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“We’re going to need a shit ton of nails to fix this storm blow, Dad,” I coughed out and got a gruff snort of a laugh.
“Got plenty in the shed,” he stated as his phone buzzed. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, checked his phone, and rolled his eyes. “Someone at the main desk needs to talk to me about billing. Kimmy says they got their ass up.”
“Go straighten them out, Dad. I’m going to take a few laps and then maybe dig around in the supply shed for some oars. Take one of these canoes out around the jetty for the day.”
“That sounds fine, Son. Good to see you doing what you used to do as a kid.” He gave me a smile and a rare peck on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, Elias. Maybe you can join me for dinner?”
“I’d like that.” He grinned widely before ambling back up to the inn. I took a few moments for myself on the dock, enjoying the motion of the tides under my feet as my eyes went skyward. Nothing to be seen but puffy white clouds and an endless expanse of azure sky. A perfect day lay ahead. I could feel it.
***
After lunch I took a short sabbatical on the patio, just me and a well-read copy ofMr. Midshipman Hornblowerby C.S. Forester. I might have drifted off a bit as the hardcover novel sliding to the white wooden floorboards startled me awake. Knowing that if I slept now, I’d have a terrible time falling asleep tonight, I tossed my book back onto one of the nightstands and grabbed my sneakers, wallet, a yellow ball cap, and some sunglasses. Off I went on a mission to find some oars in the nautical supply shed down by the docks.
First, I had to scare up a key. Dad passed that over as he and Kimmy were enjoying a late lunch in his room. Both seemed a little flustered when I’d walked in without knocking, but I fluffed it off and hustled down to the dock. Once the door was unlocked, I had to dig around to locate a paddle. One. Then a mouse ran across my foot so there was five minutes of chaos as I tried to use the paddle to dispose of the rodent, to no avail. When the mouse got away, I took a breather and then dove back into the messy shed to find the other paddle. I never did find it, but I did come across my old three-speed bike. It was covered with a painters cloth tarp that someone—Mr. Mouse, I was sure—had chewed holes in. Whipping the cover off stirred up a cloud of dust that floated out the open door. Guests from the inn could be heard nearby. They were probably wondering what the hell that queer movie star was doing in the sea shed.
I ran my fingers over the handlebars. The bike was still in decent shape. The tires were a little soft, but I could pump them up with ease using the old hand pump in the corner, and the seat was intact. A big middle finger to the mouse. Overall, it was pretty much as I recalled it being with a few spots of rust here and there. Feeling a rush of nostalgia, I hurried to inflate the tires and then chucked the hand pump back in the corner where it landed on some busted lobster cages. The pile of multicolored lobster buoys tumbled to the ground. I rushed to slam the door and lock it lest the mess swallow me whole.
I pocketed the shed key, slung my leg over the seat, and started riding. I’d not ridden a bike since I was sixteen other than a stationary bike during my workouts with Katy. Once we get our driver’s licenses, we tend to shove our bikes into a shed and forget about them. Which was a rather fitting description for this entire island. My childhood was stored away in a tiny corner of my mind, only to be revisited when I was melancholy and in need of comfort. Guess I was super down in the dumps as I’d not only pulled out some memories to succor me, I’d flown across the country right into my daddy’s arms.
“Nothing so wrong with that,” I mumbled to myself as I pedaled past the inn and out onto the main road. Sometimes a soul needed a hug from your parent.
I took the left, my legs working steadily, the salty air blowing my hair from my face. The woods on the right were cool and shady, inviting as I grew hotter. I pressed on, though, checking out the small cabins dotting the forest as well as the shore. Many—most I should say—had expensive cars in the drives. One small yellow one caught my eye. It was back in the trees, the bright sunflower color peeking through the pines. I did not recall a yellow cabin, but then again, a lot of these summer homes had probably changed hands a dozen times since my youth. Still, the yellow color was friendly and welcoming, cheerful even. Whoever vacationed there now had chosen a good shady spot for their getaway. There was an older white Nissan coated with pine needles parked by the cabin.
The island was filling up for the Fourth of July next week. You wouldn’t be able to swing a cat without hitting an off islander on that long holiday weekend. The inn would be filled to capacity, and the staff harried. Maybe I’d be back in L.A. by then and free up one of the best rooms we had. Dad had. Not me. I was not an innkeeper. My blood was thick with greasepaint.
The miles flew by, the ride slightly downhill, the sea breeze ruffling my hair. The dense pines began to thin out as I got closer to the tip, which is what we called the southernmost end of the island. Trees gave way to docks and cabins changed to stores. I slowed as I entered the tiny town of Kesside Bay and saw the sidewalks packed with people. The Kesside Bay Playhouse was the first building on the left. My heart clenched yet again when I stopped outside the poor old gal to study her. The elements had done a number on the soft blue paint on the clapboards. The door hinges were rusted, and the ticket booth was dated. This was only the outside. I shuddered to think what the interior was like. Why had this been let go? Did people not want the arts to thrive?
No, stupid, they do not. Why do you think they’re cutting arts programs in all the schools.
Right. Well, shit. I stood there, shades on, cap down low, straddling my old bike, deep in thought. I’d make a mental note to send the playhouse committee a substantial donation. I had the cash. This way, the theater would survive and the plays could continue. Feeling rather proud of my generous nature, I slid off the bike and walked it down the skinny sidewalk. Most of the stores were new, but a few were old names. Rowdy Ralph’s Pub had been here forever. Served the best crab cakes in all of Maine. That was no lie. I peeked through the front windows to find the eatery packed full. The toot of a boat horn pulled my attention from the pub. One of three tour boats was backing out of the dock on the far side of the tip. There were whale watching tours, deep sea fishing excursions, and a boat that sailed the coast looking for seals and seabirds. For the less adventurous souls. I took a moment to enjoy the sound of the boats and tourists. Gulls vied with smaller seabirds for scraps of food along the roadway.
Things were hopping. A bell rang out. I glanced at the small church that sat smack dab in the middle of town. The Kesside Bay Non-Denominational chapel was bright white with a tall steeple and a lovely brass bell that rang out every hour on the hour. Grinning to myself, I took a step forward with the intent of dropping by the church in the hopes of finding my old childhood buddy Billy Morton, Pastor Morton, I should say, when I spied a tall man across the street. He was nothing out of the ordinary. Just some dude wearing a blue ball cap, shorts, and a white tee with a big sailfish. His ears were flying elephant enormous. Around his neck was a camera. Nothing abnormal about that since ninety percent of the tourists here had cameras of some sort. The little coastal hamlet was quaint, after all. I shrugged, then chided myself for being paranoid when the camera rose from his chest to land on me.
Fuck. Mother fucking fuckers. I lowered my head and elbowed my way through the throngs of people, hurrying past the popcorn shop and a gift store. Someone exiting the pottery shop left the door open, and I rushed in, bringing my bike with me.
“Uhm, sir, you can’t bring that bike inside. There are bike racks out front that you can—”
I spun around to see who was speaking to me. Oh. Oh, okay, so that was a pleasant surprise. He was a big bear of a man. At least six foot six and full of muscle. Great, now I sounded like that old Men at Work song. Only that was six foot four, I think. Whatever. It was no lie though…the guy was jacked. He was wearing a pink T-shirt and a leather apron that was coated with dried clay and specks of paint. His jeans were faded from blue to white and his work boots were soft leather which were also coated with clay and paint. His hair was long on the top, short on the sides, and pulled back into a tiny man bun. I would have scoffed, but I didn’t for two reasons: one, it looked good on the sky-eyed man, and two, he could probably beat me to a pulp.
I’d never known I was into the lumberjack bear sort, but this blond-and-silver bearded hunk sure had my attention. Then the bells on the door rang. I flung my sight from the man in the apron to a woman coming into the shop.
“Sorry, I just…” I glanced around the shop, looking for a back entrance. “There’s a man out there threatening me.”
Okay, so it was a lie. The big man’s sight flew from me to the front door. “Does he have a weapon?”
“No, worse. A camera.” The three people in the cramped storefront gaped at me. “I just need somewhere to hide until he’s gone and if he sees my bike out front, he’ll know I came in here.”
“Back here,” the man in the apron said, leading me carefully through a shop packed to the rafters with pottery. I chose each step with caution. There were tables and shelves filled with ceramic dishes, urns, vases, bowls, and just about anything you could create out of clay. “You can wait here until your ex moves on.”
I started to explain that the man was not my ex but a paparazzi scum ball when the tiny gold bells over the door chimed once more. My savior moved me with speed into a back room with folding tables and chairs and yet more shelves. Each shelf held all kinds of works, some still gray looking, some half-painted, and some completed. Or what I would say were completed. I knew jack and shit about pottery other than a few scenes from a famous movie about a ghost.
Two kilns sat in the middle of the floor, both packed with ceramics ready to be baked. An older refrigerator was humming along in the corner.
“Stay here and I’ll have a look outside. What does he look like?” the potter asked as he led me to a chair and then eased my bike from my hands. It looked puny compared to him.
“Uh. Dark hair, scraggly mustache, blue ball cap, white shirt with a sailfish, cargo shorts. Pricey camera. Long distance lens.” I sat down with a huff. “Thank you for doing this…what is your name?”
“Gibson Vale. I own this shop.” He smiled down at me. I gave him a wobbly sort of smiley-grimace in return. “Just sit here. I’ll go take a look.”
