2019-09-21 - Lovely Day For A Picnic

The afternoon is long and hot, so Clarissa has come down to the seaside for a picnic. Not just any picnic. One of the tables has been decked out in white linen with a proper picnic basket set to one side. And from it appears to have emerged a feast for the ages: at least two kinds of potato salad sit in plastic bins inside of a low silver tray stock with melting ice. A three tiered plate of thin sandwiches that look like they'd fit in more for a tea time service are arranged just so. A bottle of champagne has already been opened and Clarissa is sitting there with a glass of it, gazing out at the rolling waves.

Oh and there's deviled eggs. Is it even a picnic if there aren't deviled eggs?

There is a towel in the sand. Beneath it is a bag and a pair of sneakers. And the owner of said items is walking along the chilly surges of waves from the surf further down the beach. She's been out for awhile with a straw hat worn jauntily atop her auburn-hair. Heading back toward her things she spies Clarissa and her picnic-tea service. A perplexed smile touches at the ginger's expression as she meanders toward her things. Curiosity killed the Claire: she moves past that pile and up toward the table Clarissa is sitting at and gestures toward the spread. "Is all this just you? Or are you waiting for a beach-date to arrive? Maybe the tide will wash in a sailor?"

It takes Clarissa a moment to realize she's being addressed, glancing up to Claire and blinking, "Me?" She asks, clearly perplexed. Doesn't this girl know who she is?! Well, maybe that's not a bad thing. She has a sip of champagne and gestures at the spread, "I'm definitely not waiting for a date, but I may have over packed. Would you like some? How's the water?" She asks conversationally. She is really not dressed for the beach, though she is wearing a designer sundress.

Claire's olive green cargo pants are rolled up to her knees and her calves are still wet from her wave chasing, but she's otherwise dry. "Yes, you." No, she has no idea who the poshly appointed woman is. Other than looking posh. A glance is tipped to the champagne that is held in the glass. "You do the beach in style, don't you?" The woman's not waiting for a date? "Did you carry all of this out here yourself?" Not that Clarissa doesn't look capable. It's just quite a spread for one person. Two kinds of potato salad! "Well sure I would. What are you feasting on that you feel like sharing?" The young redhead approaches the table and trails a fingertip over the nearer edge. "You're the mayor or, no, no, wait. You're a rich actor researching a part about some heiress who lives in a lighthouse who ah.. prefers her sandwiches to be more authentic than most. I'm right, aren't I?" Claire climbs over the bench of the table and takes a seat with a sparkling grin. She offers her hand, pulls it back to wipe off some wet sand and seawater then reoffers it. "I'm Claire. Not a rich anything. But I never decline an errant, fancy picnic."

Clarissa gives Claire an amused look at her guesses, giving her hand a firm practiced fundraiser shake, "Clarissa Robbins. And no, I have someone that brought this out for me and set it all up. He'll dismantle this and bring it back up to the house when I'm done." She waves a hand towards one of the really nice houses that overlook the beach. "There's watercress and egg salad sandwiches. There might be a salmon and cream cheese one still there, but I started with those." She sets her glass down to reach into the picnic basket to come up with another plate that she sets across from her. "I do everything in style if I can help it. Champagne?" A pause, "You are twenty one, right? I also have some sparkling water. I was going to try to take in the sunset, but the sun might get too much for me by then."

It's good that Clarissa appreciates the playful manner, since Claire can't quite help herself but be the way she is. "Clarissa Robbins. Nice to meet you." She has someone. "I wish I had one of those," Claire muses thoughtfully, then follows the direction Clarissa points to look at the indicated house and back to the woman of means. "Well, that's intriguing as hell." A laugh from Claire, "Yes, I'm twenty one. If you'd like to see my driver's license, I can go grab it from my bag over there." A challenging arch of one brow. She reaches for an egg salad tea sandwich and takes a bite. "Rich egg salad with watercress. The best kind." She's not uncouth with the mouthful and speaking: one is finished before she does the other. Accepting the plate, Claire sets down the delicate sandwich. "I'd love champagne. But I'm not sure I can muster up wit sparkling enough to make it worth your while." The sunset. Claire glances from under the brim of her hat toward the blue horizon. "It is a nice day to watch the sunset," she echoes, "If it doesn't get to be too much for you, of course. What does a wealthy woman like you do in a small town like Gray Harbor?"

Clarissa wrinkles her nose at the question and fishes out another champagne glass, which is about as close to actual fishing as she's ever come, "I chair the historical society," she pours out some champagne and sets it down before Claire, "Mostly I try to help direct where our efforts are going and work on fundraising. And otherwise enjoy the view. And trust me, I'm not looking for sparkling wit in Gray Harbor so don't worry about that." She takes a sip then says idly, "I probably should have asked if you were a local before making that joke. Let me know if I need to apologize." It sounds like she is very used to having to do that.

Claire reaches for the glass while watching Clarissa's expression with an intrigued look on her own features. She lifts her glass in a faint motion that could be a toast and murmurs, "The Historical Society." She sips from her glass and sets it down. "So I've got to know. What does someone like you have of any interest in a town like Gray Harbor?" The dig at the collective wit of the citizenry of the town causes Claire's brown eyes to dance once more. "No, no. You pinned me right. I'm not a local. Only a transplant of a couple weeks, really. I don't even start my job until next week. I know I have a pretty sound reason to be here, but if I had money like you clearly do, I don't think GrayHarbor would be on my top ten list. No insult intended." Claire reaches for the sandwich and lifts it for another bite. "No, of course not. Please, by all means, be candid. Most residents I've met have been pretty slippery about living here."

"Ah, well that explains it," Is Clarissa rather cryptic response. She has another sip and ends up finishing her glass and pouring another one. "I'm originally from New York. Manhattan. I've lived in Boston, Los Angeles, Seattle...and you're right, I'd rather be in any of them than here. But. Life happens sometimes. And being a young widow isn't exactly as glamorous as they portray in the movies." What movies? She smiles faintly, "My late husband moved us here. I don't know why I stay except that I'd like him to be remembered for more than what happened to him in the end." She clears her throat and eyes the glass she just poured, "That was rather morose. I have to admit I've worked through most of the bottle before you came over. Where are you a transplant from? And what kind of a job? It isn't in construction, is it?"

Claire leans in to rest her elbow on the table, her chin atop her knuckles, her glass set down and her sandwich left on the plate. New York, Boston, LA, Seattle. The woman speaks more and Claire's expression grows comically more bewildered. "I'm sorry for your loss," she offers. "However, what about being a widow means you have to live ..." She waves her unfettered hand to indicate the beach and the surrounding town. "-- here?" It doesn't add up for the young twenty-something. She goes on to answer that question, somewhat. "So you want to be close to his memory." Claire shakes her head slowly and lifts the champagne flute once again. "That's pretty damn tragic. Why don't you tell me about him? Keep his memory alive like you want to. I'm a good listener." Claire is forward, but for all that, her heart is in the right place. She answers while waiting, "Oh, my brother and I are from San Francisco. I was an emergency dispatcher down there and just heard today that I got a similar job here. Construction?" The ginger laughs. "No, not construction, though we've had to do a lot of work on the house." With a lot left to go. "Why do you ask that? Do I look like a drywall specialist, or something?"

"The latest project the historical society has embarked on is the rebuilding of several historic buildings that were destroyed a couple of months ago in the downtown area," Clarissa very pointedly does not talk about her husband and moves the conversation along breezily to the other things Claire has mentioned, "So I'm always on the lookout for those kinds of contacts. The bids I've gotten so far seem either far too high or abysmally low, which means they're going to cut corners and I like to be meticulous about, well, just about everything I ever do." From this spread that is no stretch! Her immaculate eyebrows go up at the mention fo being an emergency dispatcher, "Oh, are you interested in becoming an EMT or some kind of doctor?"

Claire listens to the re-routed topic of conversation with an easy enough manner. "All about the buildings, hmm? Still pretty tragic." It's not quite pity in Claire's brown eyes, but there is some sort of awareness despite the fact that she's not pursuing the deceased husband. "Sorry to disappoint you," Claire says wryly. "I'm absolutely not the right contact in any way. Hell, if you could wrangle up some sort of teleportation device so I could get good Indian food and attend some raves in The City by the Bay, you could color me delighted." Homesick a little, Claire? "The building stuff sounds like a pain to be honest. But, you being meticulous and caring about the future and the past of this little town is a kindness I hope it deserves." She's asked about her career aspirations and Claire laughs a warm roll of sound, "Nope. Just content to stay in the dispatch position. I can't really afford college and I'm pretty damn good at dispatching. My brother is a cop. He's amazing at his job." Proud sister is proud.

Oof, if there was one way for this conversation to go south it was to mention cops from the way a shadow passes over Clarissa's face and her expression sours a bit, "And he's station in this city?" She asks, the slightest edge to her tone now. "If he's new he should get out while he still can. Nothing I've seen from the police department in this city impresses me. The new sergeant seems to have a good head on his shoulders, but I can't say the same for the detectives that they currently have on staff." She takes a good gulp of her champagne and looks out at the water again. "There's always something terrible happening in this town, so at least your job will always keep you busy. Surely there's some kind of...community center school you can go to if you really want to? There's funds for that," she says in a vague way which reveals she has no idea how that might work.

Claire drifts closer to the edge of the table as Clarissa sours, watching her expression with some interest. "Well that's not at all encouraging, is it?" She dips her chin. "Yes. He just started. And I hate to argue with the woman who is so generously supplying me with champagne, but I think he'll do a great job. I've met a few of his coworkers and they didn't seem inept. It sounds like you've had some experiences that have molded your opinions. Care to share?" The next words from Clarissa strangely enough invoke a rueful smile. "Let's just say you're not the first one to allude to strange and terrible happenings in Gray Harbor. I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop." Both intrigued and in possession of a the Pacific Ocean's worth of salt, Claire quirks that smile into a grin. "You really don't like me being satisfied with my education as it is, do you? Not all of us can afford decadent picnics on the beach unless we stumble across a lovely heiress ... I mean Chair Woman of the Historical Society with a romantic tragedy of a past who is feeling charitable." Funds for that. The woman clearly doesn't know about financial difficulty. And Claire doesn't judge her too harshly for it.

"If you're satisfied, that's your business," Clarissa replies with definite disapproval despite the words. She even sniffs and picks up one of those dainty sandwiches, "Stick around here long enough and you'll have your own experiences. I'd say you should remember my name if you ever needed to be bailed out, but with your brother working there that likely won't be an issue and dropping my name would just land you in hotter water. Not that I'm saying you'll go out and break the law," she glances over at Claire, giving her a once over. I mean, poor people right? "Just sometimes it doesn't really matter to those that jump to assumptions. Someone told me recently that the native people in the area consider this land to be cursed. I don't really buy into superstitions like that, but then again, everyone who ends up here seems to earn their fair share of bad luck. And then stick around for more. But listen to me, I don't sound very welcoming to a young person that's just moved here. Let's just blame the alcohol rather than my horrible personality, hm? Do you like chocolate? I've got a box here somewhere."

If she's satisfied, that's Claire's business. Claire's brows sketch upward as Clarissa pontificates and judges, and shares a little. "I suppose I should say I look forward to my 'own' experiences. But it would be better if people didn't say things like that only to leave them open-ended. You think I'm going to get arrested? I would never do something like that to Carter. I mean, I'm wild now and again, but I'm not stupid." She finishes off her champagne as if it might be snatched away from her quite soon. "And I wouldn't drop your name and take advantage of your kindness, either. Most people would say I'm pretty loyal to my friends. But I'm not the presumptuous entitled sort." She utters a quiet, scoffing sound at the thought. "Cursed, huh? That's pretty cinematic, too. Where'd you hear that?" Although she looks back to the petite finger sandwiches, Claire doesn't take another one. Right about now she's not certain she'll be welcome much longer at the posh picnic. "So, define bad luck." With a smile and a waving aside of one hand, Claire blames the alcohol as suggested. "Chocolate is always the answer," she replies warmly. The wind teases at her hat and she has to life a hand to keep it atop her head for a few moments.

Clarissa reaches into the basket once more, which must have some amazing lining to keep things from melting or spoiling in there, and produces a small square box with a gold foil top, a little silver bow, and even a heart shaped card stuck to the top. She slides it over the table towards Clarissa, "I don't eat chocolate anymore, so feel free. Those were flown in from Belgium this morning." She finishes off another glass of champagne, which is at least her second and sets the glass down, "It's hard to be more specific when it comes to this place. It seems like things just ratchet up the moment you think life will finally be less interesting. Just look at any paper from this week, they found, what, four bodies?" She shakes her head and clicks her tongue, "Personally I blame the police department for being lax. Perhaps the new bodies they have, including your brother, will help less criminals feel like this place is a free for all."

Claire gazes at the imported, well-traveled box of unwanted chocolates with a bemused expression. "Poor, unwanted chocolates." She reaches out to open the box and peruses the contents before catching up a piece and lifting it to pop past her lips. "Oh god, those are incredible. You don't like them? Feel free to provide me with an address and I'll be happy to pop over when these beauties come off the plane and take them off your hands. Free of charge," she adds with a sparkling bit of a smile. "Perhaps that's why your drinking has made you feel morose. Chocolate deficit." A tipping up of her brows as if she'd found some deep, dark answer to a mystery plaguing the lovely and rich woman sitting across the table from her. Clarissa wishes life would be less interesting. That's fascinating. And sad. "Yeah. I saw that. Lots of bodies. I hear this town has more than its share. Someone compared it to Chicago the other day." She blames the police! Claire rocks back on the bench she's sitting on, "You're serious? You think the police are giving the criminals a free pass?" Claire couldn't look more astounded. She licks some melted chocolate from her lips and tries to comprehend what the woman across from her might be thinking.

"Stop by again around this time next year," Clarissa says, tone rather flat considering how amazing those chocolates are, "They're always delivered sometime this week." She pauses at the last question, considering how much she's had to drink and how she doesn't know this young woman at all, "I think," she says very carefully, "That if the police department had its shit together these sorts of things wouldn't happen so often. I don't know that it's giving them a pass so much as being completely incompetent and devoting their resources where they aren't needed." Okay, maybe that wasn't so carefully thought out. "I can't imagine if the criminals were afraid of the cops or at least were afraid of being caught, that they'd be so...blatant with their activities. And yet," she gestures out towards the town. "You'll see once you start your job. I do hope it gets better. But I find that things rarely do unless there's someone to call people on their bad behavior. No matter how unpopular it might make them."

"What's the occasion?" Claire makes a mental note and glances back to the previously indicated house as if she might track it down by sight. She looks back to Clarissa for the statement about the police. "How would you suggest they wrangle their shit better? I mean since I have the ear of one of them, maybe I can offer some helpful advice." Is she just appeasing the Chair Woman now? No, it looks like Claire is genuinely interested. "Where are their resources being devoted that's causing such a problem?" Claire can't help herself: she reaches for another chocolate. She'll see once her dispatch position begins. "Yes, I suppose I will. I hope it gets better, too. For everyone involved. Was your husband's death a part of all this ... lax policing?" Because why else would Clarissa be so apparently bitter. "You definitely have strong opinions." What Claire is trying to figure out is if they are in any way justified.

Clarissa does not verbally answer that last question, but the way she stiffens and purses her lips implies a definite yes, that would be the case. "My birthday in the twenty sixth. Back when we were young and carefree and he wasn't dead, my husband liked to stretch the celebration out for an entire week. What I often thought were touching, thoughtful gifts it turns out were actually purchased for years in advance to be sent out on a schedule. He must have updated the address each time we moved." She lifts her glass, but it's empty and she gives it a severe frown before setting it down again. "As for lax policing, they don't tend to share their day to day business with me or their cases. I just see a town spiraling out of control and people locking their doors. I thought small towns didn't do that."

"Happy Birthday, then," Claire attempts, though it doesn't seem as though Clarissa is in any mood to celebrate. It certainly sounds as though she's not even happy with her deceased husband. Claire lifts her chin from her knuckles and tangles her fingers together on the table in front of her. "Did the schedule make them less touching?" Claire, too, notices Clarissa's empty glass. "So you're just making an assumption about their ineptitude." The words don't sound rudely intended. But some of the brightness is dimmed from Claire's initial demeanor. "It sounds like you don't like it here one bit, if I may be blunt." Why then is she here? But Claire already asked that question. "I should probably be getting home. Dinner won't get on the table on its own." She actually smiles again, as if unable to maintain a morose mood for long. Maybe at Clarissa's house dinner makes its own way to the table. On the spirit of that thought and whatever else buoys Claire she pushes to her feet, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Clarissa. Thanks for letting me join your picnic."

Really? Dinners just seem to appear for Clarissa all the time. Rather than actually provide any insight into anything Claire asks or notes, she just nods to her and picks up the champagne bottle, giving it a little shake to see how much is left, "I'm sure your brother will fill you in," that's all she offers before adding, "Nice to meet you, Claire. Good luck with the new job. Take the chocolates with you." She definitely doesn't want them.

With a smile, Claire reaches over to take the chocolate box. "I hope you have a fantastic birthday." With that, she heads back over to the sand to pick up her towel, her shoes, and her bag. The shoes are stepped into and the auburn haired young woman heads up toward the town with a little wave.

There's a really lovely picnic set out here at one of the tables. Really nice. Linen tablecloth, champagne on ice, a three tiered plate thingie with finger sandwiches (egg salad and watercress, and salmon and cream cheese). There's also deviled eggs and a big old classic picnic basket. Clarissa is sitting there, a newly filled glass of champagne in her hand as what looks like a butler sets out a couple more chilled sandwiches before heading back up towards the house.

And down the beach comes Andy Géroux, presumably jogging, though it's possible he might just be struggling to catch up with his dogs, both of which are wheeling off in their own direction, the German Shepherd, Saga, barking happily as she chases her 'sister'. When the two dogs see Clarissa they slow to a stop, staring at her with tongues lolling and dangerously friendly intent. The enormous Chinook, Fable, starts forward first, very much threatening to hop up and lick some faces. The approach stops when Andy calls out, "Girls!" They both turn and look at him what passes for sulkily among dogs. Andy runs his hands through his hair, heaves a sigh, and approaches Clarissa. "Missus Robbins." Andy is not dressed for work. At all. As a matter of fact while his running shoes and shorts make sense, the black shirt with what appears to be Spaghetti-O covered nachos on the front, paired with the words BIG DAWG DON'T HOLD A GRUDGE, is pretty perplexing. On the back it says WUF WUF!, on his left shoulder it says WHO DID THAT? and on his right shoulder it says EAT SHIT! It is unimaginably ugly. A ballcap with the logo of the Portland Trailblazers is pulled low over his eyes to block out the setting sun.

Clarissa looks up when the dogs approach, at first recoiling and then when she sees who they are actually putting a hand down to let them sniff if they get close enough, "Sergeant," she says as she has another sip of champagne. "...what are you wearing?" That's very judgy.

"T-shirt. Hat. Shorts. My usual running ensemble." Andy looks around at her ridiculous spread, then turns and scans the mostly empty environs for all the other people who aren't there. "Uh. Am I crashing a party? Everyone late?" He fishes his phone out of his pocket and glances at the time. "Or... uh... still waiting for the pinata to be delivered?"

Clarissa gives him a very flat look, "You are crashing but no, no one else is coming." She gestures to the bench opposite her, "Do you happen to like watercress and egg salad? I'm afraid I don't have any dog treats." She reaches into the basket and pulls out a pretty incredible cheese spread though, "Do they like brie?"

"Watercress and egg salad? Is that just boiled eggs and lettuce? I think I'm good..." Andy does peruse the offerings, considers her offer to cover the whole spread and tosses out some cream cheese and salmon rolls to the girls. They both come tearing back to gobble up the very rich and almost certainly explosive poo generating treats. "Brie's the runny stuff, right?"

Clarissa gives him an absolutely astonished look when he tosses those sandwiches to the dogs. What. WHAT! "...that was imported salmon from--it doesn't matter." She has a larger gulp of champagne. "Yes. The runny stuff. It's very good on green apple slices." Which she has on the spread. "And currants." There they are as well! "Champagne? I do have extra glasses."

"If it makes you feel better I'm certain the girls appreciate the salmon. Though imported? Really? We're in the Pacific Northwest! Best salmon in the world comes from here." Hometown pride! Alaskans would probably disagree. Andy helps himself to a glass of champagne. "So if there's no party, what's this all about? And if this is a picnic may I suggest fried chicken in the future? Everyone loves fried chicken."

"Alaskans would disagree," Clarissa notes, glancing out at the waves before looking back to Andy, "I came out here to watch the sunset. I didn't expect it to be so hot and wanted a picnic. Maybe I went a bit overboard, but that's at least to your advantage, Sergeant." She tips her glass at him in mock salute, not worried that he'll see through that obvious lie and has another drink. "Aren't there leash laws?"

The invigorating afternoon swim has managed to help stave off a growing lethargy that she can't explain, but the briny air and the cold slice of the water against her skin is enough to put some alertness back into her blood and brain. It also manages to rid her of the cloying scent of the Chanel No. 5 that she has managed to pick up from...somewhere.

But with the hour falling close to when she is supposed to be due back to her houseboat and see to a set of new problems, Isabella Reede's slim silhouette emerges from the water, bare feet stepping into the shore and working a quick clip through coarse sand and towards where her things have been laid out - just a bag made specifically for the beach, wrought from fabric that easily sluices away grains of sand once lifted, weighing down a large vintage beach towel with a classic rendition of Marvin the Martian printed on the fabric. Her bikini is a simple affair, dyed a dark red that ties around the neck and the back, with bottoms that sling low over the flare of her hips. Seawater leaves a fine spray over her sunkissed complexion, leaving it glittering under the dying light of day - a scatter of diamonds over an underlay of gold.

Drawstring shorts pulled over, she's busily pulling a tanktop over her head, though she leaves her hoodie off her shoulders, tying it around her waist instead. Her moonstone pendant finds its way around her neck and after a few more minutes of packing, she sets off again, busily threading her finger through her damp hair as she pulls it up and secures it with a claw-clip. The picnic draws a pair of emerald eyes shot with gold - and especially the two dogs that are right there. She is unable to help herself, gravitating towards that direction.

"Oh, no, they're so cute," she says once she's close enough - a dog person who can't actually own a dog, she has no choice but to live vicariously through others who can. "Are they yours?" This asked to Clarissa, though there's an inquiring glance towards Andy also. Fifty-fifty chance at getting it right!

"You know what? I think there are leash laws! You'd probably better call a cop." Gasp! Police corruption, rotting away at the heart of Gray Harbor! Scandal! Andy takes his sipping champagne and knocks it back like he's finishing off a Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. "Not bad. Though I always thought champagne tasted a bit like 7-Up." No matter where it is from which the salmon hail, the dogs don't much care, instead bolting down everything on offer with no time spent savoring what is probably an expensive catch. When it comes down to just one little cream cheese and salmon finger sandwich left the two dogs look at one another like, no, please, you first, secretly hoping that they're the one who gets it. Andy turns to watch this interplay for a moment, rolls his eyes and tosses down another sandwich. All problems resolved he looks up when the woman approaches and holds up a hand. "They're mine." By way of greeting he nods first to the German Shepherd, missing her left front leg, "Saga," and then the enormous Chinook, which is a bit like a Golden Retriever but with a brown muzzle, "and Fable. Girls, this is ... a friendly stranger!" Then he takes advantage of Isabella's presumed self-introduction to down some meat skewers.

"I'm not a dog person," Clarissa shakes her head to Isabella's inquiry, setting her glass down and putting some brie on a grape. She pops it into her mouth to chew for a moment, giving Andy a flat look before turning her attention to Isabella, "You're the second person I've seen swimming today. Is the water that nice? It looks too rocky to be comfortable." She looks into the basket again to see if there's anything the dogs might be able to eat. Then with a shrug she picks off a couple of grapes and tosses them their way. Dogs like grapes right? Everyone likes grapes! "Do you run here often, Sergeant? I just need to know so I can schedule my celebrations elsewhere if so."

The German Shepherd with the missing leg gets such a face from Isabella, blessed and cursed with a visage too expressive to hide it - how she tries not to look too adoring and fails miserably. she gets down on one knee immediately and extends both hands towards the girls in an attempt to coax them in for pets. "Ugh, I love them. I can't have dogs of my own, but my family's always kept them. How are you girls? Are you good girls?" At the very least she attempts not to gush, scritching their ears and scruffs with all the attentive gusto of a genuine canine lover. The prompt doesn't slip her notice though, and she looks up, eyes bright and brilliant with barely suppressed mirth. "Isabella Reede," she says, extending a hand past Fable's head to extend it towards Andy and his meat skewer. "Nice to meet you, Mister...?"

To Clarissa, she laughs. "I've always been a water baby, so I don't mind the cold very much, but if you're the sort who prefers to sun and surf on more tropical waters and beaches with more powdery sand like in Fiji or the Maldives, then it probably wouldn't be your speed unless you really want to wake up some." Whenever, or if ever Andy shakes her hand, this she will also extend to Clarissa. "And you are...? Sorry, if you're local and I'm unable to recognize you. I've not been here for over a decade and change, I just returned three months ago."

The Chinook comes bounding toward Isabella at the open invitation, which would give a pro-wrestler pause given that Fable is ninety pounds of dog, but a cleared throat from Andy makes certain she doesn't crush the swimmer with her canine adoration. Andy accepts the handshake and says, "Andy. Andy Géroux. And that's okay, I also haven't been here for over a decade and change. I actually- holy shit!" Andy abandons politesse and scoots in to get between the dogs and the grapes. "You aren't a dog person!" He scoops them up and tosses them back onto Clarissa's fruit plate. Which just makes all of the other fruit dirty. Which is no good. "Grapes are poisonous to dogs! It's all that ... cremtine. And antioxidants." He has no idea.

"Clarissa Robbins," Clarissa offers to Isabella, giving her a firm handshake and a polite smile that quickly turns horrified when Andy says she just tried to poison his dogs, "...I can call and have them bring down more salmon?" It's not exactly an apology and she drinks the last of her glass, pouring more out and instantly making half of that disappear. "I'm not local. Well, I guess I am now." She doesn't sound happy about that, "I would much rather the Maldives. Do you want a drink? Or are you a recovering alcoholic and I'm just batting a thousand today?" She asks Isabella.

She wouldn't have minded being crushed by the whims of an adoring canine, in the end, judging by the look on her face. But with Fable being such a cuddlebug, the green-eyed brunette manages to band her arms around the dog's neck to hug her and bury her face into her scruff, leaning hard into the experience of having a large, friendly animal lavish her with unconditional love. "You're so sweet," Isabella murmurs gleefully, though she manages to crowbar her attention away when pleasantries are exchanged. A slim hand with long fingers grips Andy's own securely with a warm shake. His aborted sentence, though, heightens her interest. "You too?" she wonders, surprised. "Where'd you run off to, if I may ask?" And why did you come back, you fool?!

Clarissa's name, however, is familiar, and when she turns to shake the woman's hand, reluctantly releasing Fable from her hug in the process, recognition slips easily through her fine-boned mien. "The Chairwoman of the Historical Society," she identifies, her curiosity about her companions increasing the more words are exchanged. "A pleasure. I'm a scholar-at-large from the University of Oxford, so I've been interested in its work. I'm a doctoral candidate for its School of Archaeology."

Both dogs give Andy a sulky, flop-eared glower when he takes away their delicious poison. But Fable has the attention span of a cat and goes back to the new person since it's entirely possible she has some peanut butter or beef jerky or peanut butter slathered beef jerky handy. Since Fable seems to think she's okay Saga, definitely the more hesitant of the pair, understandable given the missing leg, ambles over to see what's going on with the nice lady. He eyes Clarissa, "You keep saying that you're the head of the Gray Harbor Historical Society and I just keep thinking that I can't imagine what that entails. Be honest, how many of the houses are haunted? Also, do you guys include the part where a bunch of white people showed up and were like 'wow, no one's here!' and the Queets and Quileute and Chinook and Cowlitz and Quinault were all 'uh, actually we-' and then the white people shouted 'NOPE NOBODY HERE BETTER BUILD A BUNCH OF HOUSES'? Because I'd go to that exhibit." Back to Isabella, "Class of 2005. Left for college in Boston. Not at 'a university in Boston', just the regular university in Boston. Then I stayed gone to pursue my career. And then I kind of abandoned that to come back here."

"I am," Clarissa begins to say to Isabella and then Andy goes on his little historical lesson and while she listens with polite reservation, anyone paying attention would notice the purse of her lips and the way she grips the stem of her champagne flute a little too tightly, "Who?" She then asks airily, taking a light sip of her champagne. She turns back to Isabella like that didn't just happen, "We ensure that the historical buildings in town are kept up and, if needed, retouched. Assign historical designations, make sure that while the town is progressive it doesn't forget its history." There might be a bit of stress on 'its.' "Archaeology? I'm surprised you didn't stay in England, there's more of a market for it there than here. What is your speciality?"

With Saga approaching, Isabella releases Clarissa's fingers, and lavishes her attention on the German Shepherd next. "I'm not going to hurt you," she murmurs in a reassuring fashion, stroking the dog's ears. "What a brave girl you are." Fingers find the back of her neck, stroking in between the shoulder blades, then down the scruff in the front. There's a hint of a smile, touched with a hint of longing, suddenly reminded of the family dog - recently left Gray Harbor to join her father elsewhere.

But whatever else she could have said withers on the vine when Andy launches on that sudden and unexpected rant, staring at him wide-eyed when he rounds on Clarissa in that way, though even then she doesn't miss his accurate enumeration of the native groups indigenous to the area. She completely sideskips the mention about the haunted houses, because she can think of at least one, and she doesn't want to bring that up right now. Instead: "I went to BU," she manages, once she's able to recover from her astonishment - quickly, at that. "For my undergraduate degree. So what are you doing back here, Mister Geroux? It's not for the haunted houses, is it?"

The who from Clarissa, though, makes her wonder whether she shouldn't be trying to find a fox hole somewhere.

"I'm actually very interested in the history of the town, if not just because it's presently connected to the assignment that brought me here. I don't suppose you're in the market for any more members?" Her lips quirk upwards faintly. "My specialty is underwater archaeology, as well as Ancient Greek and Roman culture, particularly how they traded by sea. My mentor in Oxford is consulting with a marine exploration company in Delaware looking for a ship that was last documented as being docked here in Gray Harbor Bay in 1895. Since I'm from here, he asked me if I'd look into it."

"Wait, really? You went to BU? Huh! The best part of going to BU was very slowly crossing Commonwealth Avenue at places where there aren't crosswalks and then looking over to watch Bostonians' faces slowly go from red to purple. Then zipping the rest of the way across because those people don't wait for nobody." Andy picks up some fat rock shrimp, because nobody else is gonna eat 'em and the chances of them getting weird before Clarissa gets them home seems very high. The dogs are only too happy to give and get affection from someone new. Their family grows every day! Life is so good in this weird place! Clarissa's who gets a bland look from Andy, who then says to Isabella, "Came back to take care of my mom. It's a whole thing. She'll probably spit when I mention I met an archaeologist, though! That's a step up, really. Gran would have spit too, but then there'd be a lecture about graverobbing and all that. They're very spirited people."

Clarissa pours herself out another glass, then some for Andy and Isabella if she wants one too. If not, Clarissa will drink it. All of it. There may or may not be at least one empty bottle already in the basket. "I wanted to go into archaeology once. When I was eight. But the really rich boys go to school for finance and so..." She shrugs, drinking more before she puts her best 'give me money' voice on, "We're always welcoming new members. Especially those that are from here and could help provide a closer tie to the older families we have here. Some of our best information comes from old family diaries and journals. Things that don't make the papers but are still interesting. Like that ship, who knew?" Only once she's finished the glass she only just poured for herself does she look at Andy, "Of course, we would welcome any information from the original settlers of this land, but I thought for the most part they left this area alone. I could swear I heard someone say that."

Mention of Commonwealth Avenue, and the very specific attitudes of Bostonians especially when they're trying to get someplace in a city full of perennial jaywalkers, has Isabella laughing again. "Oh, wow. You really did go there. Yeah, I remember, though in the first few years living there, I was a little disappointed since I was fully expecting everyone there to have the accent. Turns out, not so much. Learned pretty quick to keep away from the big, shady Irish guys in Southie, though, but I loved living there. The old brownstones and Faneuil Hall, and there's always a lot to do in Beacon Hill." His mention of his mother and grandmother, though, has her inclining her head, brows lifting towards her hairline, though lashes pull low at the spitting. "Well, you can't please everyone," she tells him diplomatically. "So your family is Quinault or...?" She randomly picks one of the groups that he had listed earlier.

Clarissa next, and her smile returns. "Me, too, only I never outgrew it. Daddy says exploration's in the blood, the Reedes always made their fortunes through the sea, I was just following the family tradition." She looks through her bag in an effort to find her wallet, retrieves a card with the Oxford logo and hands it to her. "I'd love to get more information on the membership process." She offers it to her, though she clearly does not expect Clarissa to send it herself - she has people for that. "I'll at least qualify on that end, the Reedes settled here a few years after the city was officially founded."

When Clarissa says 'oldest families in the area' Andy perks up. Hey! That's his family! But then she talks about family diaries and journals and he just nods, definitely able to imagine Clarissa getting marginally excited over finding some old-ass paperwork. Ooh, she might say, look at Goody Prudence's handwriting, oh my, I need to sit down. Though at her last comment he says, "That's true. We kind of held back. To be fair, there's nothing quite as white people as coming into a neighborhood, finding the scary abandoned house everyone else avoids and saying 'oh, Chadford, these would make such darling condos, oh those open graves in the back would be a perfect place for a zero entry pool'." Back to Isabella he says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to spit at you. I loved Indiana Jones when I was a kid. Ever since then I figured it'd be hypocritical to judge archaeologists. I mean, you gotta take the occasional graverobbing with the Nazi punching, right? Not, Quinault, we're Quileute. Which is a part of the Quinault nation! I grew up on the res before we moved here. It was probably rude of me to go there, but I'm stealing a rich lady's quail dumplings and abusing my legal authority to flout leash laws, so I figured I might as well go all the way."

Clarissa takes the card and gives it a polite once over before it gets put in the basket. "I'll definitely have someone reach out to you." She snorts at Andy's comments and drawls, "Old houses with open graves. I suppose I can see the appeal. After all, I still live in the house where my husband died. Guess it is a rich white people thing." With that awkward and brittle statement she pushes up from the bench and takes a wobbly step on her too-high heels for this grainy walkway, head held a little too high, "If you'll both excuse me, I was going to wait for the sunset but if you've seen one I think you get the gist of the rest. Please help yourself to anything before Carlos comes down to clean it up." Then she turns to make her way up towards those houses with the amazing views of the very beach they're on.

The reassurance that there'll be no spitting has Isabella replying, dryly, "I hope not. But I figured in those movies, there was always the graverobbing and the Nazi punching just became incidental to the job." A wry twist to her mouth. "And while I could trample on those dreams by telling you that the real life career is actually a little more boring than it was in those movies, I think I'll, uh...have a grape, instead." She pops one in her mouth, and grins faintly at Andy. She takes the correction in good stride. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar, but thanks to the Google, I won't be after tonight." Quileute - something else to sink her teeth into when she gets back to the houseboat.

...only she remembers her unique affliction and her lips suddenly press in a tight, displeased line.

With Clarissa taking her leave, she slowly extricates herself from the dogs as well. "It was nice to meet you," she tells the elegant woman before she leaves, and re-slings her beach duffel into her shoulder. "I probably should, too," she tells him, looking out at the sunset. "It's going to get colder the later it gets."

"The nation is made up of a number of tribes. It was a convenient way for the government to sort of put us all in one pigeonhole, but even before Europeans showed up we were mostly allied groups with only the usual amount of raiding and killing one another. But with the Clatsop and the Tillamook on the other side of Grays Harbor, which had a different name before Captain Rob showed up, we found a reason to band together." Andy watches as Clarissa goes, grimacing at her words. Maybe he went too far? Maybe she's just a little oversensitive because of the dead husband stuff? Maybe she's clearly not going to miss the mini-quiche lorraines and the dogs would definitely go for those? "Good evening, Missus Robbins. I will see you around." He nods back to Isabella when she indicates that it's time to head home. "Same. I have a feeling it's going to rain. That wouldn't bother them, but then they'd get mud all over my mom's house." He frowns slightly, adding mostly to himself, "I gotta get a new place." Then he looks back to the spread, quietly picking out what he'll be taking home with him once everyone's judging eyes are turned elsewhere.