AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“The guy with the green car and fancy camera?”
“There ain’t no cameras here. There was once, back in the late eighties, but the gulls snuck in one night and stole the batteries.” I stared at him blankly. He stared back. “You got a pass?”
I showed him the tattered one from my wallet and then got back on my bike and rode along the western side of the island, trying my best to work out why seagulls would steal batteries from a security camera. There was nothing like a morning chat with Portman to muddy your mind. Chest still packed full of gross feelings of “woe is me” and “my life is a cesspool” I rode along while playing at being Miss Marple. Pedaling along at a snail’s pace, I checked out every vehicle parked at every camp. Not one was green. Not that I really assumed that the mystery picture taker would still be here—if, in fact, he had been trying to snap images of me—so scoping out every abode was dumb. And probably made me look like a stalker type. Once that realization hit me, I picked up speed, keeping to the right of the thin road, the busy town of Kesside Bay coming up on me.
Riding through the tip was nearly impossible earlier in the day, but now the tourists were just waking up so Main Street was clear. I glided past the dock for the whale watching boat, stopping for a moment to watch someone on the chunky vessel hosing off the decks in preparation for new passengers. I passed a small art gallery that sold mostly seascapes—shocking I know—as well as a candy store, a shoe shop, and the Clipper’s Call Hotel where guests were sitting on their balconies sipping coffee and planning out their day. I’d skipped breakfast due to being a sad sack, so my stomach rumbled when I rode past the closed pizza parlor.
I stopped for a moment outside the pottery store. Sea Song Ceramist, it was called. I’d not paid much mind to the name when I’d ducked in to hide from…well, from a tourist taking a shot of a fucking pelican probably. While the name of the shop had been a blank, the owner certainly had not been. Gibson Vale had stayed with me, appearing here and there in my dreams even as we played at being the leads fromGhost.Yes, I may have gone searching for that movie last night. And yes, I was Demi to his Patrick. I did love to have men hug and cuddle me. Most didn’t. Seemed they all felt that Elias Lake would be a top because I blew things up for a living. I didn’t blow up things. The pyrotechnicians made the boom. I just walked away from the explosion looking tough.
There was a wide variety of handmade gifts in the front windows. A place setting for two with a white base and purple flowers painted on the edges caught my eye. There was a dinner plate, a soup bowl, a bread plate, and a small cup for wine, perhaps. Maybe coffee, although there was no handle. Yep, probably wine. I liked the color. Purple was one of my favorite colors, but I didn’t wear it much unless it was something soft and satiny under my clothes. Hidden away I could indulge myself in softer, more traditionally feminine colors like lilac, peach, bubblegum pink, or baby blue. I had a tiny set on today. A periwinkle bralette and panty combo. It helped to lift my spirits a bit after the call from Elle. God knows I had needed something because that episode of sliding into the sea with a big plastic pawn had rattled me after I’d slunk out of the ocean. Had I really wanted to just float out to sea? Maybe. No. I didn’t know. And that had really shaken me, so I’d pulled on something pretty. Why was that such an issue? Why did clothing have to be so damn gender specific, anyway?
Heaving a sigh, I pushed my bike away from the dark pottery shop and across the street, the peal of the small chapel bell calling to me. Maybe I needed to talk to God. I’d not spoken to him in years despite my showing up at a non-denominational church in Beverly Hills on the big days—Easter and Christmas—with Katy on my arm. The studio liked that. They thought Connor Days would be a God-fearing man. Given how many bodies he left lying around in his wake, he should be scared of God. Thou shalt not kill was one of the big man’s ten rules. So if Connor Days was a Christian, then the man who played him should be too. It boggled my mind how some people could not/would not separate the actor from the role. The amount of hate mail I’d gotten when Connor had slept with a Black woman in the seventh film was appalling. I could only imagine the volume of vitriol my team was dealing with now.
Filled with dark, glum clouds despite the sunny day on tap, I parked my bike outside of the Kesside Bay Church and climbed up the stairs to enter the chapel. It was dark and cool inside, the smell of fresh flowers filling my nose.
“The prodigal son returns,” a male voice from the front called as I stepped into the church proper, my hands coming to rest on the back of the last pew on the right. The sunrise was shining through the stained glass window behind the pulpit, the brilliant colors in the rendition of Jesus on the cross throwing all kinds of wild hues to the short ginger hair of Billy Morton. Pastor Morton. I couldn’t help but smile. He looked just the same as he had when I’d said goodbye to him all those years ago. He’d gone off to a seminary college in Massachusetts and I’d headed west. Our friendship had taken a beating over the years as they do, but now that I was looking into his freckled face, the past melted away.
“As they are known to do,” I replied and hustled down the aisle to embrace my boyhood best friend. He was still a string bean. We hugged it out for several minutes, both of us pulling back with damp eyes and slightly stuffy noses. “You haven’t aged a bit.”
“You’re not looking in the right light,” he teased, his arm still around my shoulders as he turned us into the rainbow of light flowing in. Ah, okay, yeah, I could see the lines of life around his bright green eyes and mouth. They looked good on him. “See, time catches up to all of us except you.”
“Beverly Hills has some incredible plastic surgeons who keep old age at bay,” I replied as we made our way to the front pew to sit.
“Well, they must be worth every penny because you don’t look a day over forty,” he teased again, and I laughed like a hyena, my mirth bouncing off the sloped ceiling. “I kid. I know we’re not quite forty yet.”
“It’s a close thing,” I mumbled as I gazed at my friend. “You look amazing, though, Bill. Honestly, being a man of God works for you. Personally, I would have never thought it when we were kids. You were the one who always led me into the worst trouble.”
That made him snicker. He was in plain clothes, no collar, just shorts and a tee with a lobster wearing a sombrero on the front.
“Mischief is still one of the things I battle against the hardest. Jane, that’s my wife, likes to say that Satan isn’t in the details, he’s in fake cans of chips.”
“Dad told me you finally married a few years ago.” I sat back, finally at ease.
“I did. She’s expecting our first child in four months.” He beamed, and I clapped his shoulder and congratulated him. “Thank you. We’re thrilled, obviously.” We spent a few minutes talking about his wife, whom he adored, the church, the town, and the weather. When we ran out of the general small talk topics, he gave me a nudge in the side. “You know, it’s been ages since I paddled from the dock behind the inn and around into pirate cove.”
I smiled at him, feeling that old spark of childhood adventure firing up in my breast. “If you’re not busy here, we can always take out a canoe or two and go looking for booty.”
He glanced around the small but homey chapel. “I suppose the Lord wouldn’t mind if I took a day off to search for buried treasure.”
With that, we jumped to our feet and went on a grand adventure. Just like when we were the only two lads who lived here year round. Billy sent a text to his beloved bride, who was over on the mainland visiting her mother to let her know he was working diligently on his sermon for Sunday.
“She’ll know I’m lying. She always knows,” he tittered as he pocketed his cell phone and pulled on an old straw hat with KESSIDE BAY stamped on the brim. We took off like wild men, shouting to each other, both of us on old bikes—many islanders biked where we wanted to go here on the isle—and within an hour Billy and I were paddling madly around the tip of the bay. The sea was a little choppy, but we made it into the inlet only half-soaked. Once we landed our red canoes on the rocky shore, we scampered over the rocks, laughing and collecting bits of shell and bottle caps, which we then carried up to the soft grassy overlook and dumped them.
“Phillippe’s booty has lost much of its glitter.” I sighed, toeing my wet sneakers off and then removing my sodden socks before plopping down to sit on the grass. Bill joined me, peeling off his old Chucks and socks as well and then sprawled out, long skinny legs pale as cream.
“The bottle caps are harder and harder to come by,” he lamented, lying back to stare at the puffy white clouds floating past. I joined him, crossing my arms behind my head and using my hands as a pillow. “Remember when we were kids, everyone was drinking that dark root beer from that specialty shop over the bridge.”
“I do yeah. That was good root beer. Came in glass bottles. We must have had ten thousand bottle caps. I wonder what happened to them.”
“Probably our parents threw them into the recycle when we moved out. How is your father doing?”
“Good. Works like a demon still, but good. He’s been incredibly kind and supportive to me through this whole mess.”
A moment or two passed with only the sound of the wind rustling the pines behind us. “I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up.”
“I was waiting for you to mention it.”
“Ah, well, consider it mentioned.” I rolled my head to look at him. His nose was still rather beaky, but it worked on his long, angular face. “Are you disgusted by my being gay?”
