How I Learned to Love the Walrus Read online

  Inside Flap:

  When Los Angeles publicist Sydney Green convinces her boss to let her produce a documentary for the Save the Walrus Foundation, the only one Sydney Green is interested in saving is herself. The walruses are merely a means to improving her career and her love life, and not necessarily in that order. Sydney would’ve killed the project the second she learned she’d be the one having to spend a month in rural Alaska if it had been for any other client. But for rising star and sometimes boyfriend Blake McKinley, no sacrifice is ever too great.

  Then a funny thing happens on the way to the Arctic. A gregarious walrus pup, a cantankerous scientist, an Australian sex goddess, a Star Wars obsessed six-year-old, and friends and nemeses both past and present rock Sydney Green’s well-ordered world. Soon Sydney is forced to choose between doing what’s easy and doing what’s right.

  HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE WALRUS

  A Novel

  by

  BETH ORSOFF

  Copyright © Beth Orsoff, 2010

  Cover design by Julie Ortolon.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or stored in a database or retrieval system, using any means or method now known or hereafter devised, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

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

  Other Books by Beth Orsoff:

  Honeymoon for One

  Romantically Challenged

  For Steve, My One and Only

  Prologue

  I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when the direction of my life first changed. The displacement of idealism with cynicism doesn’t happen in an instant. It’s more of a slow, steady, insidious assault. First you start worrying about finding the right prom dress instead of helping the hungry and homeless, then you take the job with the Fortune 500 company instead of the non-profit group because you have eighty thousand dollars in student loans to repay, and from there it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to destroying the ozone layer and supporting fascists.

  But I can pinpoint the exact moment when I decided to change it back.

  Chapter 1

  The wind picked up, and the sky turned gray as our skiff approached the small green island partially shrouded in fog. The right side sloped gradually toward the steely blue chop of Bristol Bay, while the left side ended abruptly in a steep, jagged cliff.

  As the distance closed, I caught my first glimpse of wildlife—pink and brown blobs strewn across the beach.

  "Should I get my binoculars?" I asked.

  "Don’t bother," Captain Bailey, cloaked from head to toe in orange rubber, shouted over the roar of the boat’s engine. "You’ll have plenty of chances on the island."

  Then the wind shifted, and I was struck by a stench so overpowering—think rotting garbage on a hot summer day—I felt the bile rise up in my throat. I swallowed hard and forced it down.

  "Oh my God," I said, trying not to breathe. "What’s that smell?"

  Captain Bailey smiled as he watched me coil my scarf around my nose and mouth, allowing the chill wind to whip my hair across my face.

  "Doesn’t it bother you?" I asked, my voice muffled by layers of faux cashmere.

  He shrugged. "You get used to it."

  I doubted that.

  As we began to close in on the island I was able to distinguish the edges of the blobs littering the shore. The pointy white tusks provided a sharp contrast to otherwise shapeless bodies. Packed side by side and on top of one another like a giant can of two-thousand-pound sardines were hundreds and hundreds of walruses.

  I stayed quiet, opening my mouth only to breathe, while Captain Bailey maneuvered the skiff inside the rocky cove. I waited until he cut the engine to ask, "Excuse me, but—"

  "Shhhh!" Captain Bailey turned and glared at me. "Keep your voice down."

  "Why?" I whispered.

  He nodded toward the walruses as he guided the anchor over the side of the boat, the metal chain silently slipping through his fingers before dropping into the sea. "So we don’t disturb them."

  I turned back to the walruses. They were rolling on top of one another, grunting and bellowing and barking so loud I could’ve screamed at the top of my lungs and they still would’ve drowned me out. But I didn’t argue. I’d been in Alaska for less than twenty-four hours, and I’d already learned it was better just to do what the locals tell you than attempt to get them to explain. We may not be the friendliest people in the lower forty-eight, but they could be downright nasty up here in the forty-ninth state. Yet there was still one question I had to ask.

  "Okay, but—"

  Captain Bailey glared at me again and brought one orange-gloved finger to his lips.

  "Sorry," I whispered, "but how am I supposed to get to shore?" He’d anchored us at least forty feet from the beach. It’s not like I could swim there in my long wool coat.

  "You got boots, don’t you?" he asked, nodding to my luggage stacked end to end along the boat’s perimeter.

  I did. Although I can’t say that I understood how my new suede "Alaska Boots" with lace-up calves and fur trim were going to help me get past forty feet of churning water and a bunch of smelly walruses with extremely sharp tusks, but I shoved my feet into them anyway.

  Captain Bailey was busy tinkering with his instruments when I spotted the lone figure hurrying down the open metal staircase clinging to the side of the cliff.

  "Who’s that?" I asked, pointing toward the island.

  But Captain Bailey just stared open-mouthed at my feet. "What the hell are those supposed to be?"

  I followed his gaze downward. "My boots."

  "And how do you expect to get across the water in those things?" he asked, hands on his hips and shaking his head.

  I put my hands on my hips too, but my five-four frame wasn’t nearly as intimidating as his six-plus feet of solid muscle, even if I was dressed in all black and he looked like a giant orange popsicle. "What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to ask you for the last ten minutes?"

  He mumbled something I couldn’t hear (and probably didn’t want to) as he stomped across the aluminum deck to a small metal box mounted at the other end. "Put these on," he said, as he tossed me a pair of knee-high galoshes.

  They were hideous, but at least they were black and matched my outfit. And since they were four sizes too big for me, I had no trouble slipping them on over my own boots with plenty of room to spare.

  While Captain Bailey and I had been arguing, the lone figure had cleared the stairs and was now expertly navigating the wet rocks. The woman in the navy rain jacket and matching puckered pants stopped at the end of a group of boulders that jutted out into the water, forming a natural jetty. "You must be Sydney," she called.

  With her legs apart and her hands cinched at her waist, she looked like a female Jack LaLanne about to launch into an energetic set of jumping jacks. "Yes, I’m Sydney Green."

  "Jill Landers," she replied. "Welcome to Wilde Island."

  Chapter 2

  Rather than ask any more questions, which Captain Bailey probably wouldn’t have answered anyway, I decided it would be easier to follow his lead. When he walked to the back of the boat, I walked to the back of the boat. When he lifted one leg over the side and stepped down into the rippling water, I did too. The only difference was, I immediately regretted it.

  The waves never rose above the lip of my too-big galoshes, but I could still feel the frigid ocean enveloping my feet and calve
s through both pairs of boots. A chill shot through my body, and I immediately started shivering.

  "Be careful," Captain Bailey said, grabbing my arm to hold me steady so I could lift my other leg in too. "The rocks are slippery."

  No kidding. I made it several feet without tumbling in, but only because I held fast to the back of his jacket. After a few steps, he grew tired of my iron grip and determined it was easier to carry me the rest of the way. But he tempered this act of chivalry with a diatribe about outsiders (that would be me) who come to Alaska and expect everyone to wait on them instead of learning to fend for themselves.

  After Captain Bailey dumped me on the rocks, he went back for my luggage. More cursing ensued during the three round-trips, but that only increased my admiration of him. Anyone who could slog through frigid water, over slippery ground, holding my not-light luggage over his head while using the F-word in combinations even I’d never heard before deserved my respect. The chivalry, such as it was, ended when he made it clear that he wasn’t a porter and I’d be carrying my own suitcases up to the top of the cliff. He did, however, lend me his galoshes for the rest of my stay.

  "Sydney, you did read the refuge’s guidelines, didn’t you?" Jill Landers asked, as she grabbed two of my bags.

  "Of course," I said, as I shouldered my duffel, briefcase, and purse. I always read the directions, I just don’t always follow them.

  Neither of us spoke as I carefully replicated Jill’s footsteps across the slick boulder jetty and the slightly less treacherous pebbled beach. Jill didn’t stop until we reached the metal staircase, the only spot that wasn’t overrun with walruses.

  "You can leave them here for now," she whispered, as she set down my suitcases at the foot of the steps. "I’ll send a couple of volunteers down later to help you carry them up."

  "Are you sure it’s safe?" I live in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Los Angeles, but I still wouldn’t leave my luggage sitting outside my apartment unattended. Not if I expected it to be there when I got back.

  "Unless you’ve got a bucket of clams in here," she said, hoisting the duffel from my shoulder and laying it across the two larger bags, "they’ll be fine. The walruses aren’t interested in stealing your stuff."

  "I wasn’t really worried about the walruses." A bunch of them stared at us as we crunched past them, but they seemed to lose interest once we reached the steps.

  "Sydney, there are only eight people on this island, and that’s including you. Your bags are safe."

  I smiled at her, then took my purse and briefcase with me anyway.

  Navigating the wet terrain was much easier without luggage, but my heart was still pounding when we reached the top of the fourth flight of steps. I stopped to catch my breath, and was rewarded with an unobstructed view of the steely blue waters of Bristol Bay. It was beautiful in a scary-movie, calm-before-the-storm kind of way, as opposed to a south Pacific, I-think-I’ll-go-grab-my-bikini-and-catch-some-rays kind of way.

  "You must get some amazing sunsets here." Admittedly a lame attempt to ingratiate myself to her. But my usual tactic of asking the other person lots of questions so they could just talk about themselves, which was practically fail-safe in Los Angeles, was having the opposite effect in Alaska. Jill Landers didn’t seem quite as annoyed with me as Captain Bailey had been, but she’d only known me ten minutes.

  "Sometimes," she said, glancing up at the darkening sky. "We should go."

  Five seconds later the first drop of freezing-cold rain landed on my cheek. I popped open my fold-up umbrella as I followed Jill onto a wood plank trail. "I think there’s enough room for both of us." But she just shook her head before she pulled up her hood.

  "This is one of the projects we’re working on this summer," Jill said, as we passed a section where the wood was warped and buckling. "We’re going to replace all these rotted areas and extend the trail through the rest of the island."

  I hoped she realized I wasn’t part of that "we." While technically I had volunteered at the Wilde Island Walrus Refuge for the next month, the reality was that I still had my own job to do. The Save the Walrus Foundation understood that. Hopefully Jill would too.

  We walked the slippery trail in silence until a small pitched-roof cabin came into view. "That’s us," Jill said, veering off the path for the first time.

  I tried to follow but was forced to stop after only one step. I felt like I’d stepped out onto a balloon deflating under the weight of me, slowly sinking me down into a lake of icy water and soggy green grass. I sucked in my breath from the shock of cold enveloping my left foot and would’ve fallen face first if Jill hadn’t turned around and grabbed me.

  "It’s tundra," she said, holding onto my arm until I regained my balance. "It takes a little getting used to."

  I nodded again, too stunned to speak, and placed my right foot into the muck.

  It was less than a hundred feet from the trail to the cabin, but it felt much longer. Probably because I had to reach down after every step and yank my too-large boot from the mud.

  "What size shoe do you wear?" Jill asked, patiently waiting for me to catch up.

  "Seven," I said, transferring my briefcase to my other shoulder, trying to rebalance my weight. I only succeeded in pitching to the left with every step instead of to the right.

  "I have an old pair of eights in the cabin. They should be okay if you wear an extra pair of socks."

  Jill pushed open the front door, revealing what was essentially one large room with windows on three sides and a long, narrow loft stretching across the top. The front section contained an open L-shaped living room/dining room area, and a galley kitchen behind one of the few interior walls. The back section might have been a bedroom at one time, but was currently being used as an office.

  I followed Jill’s lead and hung my coat on one of the wooden pegs next to the door, then added my umbrella and Captain Bailey’s galoshes to the jumble of shoes and boots underneath.

  "Do you want some coffee?" she asked, heading toward the kitchen.

  At the moment I had more pressing needs. The boat trip from the mainland was over two hours and my bladder felt like it was about to burst. "Could you point me in the direction of the bathroom first?"

  "Out the door and to the left," she said.

  "Excuse me?"

  Jill crossed back to me and opened the front door. "You can’t miss it," she said, pointing out to the left.

  I stuck my head out the door and spotted the tiny wood shack. Actually, I’d noticed it on the way to the cabin but had assumed it was a storage shed. "You’re joking, right?"

  "Haven’t you ever seen an outhouse before?"

  "In movies. But I don’t know anyone who’s ever actually used one!"

  Jill smirked. "Then this trip will be even more educational for you than you thought."

  "Doesn’t it—" the list was endless, so I chose the least offensive adjective "—smell?"

  "I think you’ll find it better aerated than most public restrooms but if there’s a problem, there’s some air freshener behind the coffee can."

  "You keep coffee in there too?" Yuck!

  "It’s for the toilet paper, Sydney, to keep it dry." I could hear the irritation rising in her voice. "Any more questions?"

  Lots, the most important being when was the next boat back to the mainland and could I possibly hold it that long? But I knew that wasn’t possible so I smiled and said, "I guess I should put my boots back on."

  "Your coat too. It’s really starting to come down out there."

  I know what you must be thinking because I was thinking it too. Why on earth would someone like me, someone who would rather hold her pee for hours than urinate outdoors, someone who thinks the cement bike path that runs through the Hollywood Hills offers a complete wilderness experience, volunteer to spend a month on a remote island off the coast of Alaska?

  Because I didn’t have a choice.

  Okay, that’s not exactly true. I did have a choice. I coul
d’ve refused, but that would’ve meant forfeiting my career, my self respect, and my relationship with the man of my dreams. At the time Alaska seemed like the better alternative.

  Chapter 3

  After my first outhouse experience (draftier than your average gas station/quickee-mart bathroom, but significantly cleaner), I returned to the cabin to find half the island’s inhabitants—all four of them—gathered around the dining room table.

  "Sydney, I’d like you to meet my son, Jake," Jill said, her hand resting on the shoulder of a small boy. He was a miniature version of his mother, except his light brown hair was straight instead of curly, and freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. He stopped chugging his chocolate milk long enough to smile, showing off a missing front tooth, before downing the rest of the glass.

  "And two more of our volunteers," Jill continued, glancing over at the men. Sean Peterson—tall, blond, and ruddy—looked like he’d stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Tony Marino—dark-haired and a head shorter—seemed more approachable. That might’ve been because he resembled my hairdresser in L.A.

  After the introductions and the obligatory "where are you from?" (they’d both arrived from Juneau the week before), the conversation stalled. Jill eventually broke the awkward silence. "Where’s Brie and Duncan? I thought they’d be back by now."

  "Haven’t seen them in hours," Sean said. "Do you want us to go look for them?"

  "If you wouldn’t mind," she replied.

  "Can I go too?" Jake asked, rushing to Sean’s side.

  "No, honey, you need to stay here with me," Jill said, reaching for Jake’s now-empty chocolate-streaked glass.

  "Why?" he whined.

  "Because Sean and Tony have things to do."