That’s all she says. The sisterly warmth I got from her at the hospital is gone. She sounds logical and cold in this message.
So, there. It’s done. I am effectively alone in the world.
I set down the phone on the marble vanity and gag a few times over the drain before I finish getting ready for bed.
When I stumble out of the bathroom, Felicia is pulling back the puffy duvet for me with a genuinely warm smile. “Hop in, kiddo.”
She tucks me in. I am moved beyond words, but I say nothing and crawl into bed, fully dressed. Keeping my eyes open for even one more second is impossible, and I’m too tired to even thank her. But as I drift off, I feel her hand stroke my back and then tuck my hair behind an ear.
THE NEXT MORNING, my headache is less excruciating than I expected. My embarrassment, however, is pretty significant.
I turn over, open my eyes, and pull the phone out from under my shoulder where I slept on it all night. The clock next to the bed tells me that it’s only a little after seven. The light coming through the curtains is beautiful, and I roll off the bed to pull them open fully.
Jesus, I am still wearing dress pants and my silk top. I look like some business lady who got drunk at an office party and passed out under a desk or something. Fabulous.
I open the sliding door to the small veranda and am hit with a blast of cold air. The view, as promised, really is stunning. I understand how Felicia would never tire of this.
It’s a beautiful place to start a new life.
Impulsively, I take the phone, still in my hand, and hurl it off the balcony toward the water below. I shut the door and then head for the shower.
An hour and a half later, after slugging through my usual routine, I am dressed and made up. I look terrible though. My eyeliner is all wrong, my long hair is frizzing in this salt air, and there’s a run in my knee-highs. A knock on the door is the only thing that distracts me from my faulty appearance.
Felicia has delivered breakfast, which seems excessively kind, given my weird behavior last night. “Good, you’re awake! And dressed…to run a staff meeting?” She winks and then walks past me before setting a tray on the dresser. “House omelet with local goat cheese, fresh spinach, and tomatoes. Bread from The Finicky Turtle, which is an amazing bakery right down the street. I know. The name is bizarre, but don’t let that stop you. And a pot of coffee. I figured you might need it.”
I hardly know what to say. Maybe I should confess my act of littering, flinging my cell phone into the Maine ocean. Maybe I should say that I’m a moron, and I’m driving back to Chicago right after I inhale this breakfast. Maybe I should throw myself into her arms and sob. Instead, I say, “Thank you.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all I can come up with.
“I have to get back to the kitchen.” Felicia places a hand on each hip, and her head tips to one side.
I can’t read her expression, but it can’t be a good one.
I look down. “I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to take off. You’ve been really—”
“Here.” She cuts me off and steps closer. Grabbing my hand, she pushes a key into my palm. “You need a place to stay for more than a few nights. We have a house not far from here at the end of the road. The place needs some work, but it’s quiet, high on a cliff, and surrounded by trees. I think you’ll like it. The second floor is available to rent, so I’m giving you this key. Pay when you can. I left directions under your plate.”
“Wait, what?” I protest. “I don’t even know if I should stay.” I still can’t look at her. “What I said about Sam last night…driving here was insane. I’m insane.”
“Check it out. If you like it, stay. If you decide to go, that’s fine, too. Spend a few more nights in this room, if you like. Sounds as though you don’t really have anywhere else to be, right? You might as well settle in someplace safe.” Felicia walks to the door and pauses. Then, very softly and gently, she says, “Sam could use a friend. I think that friend might be you.”
I notice that the crinkles around her eyes are not just from smiling, and her rough skin isn’t just from the frigid Maine winds or too much sun. Felicia’s face is washed with pain.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The door shuts behind her, and I realize that I didn’t ask who lives on the first floor of the house to which she gave me the key. Maybe I already know.
I retrieve the breakfast she brought me and devour it while sitting on the bed. Felicia is right. I have nowhere else to be. I’m on the verge of something resembling happiness, and I’ve gotten myself this far, so I might as well keep going. In fact, now that I’ve ditched my phone, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Not to mention, this omelet is ridiculously delicious, and the bread is like nothing I’ve ever had. I resolve to check out the small town of Watermark and to make a point to stop into The Finicky Turtle bakery.
I decide to see my new apartment before buying groceries and other supplies. This is my first place on my own, away from my mother. As that understanding begins to take over my entire soul, I cannot wait to get there. I set the breakfast tray outside the door and toss a few belongings into my bag. When I check out at the front desk, I learn that my stay was on the house, and I’m again overwhelmed by the generosity and care Felicia has shown me.
It is indeed a short drive. I weave my car down the winding road running from the inn through the center of town. I know from the map I studied yesterday that Watermark is one of a group of towns that make up the Britannia Bay area. Ellsworth is about an hour away, and if I really decide to stay here, I might have to venture up to that larger town to find a big supermarket or chain store.
In the light of day, I am even more charmed by this waterside town, and I nearly miss my turn up the steep hill. Gravel and sand bounce under my tires, and a few low hanging branches brush my windshield. This is obviously a converted single-family house, and the structure has certainly seen better days—white paint is chipping off every surface, and there are a few missing shutters—but it’s still beyond beautiful.
I park in the shady drive, and then as instructed per Felicia’s note, I walk up the rickety stairs on the side porch leading to the upstairs unit. There are bay views—postcard views really—from here and the back of the house.
It takes a minute of fiddling with the key before I walk in. A small kitchen with an island opens into the living room. I check the ancient gas stove, and after a bit of clicking, it actually lights. Then, I open the cabinets and drawers. They’re empty, so I will have to get dishes and whatnot immediately and definitely also some cleaning supplies. To say the place needs a thorough scouring is an understatement. Dust coats every surface, but at least the living room has a stone coffee table and an armchair. With some hard labor, the wood floor planks might be gorgeous. A cobbled fireplace takes up a corner of the room, the rocky frame climbing all the way to the ceiling. I have no idea how to start a fire, but I resolve to learn.
I wander around a corner toward the bedroom, which is surprisingly large, and I’m relieved to find a bed and dresser. Despite the dust, both are in good shape, and they are probably antiques. What I love most about this room though is that the doors open to a wraparound porch overlooking the water. I clap my hands and do a little jump. Who has a view like this? My smile refuses to be controlled right now, so I let my heart soar. The first attempt to fling open the doors in a celebratory move is less dramatic than I hoped because the hinges are nearly rusted shut, so it is only after much tugging and jiggling that I get them open. I step out and take a deep breath. It was worth the struggle.
The sound of a car pulling up to the house is the only thing that takes me out of my ocean daydreams.
He’s here. I’m surprisingly calm, and I continue looking out over the seascape.
The clop of heavy shoes slowly moves closer as he walks up the steps to reach this side of the house, and soon, I can feel him standing at the top of the stairs. I’m terrified to turn and see him.
“I heard someone rented the apartment.” His voice is deep and level, unexpressive. “I live on the first floor. Let me know if you need anything.” He pauses. “I’m Sam Bishop.”
“I know.” Finally, I get myself to pull from the view and face him.
He looks almost nothing like the boy I met years before. While his body has filled out, chest and arms pulling tightly on the fabric of his shirt, his face is ashen, and his demeanor is anything but warm. Light-brown hair falls around his face, resting on broad shoulders. His eyes are dull, missing the life and exuberance I remember so well. I notice his work boots, dirty jeans, and flannel shirt tied at the waist. But he’s still Sam, and he is still the reason I’m here.
“You probably don’t remember me,” I start to say, leaning back against the wooden rail. “We met a long time ago in Chicago.”
Sam’s brown eyes narrow, and he takes a quick stride toward me. “I wouldn’t lean on that—”
Just as the wood behind me gives out, he slings a strong arm around my waist and pulls me in hard, throwing us both away from the edge.
I can barely catch my breath. “Holy shit.”
“I guess my mother didn’t warn you about this.”
He is more muscular than I was prepared for, and I am struck by how enveloped I am in his frame. The last time I was this close to a male was when I was with Jay. The memory of him blazes through my mind, and I can’t help but flinch.
“You okay?” Sam flashes concern for a moment.
I make myself relax. Sam is not Jay, and he’s not hurting me.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“My truck is full of lumber to repair the whole deck.”
“Okay. I’m fine. You’re fine,” I say dumbly.
The truth is that Sam actually stinks to high heaven, and he’s dirty and sweaty and frankly pretty gross right now, but I cannot stop looking into his eyes.
“You smell like fish,” I say without thinking.
“Been up since before dawn on a boat. Extra money.” His arm is still holding me against him, and he’s matching my intent gaze, but he feels cold, closed off. “Technically, this house is mine, so it wasn’t really my mother’s right to rent out the top unit,” he says, not concealing his irritation.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It needs a lot of work, and I haven’t gotten to it yet.” Then, for a moment, a spark of recognition appears in his deep brown eyes. “Stella?” His hand falls from my back. “Stella Ford.”
I nod hesitantly. “Yes.”
“What in the fuck are you doing here?”
It’s perhaps not quite the reunion I was hoping for, and now, I don’t know what to say.
“I just…needed someplace to go,” I answer meekly. Then, because he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’ve never had lobster. You said it was good.”
He doesn’t seem much for conversation, but he’s still studying me.
“I can go. I can find somewhere else if you want. I just…”
Sam moves away, and I watch his solid swagger take him across the porch as he calls back to me, “Stay, go. I don’t really care. But I have to get to work. It’s going to be noisy. Keep the windows and doors shut, so the apartment doesn’t fill with sawdust.”
Well, so much for the happy, caretaking solid guy of years ago. I’ve just had a rude awakening in the form of Sam Bishop.
I guess I’ll have to figure out how to crack and eat a lobster on my own.
AS I WANDER AROUND PICTURESQUE WATERMARK the next morning, I realize how utterly ridiculous I look in my full hair and makeup, not to mention my completely impractical shoes and fussy outfit. While I might have been here for less than twenty-four hours, the realization that I am coming off like some wealthy tourist bothers me. Somehow, it feels disrespectful to this beautiful town.
The couple at The Finicky Turtle bakery is covered in flour, wearing T-shirts, and they smile when they hand me the bag with bread and croissants. An older man at the small hardware and home goods store helps me find some household basics to get me through the next few days. He doesn’t seem the least self-conscious about the tufts of hair sticking out from his ears or the limp that makes him teeter from side to side as he walks. I admire that about him, how he’s so relaxed in what could be considered imperfections.
After I load some bags into my car, I hit the supermarket. It’s actually less of a true supermarket and more of a very upscale gourmet-food shop with amazingly overpriced sauces, but I amass a collection of bottles and jars to put into my pantry. I have no idea what I’ll do with them since I can’t really cook. The butcher wraps up steak and shrimp in plastic and brown paper, ties it with string, and then kindly repeats cooking instructions, trying to reassure me that I can make dinner without any disasters. I buy two bottles of wine, a red and a white, in case I need to console myself. I don’t really drink beer, but I also grab a six-pack of a Maine brew, supporting local businesses and all.
By the time I get back to my new home, I am exhausted and defeated. Part of me is wholly overjoyed at my freedom, bursting with a nearly manic sense of release that I do not have constraints and criticism and pathology bearing down on me at every turn. But right now, I am also completely lost and daunted at what I’ve done. Abandoning one’s life without a coherent, logical plan does not exactly breed security, especially for someone like me who has barely detectable confidence.
After I load groceries into the fridge, I literally roll up my sleeves and put on yellow gloves, and then I begin the long process of disinfecting this place. It doesn’t appear that anyone has rented the unit in ages, and there is not one inch that doesn’t need cleaning. I start with the kitchen.
A few hours later, when I’ve decontaminated as best as I can, I hear Sam beginning work on the deck and on the railing that nearly killed me. I don’t know whether to avoid going to my bedroom because he’s right outside those doors. He hasn’t been what one might call welcoming. Not that I blame him.
I barely have anything to unpack, but I put away the few things that I do have. I have a framed picture of me with my father and Amy that was taken only a few weeks before the car accident. I’ll never understand what happened that day, including the bits of conversation that I overheard between him and Amy or the way he made such a conscious decision to disappear from our lives. Amy and I never spoke of the accident or our father abandoning us, and I’m sure we never will. Our mother taught us how to expertly block out the past, and I’m trying hard to do that.
I set the photo on the mantel because I can’t help but feel a little comforted by the familiarity of two people who used to negate my mother’s atrocities. My father had the kindest eyes, a thought which now seems unbelievably ironic. Kind people don’t ditch their children. I move the frame facedown. I don’t have the heart to trash the photo, but I can’t look at what I’ve lost either. This is a nutty compromise, but it can stay on the mantel as long as I don’t have to look at it.
I mop and polish, and then I decide to be brave. Maybe it’s the fumes from the cleaning products that are making me aggressive, but I’m bothered that Sam was such a complete prick yesterday. Now that I’ve got gleaming wood and shiny appliances, I’m in a better mood.
It’s well past lunchtime, but I make a roast beef sandwich loaded with vegetables and a pretentious flavored mayonnaise that I bought this morning. I grab the six-pack of beer and balance the plate when I crack open the bedroom door.
Sam has removed the entire railing and is wearing a mask while he uses an electric sander at the far end of the deck. I try shouting his name a few times, but I can see that he’s wearing earbuds, and the sander is making too much noise. I stand awkwardly out of the sawdust blast and wait for him to notice me.
Eventually, he squats back on his knees and blows out air to clear his eyes, the dust around him settling slowly. At the sight of him, I immediately relax. I don’t care about yesterday or that he’s got the same cold look in his eyes now. Being i
n his presence is grounding, stabilizing, so I smile as I lift the plate and beer, questioning if he’s interested. With the back of his hand, Sam wipes sweat from his forehead, takes out his earbuds, and nods.
I step over a power cord and hand him the plate. “Thought you might be hungry and thirsty.”
“Thanks.” He scoots to the edge of the deck and hangs his legs off the side.
I take a breath and brazenly sit next to him. Sam shoots me a slightly irritated look, but I cast my gaze out at the water and ignore it. He says nothing as he takes a napkin from me, and we sit silently while he eats. When he’s finished half of the sandwich, I take a bottle from the six-pack and twist off the top. I pass it to him but don’t let go when he puts his hand on it.
Finally, his eyes are forced to meet mine. “Why are you smiling?” he asks.
I shrug. “I think I might be happy. Hard to know, considering how foreign that is to me, but I might be.”
He tugs on the beer, and I let go. His long hair falls back as he takes an extended swig, and I admire his solid jawline, the ruddiness in his cheeks from hours of work, and the fullness of his lips as he drinks. Sam’s wearing a worn sleeveless red shirt that’s drenched in sweat, and it’s impossible not to notice the definition in his arms. He is still the boy I knew from that one day, but he’s also now a man, one who I don’t know at all. I study him as he nearly inhales the beer. What’s clear is that something has happened to Sam Bishop because a hardness and bitterness about him is evident in everything he does. He reeks of pain and darkness.
I have my own pain to heal, but Sam’s is perhaps more jarring to me. Having seen the before and now seeing the after is difficult. He has hurt that is significant.
I open another beer for him and one for myself, and we sit without speaking for another fifteen minutes, dangling our legs off the side of the unfinished deck, while staring out across the ocean.