Saving Jack. Chapter 29

29

Angela insisted that they all consider eating outside on the deck, having become emotionally attached to the lake. “Is it too chilly to eat outside?” she had begged. Liz seconded the motion, and before long everyone was devouring the Mercantile’s finest around the weather-beaten dinner table, which was only a few years old but looked like an antique after exposure to the worst Maine had to offer. 

Jack and Starla had held back for a moment as everyone made their way outside. Starla said, “Looks like all the flights out tomorrow are booked, so I’ll have to wait until Monday. Maybe you can take me back to my hotel for the night . . . looks like this place is going to be packed.”

Jack looked momentarily stunned by the suggestion, as if it had never entered his mind that he would have to face this confrontation without her. “Please don’t go,” he pleaded, sounding wounded and slightly pathetic. “I don’t want to do this alone. Go get your things and move them into my room. David and Liz can sleep up there, and Kevin and Angela can use the loft.”

Starla’s soft smile was enough of an answer. The relief on Jack’s face was palpable. Starla reached for his hand and gave it a gentle tug; then they walked out on the deck to join the others.

Angela was in the middle of asking Bobby a question. “Excuse me, Bobby, but did I hear you say that the ramp has wheels?” Angela appeared aghast at the possibility.

Everyone laughed at the question. Kevin explained, “Angela, how do you think we get that big-ass thing into the water every year? It weighs a ton. We roll it in and out at the beginning and end of every season. You can’t just leave it in there all winter. The lake freezes over.”

Bobby turned to Liz and said in a loud voice, “Kevin’s got a girlfriend!”

Liz giggled. “I know, Bobby . . . can you believe it?”

Starla helped herself to a slice and listened to the banter back and forth, surprised at the special bond that seemed to exist between Jack’s kids and this odd-looking caretaker. She watched him devouring his pizza, face aglow with contentment, fitting in with them like an old uncle. She leaned over and whispered to Jack, “You didn’t tell me you had a second son!” Jack smiled, then rolled his eyes.

After the pizza was gone, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the warmth spread out onto the entire surface of the deck. The glow signaled that it was now about 1:30, and the lake side of the cabin was now in full, unfiltered sunlight. It had grown noticeably warmer. Everyone was on their second or third beer, completely emptying Jack’s supply. 

Kevin’s loud voice pierced the calm. “So, Bobby . . . I’ve got a question for you.” All eyes flickered to Kevin. Something commanding about his tone of voice had changed the dynamic. “Do you believe in God?”

Bobby had suddenly become shy and halting. “Gee, Kev, I don’t know much about religion.”

“And neither does anyone else, Bobby, especially religious people. It’s actually a pretty simple question. Do you believe in God, or don’t you?”

“Well, sure I do . . . I think.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, big guy.”

“No, Yes. Sure I believe in God.”

“Okay, this God you believe in—what’s he like?”

The deck was now an awkward place. Everyone was trying to figure out what Kevin was up to, why he would ask such a question of Bobby, a man renowned for not spending much time pondering deep thoughts.

“See, Starla here believes in an Old Testament God, a god who carries a hammer with him and isn’t afraid to use it when you screw up. But Dad, no . . . Dad is totally a New Testament God guy, a god who forgives and offers grace no matter what despicable thing you do. I was just wondering where you fall in this debate. How about it, Bobby? What’s your God like?”

Bobby took his last bite of pizza and then looked around at everyone staring at him, expectant, waiting for his answer. Liz seemed annoyed that he’d been put in such a position, flashing an angry glare at her brother. Jack warily glanced at Starla, recognizing the language his son had used, knowing now what the two of them had been discussing on the dock. David gazed out at the lake, looking like he wished he was anywhere else. Angela kept cutting her eyes back and forth around the deck, trying to pick up clues from everyone’s faces. What was happening here?

Bobby began, “Like I said before, Kev . . . I don’t know much about religion. But my mom and dad made me go to church every Sunday when I was a boy, so I learned some stuff. I don’t go to church much now since they passed and all . . . but I go sometimes. I guess what I think is that God is like both of the things you said. I remember in Sunday School, the teacher would always tell us that we were all God’s children, and God was our father. Well, I’m not a father. I’ve never had no kids. But I bet if I did, I would want to protect them from doing stupid things . . . you know, like touching a burning fire. So when they was too young to know better, I would have to use the hammer, like you said, to make sure they stayed away from the fire. But once they grew up some and could figure out things for themselves, I would want to forgive them when they messed up. I wouldn’t want to crush them every time they made a mistake. I think maybe that’s what God is like. Tough when we need him to be and merciful when we need mercy.”

Everyone had fallen silent as an almost reverent peace settled around them. Bobby’s words had managed to still the air, to sap all the confrontation from the atmosphere. Jack looked at Starla’s face and noticed the tears forming. All of his children appeared transfixed by Bobby’s theology, hanging on every word.

“Another thing . . . when I was little, I was kinda afraid of my dad. Because he was the one who would tan my hide when my mom caught me doing stupid stuff. But when I got older, my dad and me became more like friends. He was still my dad and all, and I guess I always was a little bit afraid of him, of what he would think of me if I did something bad. See, I never wanted to disappoint him because he was my dad and I loved him. But when I was older, Dad was much more like a friend. Maybe that’s what God’s like, too . . . a really hard teacher when we’re young but then more like a dear friend when we get older. But if what they taught me in Sunday School is true and God is our father, I would think that he loves us like my dad loved me. He wants the best for us, wants us to do good and be good.” 

Bobby paused and glanced around the room, noticing that nobody was looking at him. Everyone seemed lost in thought, in their own world, eyes focused on something unseen. He waited for someone to speak, to respond to him and let him know that he was done . . . but there was only silence. He continued.

“So, yeah, I suppose that God carries a hammer around still, because there’s plenty of people doing stupid stuff. But I also think he’s looking for a reason to forgive us, too, because like all good dads, he wants his children to be happy. Hope that answers your question, Kev, because that’s all I got . . . ”

The only sounds were the gentle lapping of small waves against the shore and the tingle of the windchimes hanging from the birch tree. Tears flowed down Starla’s cheeks in a steady stream. 

Then, Kevin’s chastened voice: “And that, Dad, is why Bobby needs a raise.”

One Month

It has only been about a month since our Governor ordered all Virginians to “stay at home.” I have been in strict compliance. Since I’m considered essential I am allowed to drive the mile and a half into my office every day. Once there, new safety protocols are in place limiting exposure. I stay there for roughly half the day, then return to my home for the afternoon and conduct business via the internet and call forwarding. The trips to and from my office have been the extent of my traveling, with the exception of a few trips to the drive thru of my bank and a couple of ice cream meetings with a friends in the largely empty parking lot of Ray’s Italian Ice where social distancing guidelines were strictly enforced. Pam has limited her outings to a once weekly trip to Publix to get groceries. Three times, I have driven to Wong’s Tacos to pick up our Friday night dinner order at their curb. That’s pretty much the extent of our adventuring since the Governor’s declaration. It’s been one month. One month.

Officially this edict is in place through June 10th here in the Commonwealth. Hope exists that it may be lifted before then. However, in the rapidly changing world of viral pandemics, there always exists the possibility that the June 10th date will be extended. For the sake of my personal sanity, I choose not to think of the most negative scenarios. In fact, I choose not to think much of anything which  involves dates on a calendar. I have defaulted to the cliched athletes’ response...I’m just taking it one day at a time.

Having said that, I must here confess to a fierce inner battle raging within me. With each passing day, I’m becoming more and more annoyed with the parameters of my life being set by a Governor. The fact that one man presumes to have the authority over my liberty is an affront to what I consider my natural rights as a free citizen of a Republic which features a Constitution and a Bill of Rights. I have chosen not to fight this because of the nature of the crisis we face, a highly contagious virus with deadly power. But choosing not to fight something is not the same thing as approving of something. I do not approve. I comply out of a moral obligation to my neighbors and my community. I admit my lack of definitive scientific knowledge on the matter and—for the time being—chose to defer to the judgement of those who have been democratically elected to positions of leadership. But my deferral is not infinite. The longer I am asked to forfeit my rights as a free citizen, the more conclusive information I will require from those making such demands.

Understand, this has nothing to do with politics in general or our Governor’s political affiliation in particular. I would feel exactly the same way if the one making such demands of me were a small government Libertarian. This debate isn’t about anyone’s personality. It is about the proper roll of government and the proper limits on its power— even in times of great crisis. I have a natural inclination to resist authority. I have always struggled with any authority in life. It was my mother who warned me many years ago that my unwillingness to submit myself to anyone else’s yoke, though a fine quality when applied judiciously, might wind up being an obstacle to a happy life. She was not entirely wrong in her assessment. My fierce independence has served me well many times. But it has also been the obstacle she warned me it would be in other matters, not the least of which was the necessary submission required in the Christian faith. So, when I watch government at all levels scooping up more and more power over ever greater portions of our daily lives, resentment and suspicion begin to grow roots in my heart.

I watch the daily briefings from Washington with growing disgust, irritated by the self-congratulatory campaign style cheerleading. I see the pettiness, the juvenile score settling, the incessant whining from the podium. Even worse, the vacuous blowhards who populate the press remind me that a free press is worthless if they are so hip deep in politics themselves, they can’t be told apart from the politicians. The specter of government officials casting themselves as our saviors by proposing one free money giveaway after another, making themselves, Washington D.C. the epicenter of our salvation is galling to me. No matter how this thing turns out it will be the central planners who will take the credit, and blame any failures on the public’s failure to properly fall in line. They will be united in their proclamation that in order for a modern society to protect itself from future pandemic, we must bargain away more and more of our liberty for greater safety. Not to worry, they will exercise these new powers with great care and deliberation.

I guess that my essential problem is that I am not a European with continental sensitivities. I know nothing of Monarchies, I have no experience with a feudal history, I am clueless of peerage, I am unfamiliar with the Socialist ethos that has governed much of Europe for most of my lifetime. For better or for worse, I am an American with American sensibilities. My country hasn’t had two world wars fought on our streets, and just one civil war. For more than half of America’s history we were largely ungoverned and frankly, ungovernable.( see the Wild West ). That history has forged in many of us a resistance to and great suspicion of centralized solutions to anything. Thomas Jefferson’s great word that the best government was the government that governs least rings true in my heart and in the hearts of millions more in my country. Today, that phrase seems charmingly naive. When I observe what has happened to the power, size and jurisdiction of government just in the last six weeks it is staggering. Maybe once this crisis passes, they will willingly lay all these new powers down. My gut tells me they will not, but even if they do, all of us will be stuck with the 6 trillion dollar price tag for it all.

Times change and human beings have to adjust. Perhaps I am experiencing a sea change in what life will be like for modern man in modern societies. Maybe the future will include less freedom, less personal autonomy in exchange for a more muscular government strong enough to protect us in the new age of pandemics. Maybe my notions of the proper role of government, along with my understanding of the preeminence of individual liberty have been overtaken by this rapidly changing world. If so, I will adjust. But, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And it doesn’t mean I will ever become comfortable with a man or women in front of a bank of microphones telling me where I can and cannot go, what I can and cannot do.

Saving Jack. Chapters 27-28

                                                 27

Kevin turned the Hyundai onto the lake road and glanced over at Angela, waiting for her response. She finally burst out, “Oh my God, where in the world are you taking me . . . the end of the world?”

David spoke up from the backseat, “That’s exactly what I thought the first time I came up here. It was like every new road was smaller and smaller. I remember thinking, if we meet someone coming the other way, we’re all dead!”

Liz laughed. “Listen to these city slickers, Kev!”

Kevin slowed down for the big left-hand turn in the road where the sign was nailed to the birch tree—LOON MAGIC. “I just hope he’s here. If not, we’ve all come an awfully long way for nothing.”

Liz interrupted, “He’s here. And even if he’s not, we will have a wonderful weekend showing Angela around. Stop being such a Negative Nancy.”

David laughed. “Negative Nancy? That the best you can do? That’s all you got? Kevin, I think your sister needs to pick up her trash talk game . . . Negative Nancy?”

The last hard turn down to the house revealed Jack’s F-150. 

“Yep. He’s here . . . ”

                                                                              * * *

Jack scrambled to find his clothes, panic making his movements wild and inefficient. “I cannot believe this is happening. This isn’t the way life is supposed to work!”

Starla found her thick robe on the floor and tied it tightly around her waist. “Actually, this is exactly how life works, Jack. What do you want me to do? I can stay in here or whatever . . . ”

“I don’t know! I’m not ready for this! What the hell are they doing here? You can’t stay in here. You’re a grown woman. We’re adults here. Besides, kids are not supposed to be the ones catching parents sleeping with other people. It’s supposed to be the other way around!”

“That option doesn’t appear to be on the table.” Starla couldn’t help herself from smiling. They had reached the door. 

Starla grabbed Jack’s hands. “Listen to me: when all else fails . . . go with the truth. It’s my new thing. You should try it.”

Jack threw on a sweatshirt and headed to the door, pausing at the last minute to look back at Starla, who stood in the bedroom doorway with her arms folded across her chest. She looked cool as a cucumber. Jack could feel his palms soaked with sweat.

“Hey, guys! What the heck is this?”

Liz was first through the door. She characteristically ran to her father with a hug. “We decided to surprise you. David’s here, and Kevin brought Angela!”

“Well, you certainly surprised me . . . of course, this must be Angela!”

Angela stepped through the door timidly, momentarily distracted by the gorgeous view through the bank of windows across the back of the cabin. The lake sparkled a bright blue and gold. She glanced up at Jack and flashed the smile that had slain his son four months earlier.

“So glad to meet you, Mr. Rigsby. This place is breathtaking.”

Angela spotted Starla across the room and loosened her grip around Jack’s neck. “Oh, hello . . . you have a guest.”

David and Kevin made their way inside and noticed the sudden quiet. Then they saw her and her bathrobe and her disheveled hair, leaning against the doorframe of their parents’ bedroom door. 

“Oh,” David managed. “We must have called a dozen times yesterday to let you know we were on our way, but your phone just rang and rang. You have . . . company.”

Jack walked over to give his son-in-law a hug. “Yeah, we spent the day on Monhegan yesterday . . . not much coverage out there. Hey, son.” He embraced Kevin, genuinely glad to see him. “Angela is beautiful—better in person than on the phone!”

Kevin, his eyes firmly fixed on the women who undoubtedly was Starla Deloplane, managed a reply. “Good to see you, Dad. Yes, she is something else, isn’t she? Who’s your friend?”

Everyone stood silently, pinched together in a tight bunch near the entryway to the cabin, all staring at Starla in various stages of disbelief. None of the scenarios they had rehearsed on the flight up included what to do if Jack and Starla stumbled out of the bedroom to greet them after a night of sex.

Starla suddenly walked over to the kitchen, reached for one of the colorful mugs that hung from hooks underneath the microwave, and broke the deafening silence. “Coffee, anyone?”

After an agonizing moment, David asked, “Got anything stronger?”

Jack finally found a shaky equilibrium from a mysterious reserve of strength. “Listen, everyone . . . I know this is surprising for you all, and I’m sorry that you had to stumble into the middle of this.” Jack turned to look at Starla, latched onto her glistening eyes, and continued. “This is my friend from many years ago. We ran into each other up here last week and have enjoyed becoming reacquainted after a very long time. It was not my intention for you all to be introduced this way, and I’m terribly sorry about how this took place, but . . . ”

Kevin once again: “Does your friend have a name?”

Jack hesitated, his words catching in his throat. Starla noticed and stepped forward to shake Kevin’s hand, just about the time that Jack found his voice. “This is Starla. Starla, this is my oldest, Kevin.”

Introductions all around, then another tense standoff of silence—the new enemy in the room. 

Kevin persisted, “Starla is a very unique name. You don’t run into many Starlas. But it’s the kind of name no one would likely forget.”

Jack, becoming irritated, shot back: “Yes, Starla had planned on flying back home today, but she missed her flight. He stared intently at his son, then added, “We overslept.”

Starla took it all in, trying to decide what her role was to be in this increasingly uncomfortable confrontation. “David, I think Jack has some beer in the fridge. Can I get you one?”

“That would be delightful.” David leapt at the chance for a diversion. “Knowing Jack, it will be a Sam Adams. I would love one!” 

Angela grabbed Liz by the arm. “Well, are you going to show me the lake or not? It’s gorgeous!”

Liz pounced on the opening. “Yes, everyone! Let’s go out to the dock. Angela needs the grand tour!”

As everyone started making their way through the French doors, Jack took Starla by the hand and whispered into her ear, “Sorry for the change of plans. I suppose I panicked, didn’t want to face this without you. I’m a coward . . . ”

Starla kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “No, you’re not. But you are going to pay for my cancelation fees. Meanwhile, I’m going to run up and make myself presentable. You going to be alright?”

“Hell no . . . but I’ll be here when you get back.”

Starla slipped out the door and up the hill as Jack turned to follow his family outside. They had reached the end of the dock, Kevin pointing out all the landmarks around the lake to Angela. Liz ran to meet her dad walking down the ramp.

“So, which is it . . . Carolyn or Starla? That’s the same woman from before, right?”

“It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it in due time . . . but not now, ok?”

“Sure, Dad.” Liz slung her arm around him as they made their way to the dock. “By the way, you look great.”

For the moment, Kevin had disengaged hostilities, temporarily distracted by Angela’s reaction to the place he had been trying to describe to her for months. She turned around to look back at the cabin and noticed the sunlight’s reflection off the water making gentle waves across the canopy of tree branches.

“Its just magical, Kevin. No wonder you keep coming back.”

Jack looked at Angela closely, noticing her beauty for the first time, his first look having been too distracted. Now, her beauty was unavoidable to miss in the clear light of day. When Angela and Liz got distracted by the twin hammocks hanging under the pine trees next to the small beach, Jack used the moment to give his son another hug.

“Wow, son. Your girlfriend is a stunner. You guys still getting along?”

Kevin laughed. “Yes, dad! We are still getting along . . . ”

“I’m just asking. She looks like a keeper to me. You don’t want to let someone like that wiggle off the hook.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Dad, we’ve only known each other since New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake!”

“Just sayin’.”

“I’ll keep your words of wisdom under advisement, especially since you apparently know so much about relationships.” Kevin hadn’t meant for the words to come out so harshly, hadn’t intended for them to sound like an indictment. But he couldn’t hide his disapproval, couldn’t mask his anger that his father had chosen to pursue a relationship, however brief, with Starla Deloplane—of all the women walking the Earth, the absolute worst choice.

Jack kept his voice low and under control. “Son, it’s a very complicated thing. I will explain it to you in due time, but I would like for you to be respectful to her while she’s here. Do not make a scene. If you insist, I will ask you to leave.  It’s that simple.”

Kevin looked up toward the cabin and saw Starla standing on the deck. “Okay, Dad. But I’m going to need an explanation . . . and soon.”

 Jack noticed Starla and felt a wave of relief at the sight of her.  

Kevin whispered in his sister’s ear, “This is going to be one hell of a weekend.”

                                                                         28

Liz and Angela, who had seemingly become best friends, decided that pizza was needed from the Mercantile and sent David and Kevin up to Searsmont for two large pies with everything. Liz insisted that they also pick up a half dozen whoopie pies. Angela could hardly contain herself. The boys hadn’t been gone five minutes before the girls were paddling two kayaks  out on the lake. Jack and Starla sat down on the dock to watch them carrying on like two teenage girls. 

Jack managed a defensive smile, still disconcerted by the sudden arrival of his entire family at Loon Magic. Starla watched him watching the girls, noticed the worry lines, saw his nervous movements.

“Well,” she began, “so far so good, I would say.”

“Since when did you become an optimist? Kevin isn’t happy. He looks like he knows something, or at least he thinks he knows something. At some point, I’m going to have to level with him . . . ”

Starla decided to change the subject. “Liz seems sweet . . . and Kevin’s girlfriend is gorgeous. What is it with the Rigsby men landing all the beautiful women?”

Jack smiled, then realized a moment later that she had been referring to Evelyn. This woman just won’t give herself a break. He offered up a contrary viewpoint. “Yes, Evelyn was a beautiful woman . . . but you’re beautiful, too, you know.”

Starla immediately pounced. “You bet I am, but you don’t have me.”

Jack was a bit startled, taken back a step. “That’s true, I don’t . . . that’s a fact.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Liz calling out from the lake, “Daddy! You should get your kayak and come out!”

Starla smiled broadly. “How sweet is that? She still calls you daddy?”

“Yep,” Jack answered. “What am I supposed to do when my little girl who is now a grown woman asks me to get in a kayak and join her?”

“You better get out there.”

Jack hauled a third and fourth kayak out from under the deck, wiped the cobwebs clear, and headed out. Starla sat in the bright sunshine, watching them, lost in a surreal moment, feeling like a fly on the wall, an outsider, a poacher. These kids loved Jack—she could tell and she had known them all of thirty minutes. 

David and Kevin walked briskly through the French doors onto the deck. Kevin laughed about something, then ordered David to take the last kayak out and round everyone up before the pizzas got cold. Kevin walked down to the dock and lowered himself into the seat next to Starla while making fun of David’s technique.

“You kayak like a girl, dude!”

Starla felt like she should be nervous at the prospect of a private conversation with the most belligerent member of the Rigsby family, but she was surprisingly calm, even exhilarated at the opportunity to speak to one of Jack’s kids without him around. She waited for him to begin, not wanting to appear pushy or overanxious. She glanced at Kevin. He was very much like his father—the same eyes, his facial features a dead giveaway to the world that he was Jack Rigsby’s boy. But Kevin was a serious young man with none of his father’s charm and playfulness.

Kevin stretched out in the Adirondack chair, legs extended to their full length. “So, you’re Starla,” he began. “Where in the world have I heard that name before?” His easy smile hurried away in a frozen second, replaced by a glare.

“I’ve always loved my name. It sounds pretty when you say it out loud. Like you said earlier . . . its unique.” Starla steeled herself and ventured into the depths. “But, I think you know exactly where you’ve heard my name before. How could you forget . . . I’m Starla Deloplane. My son Robert murdered your mother.”

Kevin had not expected such a bold confession. He wasn’t even absolutely sure his suspicions were correct. To hear her confirm the worst with such calm forthrightness unnerved him. He briefly lost his composure, stunned into silence. 

Starla stepped into the opening that his silence presented her.  “Yes. Your father knows. I told him.”

Kevin was rattled. He shot back, “Have you slept with him?”

“Twice in my life . . . last night, and twenty-six years ago at a hotel called The Hedges. In between, we never even knew each other’s names. In 1990, he was just a lonely, unhappy man, and I was an exhausted, anonymous cocktail waitress. He only learned my real name a week ago.” 

Starla stopped abruptly, astonished at how easy it had been, how under control she had felt. Suddenly, silence seemed best. She would wait for him, however long it took.

Kevin’s glare turned away from Starla and out into the water at the group of three kayaks, ten minutes out and closing. He looked back at Starla, more subdued now, chastened by her honesty. “Can you understand why it might be troubling to me that my dad is up here with the mother of his wife’s killer?”

“Of course I can. You have every right to suspect the worst, Kevin. But I’m not here to hurt your father. I want nothing from him. He is actually a wonderful man. I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“And yet you’re here, in Maine. How did you find him? Why would you want to find him after twenty-six years? Especially after what happened with Mom?”

Starla had taken the conversation as far as she felt entitled and authorized to go. The answers to the why questions would have to come from Jack. “You’ll need to ask your father those questions, Kevin.”

The conversation had come to an end. Kevin waved at Angela and Liz, a couple football fields away.

Starla heard herself changing the subject. “You know, I asked your dad the other night whether or not he believed in God. He said he did. I do, too. But we disagreed on what kind of God he was—Old Testament God or New Testament God. What about you?”

“I’m Presbyterian.”

“So, you’re a New-Testament-God kind of guy, then.”

“What, are you Jewish or something?”

Starla chuckled. “No, no . . . ha! I’m non-denominational.”

“So, what’s the difference between New Testament and Old Testament God?” Kevin asked, genuinely curious where this was going.

Starla began her explanation, the kayakers within shouting distance. “Well, Old Testament God was a God of judgement—you did the crime, you served the time sort of thing, while the New Testament God was all about grace and mercy and forgiveness. He’s the God of redemption. Your dad is a New Testament God guy, just like you.”

Kevin smirked at the strange woman across from him, seeing her for the first time. “So, I take it you’re into the Old Testament God?”

“I don’t want to be. I want to believe in a God of second chances—or in my case, third and fourth chances. It’s just hard for me to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made, and I figure, if I can’t forgive myself, how can God? Your dad tried to convince me, and he came close, but I still think of God as a righteous judge. Let me ask you a question, Kevin . . . do you think that God could ever forgive me for what my son did to your mother?”

“Seems to me that it’s your son who needs to be forgiven.”

“It’s too late for him. He’s dead. I’m his mother. It now falls to me. Maybe if I had been a better mother, things would have been different.”

Kevin listened to her, mystified at her words, astonished at the unguarded honesty. Who the hell was this woman?

The splash and laughter of the three kayakers broke the spell. 

Everyone headed inside for the pizza, which had gotten cold. David slipped the pies one by one into the oven to warm them up while Liz searched the pantry for paper plates. Angela couldn’t stop talking about the lake and how beautiful it was. Jack glanced at Starla across the room and raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive way, wondering how it had gone with Kevin. She smiled back at him with a slight nod as David pulled the pizza out of the oven and began sliding the thick and heavy slices onto flimsy paper plates. 

“You better double up those plates,” he joked. “This is Mercantile pizza, baby . . . none of that thin-crust crap.”

Then a sharp rap at the door surprised everyone. Jack headed to the door. Who on earth could this be?

Bobby Landry, sporting his overalls and a thirty-year-old John Deere hat, a shy smile just visible under the cockeyed lid, looked up at him. “Hey, Mr. Rigsby . . . looks like you’ve got company.”

Liz, who had followed Jack, peered over her dad’s shoulder and squealed with delight, “Bobby? Is that you? Hey everybody, it’s Bobby!”

Kevin pulled Angela close, grinning, and whispered in her ear, “Great . . . now it’s a party!”

Bobby came inside and was immediately mobbed with hugs from Liz and Kevin. He had been a favorite of both kids when they were teenagers, drawn to his kind heart and endearing habit of getting on their dad’s nerves. They always took his side when Jack would start complaining about something Bobby had or hadn’t done. It became an ongoing family joke: everyone loved Bobby and pretended that Jack was the bad guy whenever he came around. Evelyn would always ask him to stay for lunch or dinner if he came around close to meal time, which he always seemed to do. Kevin would always say something like, “So, Dad . . . when are you going to give Bobby a raise? He does everything around here!” Jack would always reply, “Well, I keep waiting for him to earn what I’m paying him now!” Now here he was, wearing that filthy hat, being welcomed like a conquering hero. Starla stood in front of the fireplace, totally mystified. Angela’s face wore that stiff smile people get when they’re not sure what the hell is happening. 

Jack stepped back from the love-fest, a bemused expression on his face, finally asking, “Bobby, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Well, I thought I’d take advantage of this fine weather to replace them tires on the dock ramp, but from the looks of things, I’m thinking it’s in use!”

Kevin looked at Liz. “Isn’t that just like Bobby? Just about the time the wheels are coming off this family, he miraculously shows up to replace them! The man is a freaking genius. David, get this man some pizza!” 

Investing Advice and Two More Chapters of Saving Jack

Investing after COVID-

For all of you with any money left, be aware of the next expected

mergers so that you can get in on the ground floor and make some BIG

bucks. Watch for these consolidations later this year:

1.) Hale Business Systems, Mary Kay Cosmetics, Fuller Brush, and W R.

Grace Co. will merge and become: Hale, Mary, Fuller, Grace.

2.) Polygram Records, Warner Bros., and Zesta Crackers join forces and

become:  Poly, Warner Cracker.

3.) 3M will merge with Goodyear and become: MMMGood.

4. Zippo Manufacturing, Audi Motors, Dofasco, and Dakota Mining will

merge and become: ZipAudiDoDa .

5. FedEx is expected to join its competitor, UPS, and become: FedUP.

6. Fairchild Electronics and Honeywell Computers will become: Fairwell

Honeychild.

7. Grey Poupon and Docker Pants are expected to become: PouponPants.

8. Knotts Berry Farm and the National Organization of Women will become:

Knott NOW!

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.”