick daddy; to go to a place they’ve never been or even dreamed of going for that matter? Who leaves to go to a place known to be the most inhospitable on earth? “I’m a bit chilly,” she said. “Maybe we should just get the mail and head on back.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cyrus said. “It’s just as well. Your mama’s probably wonderin’ where we got off to.” He slipped on his jacket but paused before resuming his trek down the hill. “If it’ll make you feel better,” he added, “I’ll call to make an appointment with Doc Stevens when we get back.”

  “It most certainly would,” Coy said. “I love you, Daddy. I love you, and I don't want something to happen that we could’ve prevented.”

  Cyrus’ eyes glistened as he gathered his daughter into his arms. “I love you too, Coy Annabelle,” he responded. “You’ve made me so proud,” he added.

  ***

  They stepped onto the pier, one of only three in that row. Around the river-bend, there were none, just wilderness for nearly a mile. Cyrus waved to the mail carrier as the guy throttled his aluminum v-hull boat toward the middle. When he opened the box with Marigold’s B & B painted on both sides, he removed four bills and five pieces of junk mail.

  “Look, Daddy,” Coy called out. “It’s a bald eagle.”

  Cyrus looked up. “Sure enough,” he agreed, “proud and free, like his country.”

  “They grace the skies in Illinois,” Coy said, “but not like they do here.”

  “So just like that, you’re gonna be all done there?” Cyrus asked. “After callin’ it your home for all these years?”

  Coy nodded. “I am,” she said pensively. “But it never really felt like home. It was just the place I lived. I would never have moved there, had it not been for Fergie.” She took a breath and met his gaze. “My home will always be Alabama. My heart will always be here.”

  “I know,” Cyrus responded. “It’s the same for your mama and me. You moved so your wife could take that teaching job at the medical school. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to lose her.” He gently touched her cheek. “But honey,” he continued, “she’s gone three years now.”

  “Of that, I’m keenly aware,” Coy said. They were nearly back to the house before she spoke again. “The night she died,” she added, “it was like I lost my footing. My balance was gone, and I had no idea where or how to stand.” There were key details about that night that her parents didn’t know. She just couldn’t share them.

  Cyrus tilted his head, holding her gaze. “And you’re hopin’ to find your footing where airplanes have to land on sheets of blue ice instead of regular runways? You’re hopin’ to find it where there’s next to no solid ground?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m hoping for,” Coy answered. “I can’t explain it, but I have the strongest sense that that place is where I need to be.”

  “I know you loved her,” Cyrus said, “but...”

  “But what, Daddy?” Coy asked. “Just say it.”

  “I know you loved her, honey,” he continued, “but as a couple, you didn’t seem to be gettin’ on so well, especially there toward the end.”

  Coy averted her gaze. “It wasn’t just toward the end,” she admitted.

  “We had our suspicions about that,” Cyrus said. “You gotta be lonely, Coy Annabelle,” he continued. “Is that what this is all about? That you’re goin’ there, hopin’ to meet someone special?” He gently touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Because if that’s the case, honey, maybe you could just meet that someone right here.”

  “Of course I have times when I feel lonely,” Coy said, “but they pass. In no way is my trip to Antarctica about striking up a new relationship. If anything, Daddy, it’s quite the opposite. Dear God,” she sighed, “I have no intention of ever going through that again.”

  “It doesn’t always work out so bad,” Cyrus said. “Next time will be different. You’ll see.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Coy responded, “because I don’t have it in me.”

  ***

  Coy made her way through the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor. Her bedroom was the third on the right. It was a nice one, maybe the nicest, and had a view of the grand old magnolia that stood guard in the center of the front yard. The room, otherwise known as the Magnolia Sunrise, was one of o
nly three suites with a sitting area. It became her room on the day she became homeless. Before that day, she’d always stayed in whichever one was vacant at the time of her visit.

  “Did you have a nice walk with your daddy?” Marigold asked as she assumed a position in the doorway.

  “I did,” Coy said as she looked over to hold her mama’s gaze. “But it was cut short when daddy became winded. How long has he been having trouble catching his breath?”

  “Too long,” Marigold sighed, “but he won’t admit that he is.”

  “Well, he admitted it to me,” Coy said.

  “Probably knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on with you knowing as much as you do about medicine,” Marigold responded.

  “He promised to call Doc Stevens for an appointment,” Coy continued. “Text me when you know what Doc has to say.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon,” Marigold whined.

  “I know. I do too,” Coy said. “Text me, okay?”

  “I’ll text you as soon as we know anything,” Marigold assured.

  “I wish you’d let me pay rent,” Coy said. “I hate to see you lose the income from one of your high rate rooms for as long as I’ll be away. It’s not like I can’t afford to pay you.”

  “You’re not paying your mama and daddy for a room to store your things,” Marigold said.

  Coy raised an eyebrow as a smile sneaked across her face. “Then let me pay you for taking care of my bird,” she countered. She had inherited the parrot and everything else on the day that her wife passed away. She hadn’t cared much for the feathered nuisance until that day.

  “My name is Kathy Bird,” the parrot shouted from her corner cage. The African Grey had a black bill and wings that spanned nearly two feet.

  Marigold pinched her brow as she glanced to the cage. “Now that,” she said, “I may just have to consider.”