Chapters 23-24

23

There was a spot on the lake, around 1000 feet out from Loon Magic’s dock, where a complete view of the entire expanse of Quantabacook could be taken in—all the way to the north end where most of the cabins were, and down south to the three-foot waterfall marking the end of the lake. In the mid-morning, it was Evelyn’s favorite spot. She would insist on paddling to the spot and arranging her kayak opposite Jack’s so they could drift together and look at each other while talking of consequential things. Now, Jack had guided Starla to the spot. She appreciated a chance to secure herself to something besides such a flimsy craft. She had apologized at least a dozen times for her ineptitude. Each time, Jack had assured her that she was doing just fine, pointing out the fact that it was virtually impossible to flip a kayak in perfectly still water. Once in place and secured by his hand, Starla allowed herself to look up and scan the horizon.

“Oh, Jack . . . this is so beautiful.”

“I never tire of it. All these years coming here, and it still gives me a thrill when I take it in. It’s one of the reasons I came up early this year. I was hoping that the beauty of this place would spark something . . . that maybe it would help me to snap out of my grief. But then you showed up.”

Starla didn’t hear menace in his voice—just an unfortunately true statement of the facts. 

“Yes, I have a way of materializing when you’re at your most vulnerable. I would apologize, but there’s no point.”

“You act like our first meeting was entirely your fault, like I was a mere bystander, powerless to resist your feminine charms. That’s not how I remember it. No . . . I pursued you. It wasn’t your charm or even your beauty—it was a willful decision I made on the spur of the moment to violate my wedding vows: nothing less, nothing more.”

Starla looked away towards the dock, noticing how the sunlight’s reflection off the water lit up the windows of the cabin in sparkling yellow and gold.

“I don’t know if I should be relieved or insulted that the twenty-one year old version of myself had no powers of seduction.”

“I didn’t say that . . . what I said was that I’d made the decision beforehand. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else.”

“That’s comforting . . . ”

Jack suddenly felt embarrassed by his words, startled at their ineptitude.

“Whoa . . . none of that came across well, did it? How about we just agree not to talk about that night again?”

“Good idea. What shall we talk about instead?”

“Why don’t you tell me about your kids.”

 

                                                                          * * *

Angela listened to the whole crazy story on the sofa with a bowl of ice cream in her hands, saying little. She thought it best not to offer hastily constructed opinions on a matter so potentially explosive. Once, she muttered, “This is just so weird.” But after Kevin had told her everything, Angela finally asked a question.

“So, let’s assume for a moment that what you’re saying is true—that twenty-five years ago, your dad had an affair with a woman who turns out to be the mother of Evelyn’s killer, and that, in fact, he is with this woman right now in Maine, either by choice or under duress. What’s your plan?”

“I have no idea. Nothing that has ever happened in my life up until this moment has prepared me for dealing with something like this.”

“Would it make a difference if it was one or the other?”

“What do you mean?”

“If he was with her by choice or under duress . . . would it make a difference?”

“Shit . . . ” Kevin got up from the sofa and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the street below. “If he’s up there with her under duress—if she’s making threats and trying to extort money from him—of course I would want to intervene to protect him. But if he’s with her by choice, trying to reconnect with her, I would want to kill him.”

“Don’t say things like that, Kevin. That’s not who you are.”

“Well, up until twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t think infidelity was in my dad’s character either.”

“Are you saying that you couldn’t forgive your father for a twenty-five-year-old mistake?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered and unacknowledged. Angela let it go for the moment and tried a different approach.

“Didn’t this Mitchell guy say that the woman your dad slept with was a waitress or something at a hotel where they stayed?”

“Yes? What about it?”

“Well, if it was truly a one-night stand, and according to Mitchell it probably was, they might not even have used their real names. Isn’t it possible that your dad knows this woman only as the woman he hooked up with twenty-five years ago . . . and doesn’t have any idea who she really is? If I’m right, wouldn’t that make a difference for you and Liz? It’s quite understandable that you can’t get past the fact that your father is trying to reconnect with Starla Deloplane . . . but would it be so awful if he was just reaching out to an anonymous woman from his past?”

“Maybe . . . but if you’re right—if Dad doesn’t know who she really is—then somebody needs to tell him.”

                                                                          * * *

Starla spent the better part of the morning telling Jack the story of her children’s lives as the sun meandered across the morning sky, their kayaks drifting along in rhythm. She spoke of the triplets’ special bond—their fierce and protective love for and loyalty to each other. She tried to describe the pain that Robert’s long slide into madness had inflicted on his brother and sister, recounting how they had fought so hard to save him, to stop his descent, but in the end had been powerless. How despite everything, all of it, they still loved each other and had become good people—much better than she ever was. She was proud of them. They were hard workers, esteemed by people who took the time to get to know them. She hadn’t spoken much about Robert. It was all still too painful. Whenever she wanted to, the remark would lodge in her tightening throat and die there, unspoken. 

After an hour or so, Starla asked Jack an abrupt question. “Do you believe in God, Jack?”

“Yes. I do. Whether or not He believes in me any longer is a different question, I suppose.”

“Do you believe in New Testament God or Old Testament God?”

“I always thought they were the same guy.”

“That’s what they say, but I’m not so sure. I tend to believe in Old Testament God. He appeals to my sense of justice. None of this peace, love, and understanding stuff. The Old Testament God couldn’t be mocked . . . whatever you sowed, you reaped.”

“You seem to know a lot about God. Funny—I wouldn’t have figured you for the church type.”

“The only time I’ve ever been to church was for Robert’s funeral. I made sure my kids went, though. Drove them there every Sunday morning and sat in the parking lot until they were done. But you don’t have to go to church to know about God, Jack. I read all about him in the Bible. Read it cover to cover. And I’m telling you—New Testament God is nothing at all like Old Testament God.

“Ok . . . ”

“I’ve been living with a terrible thought inside my head ever since I figured out that you are the father of my children . . . that Old Testament God finally made an appearance in my life, in both of our lives, and his message is . . . I will not be mocked. You thought you could just have your little fling, violate the holy marriage covenant you made, and get away scott-free? No, no . . . you sow the wind; you reap the whirlwind.”

Jack had no immediate answer to such a weighty statement, not that it had come out of the blue. He himself had asked similar questions, but he’d lacked the courage to follow them through to their logical conclusion . . . that he was suffering under God’s famous wrath. 

“You think Old Testament God knows of forgiveness? Any mercy available to men and women from this Old Testament God?” 

“I wouldn’t bet money on it, Jack.”

“My understanding of God is that He doesn’t always give us what we deserve . . . that sometimes He grants mercy, offers grace and forgiveness even when we don’t deserve it.”

“That’s a nice story, and I’m sure it’s been a comfort to a lot of men on death row or hunkered down in foxholes with bombs exploding all around them . . . but what about us? Why else would any God allow such a thing to happen to my son and your wife? The only thing that makes sense to me is . . . judgement.”

                                                                      24

The floating confessional had altered the trajectory between them. Jack began to see Starla more sympathetically—as someone who, like him, was contorted by grief and regret. Her fatalism troubled him, not just because he thought she might be right, but also because if she was wrong, they owed it to each other to forge a path toward redemption: an impossible task while wallowing in self-pity. 

Starla had been surprised at how easy it was to unburden herself to someone who actually understood the pain of her loss. She felt a kinship with him—a grief solidarity. 

When they finally made it back to the dock, Jack awkwardly offered his plan for redemption.

“Listen, do you think it’s possible for the two of us to give all this a couple days off? Nothing will ever erase what’s happened, but could we give ourselves permission to pretend otherwise? Just a couple of days . . . would you be my guest and let me show you around Maine? Honestly, I haven’t gone more than two hours without beating myself over the head about all of it since September. I bet it’s the same with you. Two days . . . just two days. How about we lay down the burden for two lousy days and see what normal feels like?”  

Starla surprised herself by answering . . . yes.

Over a lunch of lobster rolls from Hazel’s, they discussed the ground rules for this vacation from reality. Jack suggested a moratorium on discussing “the past,” and Starla added a caveat that perhaps each would be allowed one question about the past at each meal. Jack countered with only at dinner. Starla then insisted that the two days would be paid for Dutch treat. Jack objected on the grounds that she was his guest, and he thought it ill-mannered to make her finance half their expenses since the entire enterprise had been his idea. Starla demanded to at least pick up the tips for each meal. 

Once the negotiations were complete, Jack began taking her to all of the places that had enchanted him for over thirty years in and around the midcoast of Maine. The highlight of the first day was the 2.7 mile hike to the top of Mount Battie—a mountain with a spectacular view of the town of Camden as well as a panoramic view of Penobscot Bay. Jack raved about how much she would love it, that the summit was more than worth the climb. Starla reminded him that she was not an outdoorsy girl, and that in case he hadn’t noticed, she was a smoker. Jack reassured her on both counts. Well, we’ll just have to take our time, then.

By the time the clearing at the summit came into view, Starla was exhausted and gasping for breath. Then she saw the parking lot, loaded with what must have been fifty vehicles.

“Wait a minute!! We could have driven up here?”

Jack smiled and responded, “Well, sure . . . but what fun would that have been? Look!”

Starla hadn’t paid attention to the views on this crystal clear late-April day until the moment Jack took her hand and guided her to the edge of a giant boulder at the summit. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all of her life. The sea glistened north and south, wrapping around what appeared to be a hundred small islands stretching out in every direction, dotting the bay like steamships. Behind her, the rolling hills and freshwater beauty of Megunticook completed the panorama. Jack had beheld this glory a couple dozen times, but it felt new today.

They ate dinner at Sea Dog’s, the local peasant food answer to the high-priced haute cuisine favored by the newly and conspicuously rich. There was clam chowder, hush puppies with orange butter, and outlandishly generous portions of fish and chips. Starla was ravenous.

“I’m not going to be able to get out of bed in the morning, but honestly, this is the hungriest I’ve been since . . . ”

“Yeah . . . me too.”

When the second round of beers arrived, Jack announced, “Okay, it’s dinnertime. You can ask your one question about the past now.”

“Screw it. That was a stupid idea.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Well, I’ve got a question about the future.”

Starla took a sip of her beer and waited.

“Are you going to tell your kids about their father?”

Starla briefly regretted her glib dismissal of their agreement. She thought for a minute, then responded with an answer she hoped was true.

“I can probably come up with a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t. But if I’m serious about wanting to start fresh and be better, I have to stop with the lies. So, my answer is . . . yes, I think I’ll have to.”

They both continued eating in silence. After a few minutes, Starla asked, “What about you? Will you tell them about me? About . . . you and me?”

Jack responded bluntly. ”Starla, I don’t think I have the guts. I couldn’t bring myself to tell their mother, and I had a quarter century worth of opportunities. I can’t see myself telling them. I’m afraid it would do more harm than good.”

Starla offered an understanding smile, then let it go.

It was pitch-black by the time their truck pulled up by the lake. Starla was astounded by how deeply dark it was not five minutes from the coast. The blackness seemed oppressive—casting an inky glisten onto the woods, sucking all the color out of the world. But when she looked up into the sky, a thousand stars seemed to light the heavens on fire. 

After switching off the engine, Jack said, “Come with me—I want to show you something.”

He took her by the hand and guided her carefully to the edge of the ramp that led to the floating dock. He asked her to close her eyes  while they walked the last ten steps to the end of the dock. Once there, he let go of her hand and asked her to look up and open her eyes.

Starla had to steady herself against his shoulder as the breathtaking canopy of stars enveloped her. They seemed enormous—close enough to touch. Even as her eyes began to adjust, her heart raced on, trying to catch up with the beauty of the moment. It was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen, and it left her struggling for words. 

 “It almost seems like it’s too beautiful to look at . . . at least too beautiful for me to look at.” 

Jack listened and felt a great sadness for her, that she would think herself unworthy of observing transcendent beauty, even in creation.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Jack began. “The stars are for everyone, saint or sinner. Actually, I think that it might be sinners who take the most joy from something this grand. For saints, this beautiful sky full of stars makes perfect sense. Why shouldn’t the night sky be resplendent with a thousand stars when they look up? This is their Father’s world, after all. But it always takes sinners by surprise. How could this screwed-up world that I’ve made such a mess of produce something this beautiful? To sinners, this sky looks more like a miracle . . . which is closer to what it actually is.”

“Saints and sinners . . . ” Starla still looked upward, trying to comprehend Jack’s words. “Which are we?”

Jack gave the Milky Way one last look of wonder. “We must be sinners.”

As he walked her up the hill to the guest house, the entire universe seemed to have fallen silent. The only sound was their feet against the pebbles underfoot. 

“Tomorrow, I’d like to take the ferry over to Monhegan Island . . . let you see that magnificent place. The ride over might be a little chilly, so you might want to bring your coat.” 

They reached the small patio in front of the sliding glass door. Starla looked into Jack’s eyes and smiled.

“I had such a great time today. Thank you for this.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. In the morning when you’re so sore you can’t even get out of bed, you might not be in a thanking mood!”

Mischief began to spread across her face. She let out an embarrassed giggle. “Wow . . . what exactly do you have in mind?”

Jack paused awkwardly for a second, then flushed red when he got the joke. “Oh, God! I’m sorry . . . that’s not what I meant. Wow, that didn’t come out right. I, uh . . . I wasn’t saying that you would be sore in the morning because of, um . . . that. I meant . . . ”

Starla thoroughly enjoyed his discomfort for a bit before letting him off the hook. “I’m just kidding. Of course I knew what you meant . . . it was just pretty funny if you think about it.”

Both laughed nervously for awhile. Then, Starla slid the glass door open and walked inside, turned around to face him, and asked, “So, what time should I be ready?”

“What time should you be ready . . . for what?”

Starla looked confused.

“Now I’m the one who’s kidding.” 

Both laughed again, this time with no nerves. 

“How about we leave the cabin around 7:00? That will give us time to grab some breakfast somewhere and catch the 9:00 ferry.”

“Sounds good. Can’t wait.”

She gently slid the door shut and watched him walk away until he made it back to the cabin and safely inside. Starla was out before her head hit the pillow, enjoying the guileless sleep of the just.