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“That’s right. You do not. I know them all because I was in the Navy. That’s why I’m the harbor master and bridge king.” Oh, bridge king. Must be Portman had given himself a new title. Snazzy. Quite fitting. “Did you know that this lever here is what makes the lights flash?”
And off he went. I stood there, feeling the glower of Mr. Beefy on my back, the sun baking down on my head, the cry of gulls floating by on the salty winds, listening to the same litany of how the bridge worked that I’d heard a thousand times as a kid. Ten minutes passed.
“…that’s why you can’t never open the bridge at midnight on Halloween.” Portman looked at me for a sign. I grunted. “What did you want?”
I pointed at the bridge. “Can you open that,please?”
“That’s my job. You could have just said that in the first place.” With that, he slammed the window shut. The squealing of the metal bridge moving back into place filled the air. A few lazy gulls that were seated on the rafters of the bridge took to wing only to settle on top of the harbormaster’s shack. The roof was covered with gull shit. Billy Morton and I had been made to chip and/or scour the dried poo off the roof as payback for swiping Portman’s hat all those years ago. It looked like no one had done the job since.
As we crossed the bridge onto the isle a rush of sentimentality washed over me. It had been years since I’d come home. I’d flown my father out to California a few times when he could get free from the inn, which wasn’t often because he was running it alone. Well, not solely alone, he had help, of course, but the daily mind-numbing tasks of innkeeping were on his back. He’d assumed that I would stay in Maine and take over, easing his burden as he got older. But I’d streaked away from the smell of seaweed and the winds whipping the pines as soon as I had graduated. I’d hated this stupid island when I was a teenager. There was nothing and no one who could have made me stay. I took the money I got as a graduation gift and flew west, never looking back. Christ, it had been twenty years since I’d been back.
Little had changed.
The main road—a scenic two-lane—followed the coastline of the island in a wiggly path from the top of the ten-mile-long isle to the bottom and then back around. One road. That was it. Two lanes. Quaint as all get out. Pines and woodland filled the center of the island where Phillippe “Low Tide” Kesside had supposedly buried his booty. Yes, we were related to a lesser-known pirate. Argh. It had been cool when I was a kid, sure, but now it was just a silly thing that drew treasure hunters to the island. There was no treasure on this little hunk of rock and scraggly pines. All there was was a spattering of rich city folks who came out to their summer cabins to flout their wealth and old timers who hated the city folks almost as much as they detested new-fangled ideas like more than two genders. Yep. And people wonder why I bolted at eighteen.
Well, not everyone. My father knew that I had been terribly unhappy here. If not for the small little theater on the southern end of the island, I would have probably walked out into the sea and let the ocean swallow me up. Of course, my father didn’t know just how depressed I had been. It had taken me years of costly therapy to delve into why I was so fucking sad despite all my successes. Losing my mother at an early age and hiding my sexuality were two of the biggest reasons. And while there was nothing I could do to bring Mom back, I didn’t have to hide being gay anymore. Yippee. So why wasn’t I feeling free as a gull? Good question.
“You have to follow the road down to the tip, then come back around to access the inn,” I explained to Mr. Beefy. He grunted. We crawled along at a roaring thirty miles per hour, the maximum speed limit on Kesside Isle, and quickly entered the tourist area. The southern tip was where the summer folk came for meals, trinkets, or to go out for whale watching tours. The tip was filled with trendy boutiques—many that had been here since I was a kid—as well as a few new ones. There was a new coffeehouse, a popcorn shop, and a pottery shop. Oh, and a pet sitter business. Tucked among the tourist traps was a tiny art museum, as well as the Kesside Bay Theater. I sat up a little straighter as we moved past the theater. Damn. It was in need of some major renovations. Weather tore things apart here along the Maine coast. Salty winds, Nor’easters, damp air…they all ate at paint and old wooden siding.
“That’s where you first started acting?” Mr. Beefy asked.
“Yeah, it is. I was ten when I landed the role of Kurt von Trapp inThe Sound of Music,” I relayed as we waited at the lone traffic light on the tip for several families to scurry across the roadway. “It’s not as big a deal as it may sound. There were only two kids on the island year round—me and Billy Morton—and Billy was not into acting or singing. So I was the only real kid and the other children were played by adults. Do they still do two shows per year, one summer run and one for the locals, I wonder?”
“Not a clue.”
I stared at the rundown old theater until I couldn’t see it anymore. That was some sad shit there. My back flopped into the seat. Smiling at the memory of that first time in greasepaint, I let the memories roll over me. It had been a winter production, so I’d had to balance my schoolwork with the play, but that was fine. There was little to do around here in the winter.
All the tourists packed it out by late October, taking any kids with them. I learned not to get too close to the summer people. They’d just leave.
No one in their right mind wants to sit along the ocean during the winter to face down massive winter storms. Okay, I amend that. Only brave Maine natives will hunker down and then spit in the eye of Mother Nature. It takes a special breed to face the sea. She can be a nasty bitch. Deadly. Dad and I knew that firsthand.
We passed Phillippe’s Point, a jagged little natural jetty. Several cabins dotted the coastline, most occupied now that it was the end of June. The island was peppered with vacation homes, most on the smallish side as space was at a premium on the island. Once we left Philippe’s Point behind, the driveway leading to Kesside Inn came into view.
“Turn here, to the right,” I said, my heart speeding up as we passed the white sign with gold lettering and pulled up to the front of my parents’ dream. The Kesside Inn. We pulled under aporte cochèreand parked. “I’ll get out here. You can go. Were you paid?”
“Yes, sir, and a gratuity was included.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” I shimmied out of the back, my sneakers touching down as a snapping wind off the Atlantic set the hotel and state flags flapping. I glanced at the flowerbed to the left and then up at the flagpole that sat in the middle of vibrant yellow, red, and white blooms. The grounds looked amazing. Dad always took great pride in the lawns. Mom had planted the roses in the front flowerbed years ago. Dad and the gardener on duty babied those tender buds and blooms. I drew in a deep breath to inhale the subtle scent of rose on the salty breeze. Gulls cawed loudly overhead, riding the brisk air currents, as the soft sounds of bells and ship horns floated by. Yes, I was home. Little here had changed either. Taking my bags from my driver, I stood there breathing in emotions that were far too powerful to sort right now. The hired SUV left, taking the road back to the bridge. I hoped Portman was awake. Mr. Beefy seemed like a man who didn’t have time to waste.
“I thought that fancy car would be you.”
My heart jumped at the sound of my father’s weathered voice. I turned to face him. He was a tall man, like me, still broad and strong. Hard work kept him lean. His face was pure coastal native. Tanned heavily by the sun, wrinkled by the years of life and loss. There was a small scar on his nose where he’d had a noncancerous melanoma removed four years ago. That had been a worrisome time. I’d made sure he had the best surgeons money could buy, followed up by some top-notch Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeons that he refused to see. Stubborn man. Guess I was a lot like him in many ways. Ways that I wasn’t sure I wanted to investigate too deeply just yet, if ever.
Chapter Three
“Hey,Dad,”Isaid,my throat tight. He came to me, seemed my feet were glued to the damn driveway, and hugged me. My eyes closed, tears threatened, and I threw my arms around him. We’d never really been huggers. Dad was from a generation of men that didn’t do displays of affection often. He showed his love in other ways. So this was something huge and I was soaking it up. “I’m so sorry,” I coughed out.
He patted my back, cleared his throat, and then stepped back to give me a wobbly smile. His hair was still thick and dark, but there was a lot more gray in it than there had been the last time I’d seen him.
“You look good,” Dad said, and I scoffed. “No, you do. Lean and in shape. Why don’t you come inside and get set up? The Seagull Suite is open for a few weeks, so I put you there. I know you like the view of the harbor.”
My old room had been converted into an office for Dad after I’d left. I nodded, happy with the room. I did like the rooms at the back of the inn. We only had fifteen rooms in total. Ten facing the bay and five facing the front. The rooms with the views were always in high demand. The small apartment that Dad and I had shared was just off the reception area inside.
Stepping into the lobby, I was nearly bowled over by the landslide of memories. Racing up and down the stairs leading to the second floor, helping in the kitchen, running a carpet sweeper along the corridors, and stealing toilet paper from housekeeping just for the fun of it. The warmth of a fire in the hearth hit me in the face as did the smell of garlic.
“Do you still have Emelda cooking?” I asked as Dad led me up the stairs. I nodded at an older woman behind the front desk. She was attractive, blonde bob haircut, and a wide smile for the guests she was engaged in. “Who’s at the front desk?”
“That’s Kimmy, she’s been here for a year now. And yes, Emelda is still cooking,” Dad replied as we climbed the stairs to the second floor. The walls here were white, as they were throughout the inn, and oils from local artisans hung here and there. Seascapes mostly. There were several chunky pieces of furniture spattered along the hall, handcrafted tables with flowers in some of the most unique ceramic vases I had ever seen. I even paused to inspect one of them up close. The pottery was shiny and had dragonflies painted on it in shades of dark blue, green, and rusty gold. The cut flowers from the back flower garden were lovely, but they paled in comparison to the vase holding them.
