25
Jack woke up for the first time in months without a mournful knot in his stomach. Today promised something new: an adventure with someone who was starting to feel like a friend. He reached for his cell phone, pulled up his weather app to check the forecast for Monhegan. Chilly morning with clouds, clearing mid-morning with unseasonable temperatures. High in the low 60s. He glanced at the time: 6:35. He started a pot of coffee, laid clean clothes out on the bed, and jumped in the shower. In 20 minutes, he was tapping at the sliding glass door with two cups of coffee in his hands. Starla sat on the sofa, looking like she’d been ready for over an hour. She slid open the door and smiled broadly.
“You read my mind.”
Jack walked inside carefully, trying not to spill anything. “I don’t know how you take it, so it’s just black.”
“Black is fine. How did you sleep?”
“Great. How about you?”
“It must be the Maine air or something. The past two nights have been the best nights’ sleep I’ve had in years. And this morning was so weird.” Starla paused to take a sip of coffee. “Mercy . . . ”
“What?”
“That is some good coffee!”
“No . . . what was so weird about this morning?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. I feel different up here. It’s like something is missing . . . the old heaviness, I think.”
Jack made no reply, just drank his coffee. Then, “You ready? There’s a breakfast joint in Port Clyde that makes this amazing seafood omelet.”
The drive through the back roads to Port Clyde was uninterrupted by traffic—a lazy, drifting route with intervals of misty fog and sunlight.
Starla finally asked, “Do you ever just get used to this, how beautiful everything is here?”
“Never. Maybe if I lived here year-round, eventually I would. That’s probably why I only come up here for the summer. That and the five feet of snow they get in the winter.”
“Can you imagine?”
“No, I cannot. The people up here are tough as nails. They have to be, I guess.”
Once at the restaurant, Jack watched Starla take her first bite of Ojibahn’s famous fresh-catch omelet. Her eyes lit up then rolled skyward.
“Good God in heaven . . . this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!”
“Told ya.”
They sat at the corner table with the view of the ferry landing, where they watched the Elizabeth Ann slide perfectly into her slip, discharging her handful of Monhegan locals headed to the mainland for some shopping. Starla broke the gentle silence.
“I have a confession, of sorts, that I need to make.”
Jack couldn’t imagine what else she could have to confess. “Okay . . . ”
“Last night when you were walking me through that pitch-black darkness out onto the dock . . . for a brief moment, I thought that maybe you were going to kill me. I know that sounds crazy, especially when I opened my eyes and saw the stars. But the thought did enter my mind . . . that you were going to throw me in the lake and watch me drown. I feel so guilty for thinking that you were capable of such a thing. Anyway, I feel like I need to ask your forgiveness for even thinking it.”
Jack looked at her in silence, unable to form a coherent thought. A suitable reply escaped him. As disturbing as her thought was, the fact that she felt compelled to admit such a thing astounded him.
He slowly reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s okay.”
“This is just all so new. This isn’t the way my life turns out . . . it’s all so strange.” Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.
Jack found his voice. “No, no . . . there will be no crying today, Mrs. Deloplane. Monhegan Island doesn’t allow crying. Just like there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no crying on Monhegan.”
Starla recovered and found her smile. Jack paid the bill and led her down the ramp, selecting seats on the top deck.
Monhegan Island was a tiny piece of real estate, unchanged from what it looked like a century ago. The four-square-mile island perched ten miles off the Maine coast, boasting 75 year-round residents. The island was a magnet for artists, drawn to its rugged landscapes, jagged coastlines, and ancient hotel and restaurant. No automobiles were allowed; the only motorized vehicles were a half-dozen battery-operated golf carts and one old flatbed pickup truck that all the local businesses shared to load up supplies from the dock and haul them up the steep dirt roads to their shops. Seventeen miles of hiking trails, all maintained by the locals, traversed the lush interior woods back and forth across the island’s width, each leading to spectacular hundred-foot cliffs overlooking the black-and-blue rocks of the beachless shoreline.
“Great! More hiking . . . ” Starla deadpanned as Jack showed her a map of the trail through Cathedral Woods.
“No, seriously, you’re going to love this hike. It’s much easier than Mount Battie.”
As the ferry accelerated, Starla got up from her seat and shuffled sideways until her hands gripped the side rails. She pulled her coat tightly around her neck against the chilly breeze, then gazed out at the vanishing shoreline. The small lighthouse at Port Clyde was just a dot now as the Elizabeth Ann cut a straight line through the calm sea. She turned around and looked at Jack, who was busy studying his trail map. A couple more days and I’ll never see you again, she thought.
In less than an hour, she saw the Monhegan dock approaching fast on the port side, the lonely, uninhabited Manana Island on the starboard side. After departing the ferry, they began climbing a steep, dusty road leading to a gray clapboard hotel, its long covered porch filled with white wicker rocking chairs.
“This is the steepest hill on the Island,” Jack explained. “Once we reach the hotel, we can rest and take in a beautiful view.”
The hotel’s porch offered the kind of view that Starla had only ever seen in travel magazines and Hallmark movies. They sat down in two rockers and looked over the porch railing at the dozen or more painters busily making practiced strokes on their canvases, hundreds of seagulls dotting the sky above them. Several older couples sat back in white Adirondack chairs, reading their newspapers and sipping wine from elegantly tall glasses.
Starla sighed. “You have got to be kidding me. This place doesn’t even seem real.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t . . . and I’ve been here at least ten times. That’s why I keep coming back.”
“What time is it?” Starla asked.
“Let’s see . . . 10:45.”
“I suppose it’s a bit early for wine, then.”
Jack stood up and looked down at Starla. “Luckily for us, It happens to be 5:00 in Bucharest right now.”
He disappeared through the French door and soon emerged with a bottle of white wine and two long-stemmed flutes. They sat and watched the thin clouds melt away, leaving a blue sky that brightened the ocean’s color and sent the seagulls into flight.
Starla noticed a basket on the floor at Jack’s feet. “What’s that?”
“That’s our lunch. I called the order in last night. As soon as we can drag ourselves away from this porch, we are going for a picnic on the cliffs at Whitehead. You’ll probably complain about the hike, but you’re going to thank me once we get there.”
“You think of everything.”
“I have my moments.”
The hike was largely a quiet affair, the pine-needled paths hushing even their steps. Cathedral Woods felt like an actual church; the grandness and beauty of the towering pine and spruce trees compelled them into silence. Every so often, Starla noticed primitive little forts built from tree branches, bark, pine cones, and other building materials that could be scrounged from the forest floor. Each little house was unique and varied in size and design, limited only by the imagination of the architect. Jack explained the phenomenon only after letting Starla exhaust all her possible theories. These were fairy houses, constructed by the locals as part of a decades-long tradition to house the large tribe of magical creatures that supposedly lived in these woods. Starla listened to the story with wide-eyed innocence, praying for it all to be true.
Soon the fairy houses disappeared, replaced by the dull roar of the sea crashing against rocks. The woods began to thin, and the bright sunshine finally broke through the end of the trail. Just a few hundred feet later, the blue ocean appeared, along with the rocky ledges of the Whitehead cliffs. Jack took the lead and found his favorite flat rock, overlooking the entire panorama. He placed the picnic basket down and signaled for Starla to follow him for an even better look.
“Don’t worry, he smiled, I won’t push you off!”
He led them down to a narrow ledge only large enough for two people. From the ledge, the view a hundred feet down to the breakers was unobstructed. Between their perch and the sea, a flock of white seagulls soared in unending circles. It was a dizzying sight. The crash of the waves against the giant boulders juxtaposed stirringly with the mournful cry of the birds. Starla began to weep. Jack said nothing, reaching in his pocket and handing her a handkerchief. She took it from him.
“Of course you would have a handkerchief. I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any crying on Monhegan. Why did you bring a handkerchief along?”
Jack gazed out at the horizon. “Because sometimes, the fairies allow exceptions.”
Back at the flat rock, Jack opened the basket and removed the checkered blanket, a bottle of wine, two glasses, and an assortment of delicacies that the hotel had prepared for their lunch. The sun grew ever warmer as it climbed higher in the sky above them. They ate, watched, and listened. Soon, they each reclined onto their backs, allowing the sunlight to drape over them like a blanket. They lay for the longest time in silence. Jack felt himself drift off into sleep, only to be awakened by the loud caw of a seagull.
An expectation began to build in the moment. It was the kind of moment that only the created world can produce. Jack closed his eyes, expectant.
Starla spoke. “You and I . . . us . . . we’re never going to be a thing, are we?”
Jack opened his eyes and saw a lone gull high above, rimmed by the impossibly azure sky. The bird tilted its great wings lower on one side and began a sweeping, effortless arc against the horizon. He watched the performance, captivated by the creature’s simplicity and grace.
He finally answered, “Well, we already are a thing, aren’t we? I mean, we have children . . . you can’t get much more of a thing than that.”
Starla said nothing. Jack thought better of his answer—it was too flippant, too thoughtless for the moment. “But, no. I don’t think we will ever be a thing . . . again. Maybe in a different time, a different place.”
Starla was silent. Her eyes remained closed. She reached across the blanket, found Jack’s hand, and held it gently.
“When we get back to the cabin, I need to see if I can get a flight out tomorrow. I think it’s time for me to go home.”
26
After picking up Italian sandwiches from Searsmont Mercantile, Jack and Starla made it back to the lake. It had grown noticeably colder. Jack made a fire and set the table while Starla booked her flight using her cellphone.
“First available looks to be tomorrow afternoon at 4:15 into Boston with a connection into Richmond. I’ll be home by midnight.”
“At least you won’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.” Jack was working hard at staying upbeat. “Sandwiches are ready, and until you’ve had Italian sandwiches from the Mercantile, you haven’t lived, sister! Hell with the table—stay there. We can eat off the coffee table . . . it’s closer to the fire.”
Jack cleared the picture album and a pile of magazines off the table, set down the paper plates, then grabbed two beers from the fridge.
“Now . . . try this.”
Starla took a bite of her warm and entirely too greasy sub and admitted that it was delicious. It had been a long day—a long couple of days. She felt the exhaustion coming on hard and fast. She washed down the salt and vinegar chips with the cold beer and felt the soothing warmth of the fire.
“Jack, you were right about taking a couple of days off. This has been wonderful. I had actually forgotten what it felt like to be . . . human. Thank you . . . for everything.”
“Sure you’re ready to go home?”
“Not really. But the longer I put it off, the harder it’s going to be to leave. This has been like a dream, but this isn’t my life. You . . . aren’t my life. I’ve got to get back to it and make the best of what I have left. Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does.”
They finished their meal in silence. Then Starla lifted the photo album off the floor.
“What’s this?”
Jack’s first instinct was to take it from her and change the subject, but before he could reach for it, she had already opened it up to the first page. There was a picture of Jack and Evelyn standing in front of an old two room cabin from thirty years ago. Jack explained that Evelyn compiled this album of photographs from every Maine vacation they had enjoyed since their honeymoon up at Sebago Lake. The only place they could afford was that moldy old dump in the picture on page one.
Starla smiled. “You look so young . . . and Evelyn was a stunning woman.”
The two of them settled back on the sofa and began journeying through the memory album. Starla asked question after question, and Jack found himself enjoying answering her, having not shared his life story in a very long time. Several pages in, there was the rainy picture from 1990. Starla pointed to a shot of Jack in a chair with a book in his hands, looking up from his reading to smile at the camera.
“I know that guy,” she murmured. “That’s exactly what you looked like at The Hedges.”
“That was the same year . . . good call.”
The later pages included pictures of Liz and Kevin, growing like weeds from year to year. Jack began to talk about them, introducing Starla to the children he was so proud of and was starting to miss terribly. Starla listened intently, studying the details of each picture, becoming newly aware of the vast chasm that separated them. What type of memory album could she possibly construct that would tell her family story? She tried to imagine how awkward it would be to flip through its pages, explaining to Jack who this man was, and now this new man, and still another. What vacation memories could she have attached under the clear sleeves of a photo album? That time they went to Virginia Beach when the triplets were three and spent all weekend cleaning up vomit when the kids caught the stomach flu? As she marveled at the beautiful family on the pages before her, she once again felt the familiar pain that had plagued her all of her life. She just didn’t measure up. It was a cold and stubborn fact. The pictures didn’t lie. This was what a family was supposed to look like—these happy, hopeful Rigsbys, laughing and playing in impossibly clean lake water, taking turns standing on their dad’s shoulders, then diving in as Evelyn stood nearby working the camera.
“You have a beautiful family . . . ”
“Yes, I do. Thanks. Of course, it’s not as perfect as it looks in these pictures. Evelyn never put pictures of the kids throwing up in here. The pictures of us with our noses pressed against the windows during driving rainstorms never made the cut either. So, this is basically a ‘best of the Rigsbys’ sort of thing. But I imagine it’s the same with any family. Photo albums are the best of times . . . ”
“Maybe so.” Starla closed the album and placed it on the coffee table. “But it’s also true that some families are better than others . . . better genes, maybe. Better decisions.”
Jack leaned his head back against the sofa cushion. “ . . . better diet, better schools, better opportunities . . . ”
Starla smiled. “ . . . better Internet.” They both laughed, then watched the glowing embers of the fire in silence. Jack’s eyes started getting heavy.
“Well, at least you can sleep in tomorrow since your flight isn’t until late.”
“Speaking of sleep, I better head up, or I’m going to fall asleep on this sofa.”
“Sure. I’ll plan on making some brunch tomorrow. If you’re not awake by eleven or so, I’ll toss some gravel against your window.”
They got up and headed to the door. Jack offered to walk with her up the hill through the darkness, but Starla objected.
“No, Jack. Maybe you should stay here.” Her eyes were shining, and her hand seemed to shake as she placed it on his arm. “I know the way. Good night.”
She looked at him through the screen door with sadness and longing, then turned away and disappeared into the thick darkness.
* * *
Starla turned out the light and looked through the window, down the hill to the cabin. The light in Jack’s room was still on. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come, but the drowsiness she had felt just ten minutes earlier in front of the fire was gone, replaced by restlessness. She thought of what she would tell her kids when she got home. How was she going to explain it all to them? What were they going to think of her? She thought of Jack, of how difficult it was going to be to say goodbye to him forever. She thought of the pictures in the album, how happy they had all looked. She thought of how horrible it would have been if that night had destroyed it all. She felt grateful that Jack kept their secret.
She shifted in the bed again, trying a different position, wanting desperately to fall asleep, to relieve the growing sadness in her heart. She saw the light go out down the hill, and silent tears immediately welled in her eyes. There was nothing left to do but cry. He was too good for her; she wasn’t nearly good enough for him. This was how these things worked in the real world. And after tomorrow, he would be gone and she would move on with whatever remained of her life. It would be a clean break, a quick departure—a victimless getaway.
* * *
Jack lay in his bed, trying to read one of the Dean Koontz paperbacks from his bookcase, even though he had already read this particular one at least twice. He needed to settle his mind. It was alive with regret. He knew that this was the right thing to do, that they could never make it work. They were just too different. There was too much baggage. He wasn’t ready for a new relationship with anyone, but especially not Starla. It wasn’t her fault, really. It just wasn’t meant to be. He considered himself lucky to have made peace with her, to actually have gotten to know her, to discover that she was much more than he had ever imagined her to be.
The book lay dead in his hands, his eyes focused on nothing. No sleep would come. He reached behind him and turned off the light on the nightstand. The cabin plunged into darkness. After a couple of minutes, the nightlight in the hallway brought dark shapes back into view. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, wondering what it was going to be like to say goodbye to her forever. Once she was out of his life, what then? How could he possibly screw up enough courage to tell the kids? Should he even bother? Was it time for him to get back to work? Or was it time for him to activate his buy/sell agreement with Mitchell and just start fresh with a new life? He didn’t need the money. But if not work, then . . . what? He just wanted to sleep . . . the thoughts in his head were starting to hurt. But on a fraught and restless night like this, dreams were inevitable. Jack lay awake, trying to decide which he preferred.
* * *
Jack was right, Starla thought. We can never be a thing. Hell, I don’t need another thing. I’m 0 for 3. I don’t deserve another thing. But it had been nice to be treated so well. The past couple of days had been unlike any experience of her life. If this was how he treated Evelyn, no wonder she loved him so much. But the truth of the matter was. . . she didn’t love Jack. She didn’t even know what love was. She admired him. She was attracted to him. But, love? She had no working definition for the word, so . . . probably not. Even if she did love him, it wouldn’t matter. She was boarding a plane tomorrow. She needed to get some sleep.
* * *
She had been a surprise—not at all what he had imagined. There was a transparency, and a hard-won sense of humor. She possessed a toughness, a daring bravery that he lacked, a willingness to risk it all on the truth. And yet there was also a self-loathing beneath the surface—an expression she would get on her face from time to time that suggested that she was ashamed of herself. Maybe it was that imperfection—that vulnerability—that attracted him. But it could never work . . . not in this lifetime.
* * *
Jack heard the rusty hinges of the screen door, the soft footsteps on the floor, then saw her outline at the door of his room. She was wrapped in one of the terrycloth robes that Evelyn had insisted on hanging on every bathroom door on the property. He sat up in bed, his heart beating like a drum in his chest.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she began, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been laying in bed for over an hour with three things running through my mind.”
Jack had to remind himself to breathe.
“First, were you planning on driving me to the airport? Because I would really like that, but if you do, what am I going to do with my rental car? I flew in to the Rockland airport, which is kind of on the way, so I thought maybe you could follow me there so I could drop it off. Would that be ok?”
“That sounds like a plan . . . ”
“Thanks. The second thing is . . . what kind of store called a mercantile would sell sandwiches?”
Jack smiled in the darkness. “Yeah, well . . . that’s a Maine thing. Every town in this entire state has some kind of grocery store place that sells homemade pizza, whoopie pies, and Italian sandwiches. It’s like the official menu of Maine. In Searsmont, it’s the Mercantile, so . . . ”
“Okay . . . it’s still weird.”
“Yeah, I guess it is . . . ”
A silence fell—an oppressive middle of the night silence which was suddenly interrupted by the furnace kicking in, gently rattling the windows.
Jack’s breathing had become shallow. “You said there were three things on your mind . . . that’s only two.”
“I know what I said . . . ”
Starla took a deep, nervous breath, then walked over and stood by the edge of the bed.
“I know that you and I can never work—you’re right about that. I know that tomorrow I will get on that plane and we will never see each other again, and I’m okay with that . . . but Jack . . . not tonight.” She slipped the robe off her shoulders and got into bed beside him.
It was nothing like either of them remembered, their twenty-five year old memories having atrophied from misuse. They had come together slowly. The frenzied lust of their first encounter faded into the dust, replaced by a cautious tenderness, like two wounded people trying to overcome some debilitating trauma, wondering if they were even capable anymore. When they were done, they lay still in the silence, holding on to each other, no words possible or necessary, Starla wiping tears from her cheeks. Warmth and peace descended, then finally, sleep.
Jack’s eyes opened when the sun flashed through the window. Starla lay tight against his chest, still sound asleep. Jack drew his arm from underneath the covers and glanced at his watch: 11:45. He looked at Starla’s face and kissed her forehead. Her eyes opened hesitantly; then she touched his lips with her fingertips.
“Good morning,” Jack said. “It’s almost noon. We should probably get up.”
“Yes, we probably should.”
It should have been an awkward moment, full of remorse and forced apologies. But they both lay still, looking at each other with shy smiles.
Starla broke the silence. “Thank you for this . . . thank you.”
Jack waited, not wanting to say something stupid, then couldn’t help himself. “I’m pretty sure that when a lady shows up bedside and makes love to you, it’s the man who should be doing the thanking.”
They both heard the car at the same time—the sound of tires cutting through the pebbled driveway. They looked out the window and saw the SUV slowly making its way towards Jack’s pickup truck. When it stopped, they both saw the doors open and two handsome couples climb out. Jack’s family—the beautiful people from the photo album—stretching out the stiffness of the drive and now heading towards the cabin.
Jack looked at Starla. “Oh, shit.”
No comments:
Post a Comment