Choices

by Lyn Gardner

  “That’s shitty. Oh, sorry. Pardon my French.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve been known to speak that language fluently myself,” Maxine said with a wink. “Don’t get me wrong, Scott wasn’t a total ass. I heard he split the profits, but Judy moved here when she married him. This is her home now, so since then, she’s worked at a few of the shops, but I don’t think she’s married to any one of them. I see her in town all the time. If you’d like, I could mention it to her. She’d be perfect.”

  “That would be great,” Robin said. “At the very least, it’s a start, and if she’s not interested, I’ll put out some ads and go from there.”

  “Good,” Maxine said, patting her lap. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Monday morning, Robin walked up the ramp to the shed in her back yard, and swinging open the doors, she looked inside. The smell of grass, earth, and gasoline was the first thing she noticed, and the next was the three bicycles just inside the door, exactly where Maxine told her they’d be. One by one, Robin wheeled them out, propping them up on their kickstands as she took a look at them in the sunlight.

  The first was a three-speed ladies’ Schwinn with a neon pink frame and fenders to match, and hanging over both sides of the back tire were wicker baskets with purple and yellow plastic carnations intertwined in the weave. Robin shook her head at the girly bling and quickly decided of the three, that one would be the last to receive a tune-up. She was more femme than she was butch, but she was not that femme.

  The next was a tad more understated in color. The frame and fenders the classic green and white found on vintage bicycles, and while it too had baskets, they were of the standard aluminum variety hardly deserving a second glance.

  The last was the one Robin was most interested in seeing. It was Adele’s beater bike, as Maxine had called it, and it was primarily used for hauling groceries and the like from the ferry to the Inn. The oldest in design, its candy-apple red frame was bulkier than the other two, but then it had to be. Attached to the rear wheel was a cargo hauler, extending the overall length of the Raleigh mountain bike by at least four feet, and atop the cart was a neon green cover with signs affixed to both sides announcing Safe Harbor Inn. Baskets hung over the rear tire as well as between the handlebars, and with the addition of lights on both the front and back fenders, trips could be made safely no matter what time of the day or night. With her list on the kitchen counter rapidly growing, Robin put the other two bikes back into the shed, and after buttoning her coat, she walked the beater bike into town.

  ***

  It was less than a mile from the Inn to the bike shop, but by the time Robin reached her destination her shopping list, at least mentally, had grown to include a warmer coat, a knit cap, and a pair of gloves. The sun had been up for a couple of hours, so the frost of the evening had melted away, but the chill in the air had remained. After spending so many years in Florida, while many of the people she had passed seemed comfortable in their lightweight jackets or down vests, Robin needed more…a lot more.

  Robin left the bike at the curb and entered a shop smelling of parts cleaner, grease, and rubber tires. She approached the counter and smiled at the clerk. “Good morning. Maxine O’Connor—”

  “You must be Adele Anderson’s niece,” the man said, extending his hand. “Maxine stopped by earlier and said you’d be bringing in Adele’s bikes to get them looked at. Name’s Eddie Cowell.”

  “Robin Novak,” Robin said, chuckling as she shook the man’s hand. “She’s fast. I’ll give her that.”

  “Hell, you should have seen her when she was younger,” Eddie said with a loud guffaw. “She was something to be reckoned with. Come to think of it, she still is.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to see that,” Robin said. “And she was right. I brought over the first of the three I found in the shed. I was hoping you could look at it. I can tell you it needs new tires, but I’m not sure about the brakes or the gears.”

  Eddie looked through the shop window, instantly recognizing the red Raleigh parked just outside. “That won’t be a problem,” he said, turning back to Robin. “You want me to check the Burley, too?”

  “The Burley?”

  “The cargo hauler,” Eddie said, pointing to the cart behind Robin’s bike. “Adele used to keep everything in pretty good working order, but with the horse pee, the tires might need to be looked at.”

  “Oh…um…yes, please.”

  Eddie glanced up at the clock and then back down to the appointment book on the counter. “I should have it ready to go by tomorrow morning at the latest. Will that work?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be great,” Robin said, pulling out her wallet. “Do you need a deposit or—”

  “Hell, no,” he said as he came out from behind the counter. “If I asked for a deposit, Maxine would have my hide. We’ll settle up when you pick it up.”

  “That works for me,” Robin said, putting her wallet away. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here,” Eddie said, and with that, his attention returned to the paperwork on his counter.

  Robin had two more errands to run, but when she walked outside and felt the sun on her face, she decided she could handle the cold for a little while longer. Instead of backtracking to Hoban Street as Maxine suggested she do, Robin pulled up the collar of her coat and stuffing her hands in her pockets, she continued down Main Street.

  Main Street housed most of the tourist shops on Mackinac, and both sides of the road were lined with multi-colored one, two, and three-story buildings. Their façades differed much like their contents, but most of the businesses had stayed true to the ambiance of the island. Clapboard siding of yesteryear could be seen on nearly all, and although some had been painted in beachy pastels, others were in the hues of colonial times, the smoky blues and grays similar to those worn on uniforms during the Civil War. Fabric awnings in various colors hung above several of the entrances, touting the name of the business or their wares, while others had signs jutting out from the buildings or dangling from overhangs. Behind the sizable plate glass windows filling the storefronts were mountains of T-shirts, coffee mugs, and practically any other memento a tourist could ever want to obtain and intermingled amongst the souvenir shops were restaurants and pubs with tables waiting for the weary.

  From May to October, the tourists making their way to Mackinac could number up to fifteen thousand on any given day, but with just over three weeks left of the season, the crowds had thinned. The fragrance in the air still signified horses lived on the island, but as Robin made her way down the sidewalk, the aroma blended with that of fudge, the island’s claim to confectionery fame. She had already passed one shop selling the tasty treat, but when she reached the next, she caved to the call of sugar.

  Robin wandered inside, blending with the people milling about, and breathing in the decadence of all things fudge, she perused the glass cases. Marveling at all the flavors offered, she settled on a small pre-packaged assortment, and after paying the clerk, she slipped the pink box into the inside pocket of her coat. Robin headed back to the street to resume her walking tour of Main Street, but when she saw a familiar storefront up ahead, her mouth dropped open. She had just found the only store on the island that belonged to a chain, and inwardly, Robin did a fist pump. Mackinac had a Starbucks. A few minutes later, Robin meandered up the road with a white and green paper cup in her hand, the heat of the featured dark roast warming her palm nicely.

  Ever since leaving the house that morning, Robin had felt as if she was walking in a bubble, a surreal slow-motion world where life crept along without a worry or a fear. That feeling had yet to leave her, and Robin didn’t understand why. It wasn’t because people passing her on the street hadn’t smiled their hellos or mouthed the word, because they had, and the clerks couldn’t have been more friendly and accommodating, so that didn’t play into the conundrum causing her eyebrows to knit. There was something else. Robin just c
ouldn’t put her finger on it.

  When she reached the white benches near the Tourist Bureau, Robin took a seat and sipping her coffee through the plastic lid, she watched the people stroll by, easily chatting with their friends or partners as they made their way down the sidewalk. Tethered to their music by earbuds, bicyclists pedaled down the street, the click of their shifting gears making it to Robin’s ears, and a few joggers loped down the road, their footsteps padding lightly across the pavement.

  Robin leaned back on the bench, crossed her legs, and was about to take another sip of her coffee, but as she brought the cup to her lips, she stopped. As if frozen in place, she remained still except for her eyes, which darted back and forth between the riders and the walkers until finally she tipped back her head and laughed out loud. A few passersby turned to look, but Robin paid them no mind for she had just solved the puzzle she’d been working on all morning. She was simply a product of her environment.

  Like those living in northern climates adapting to the cold and those in the south familiar with the heat, Robin had become accustomed to the cacophony of the modern age. To the sound of car engines and diesel trucks, to buses and taxis rushing to their next stop, and to car horns, screeching brakes, and mufflers manufactured to rumble and roar. She had learned to block them all out, to pay no attention to car doors slamming or sirens announcing emergencies or even to the expletives born out of road rage that was shouted from windows because it was the clatter she had grown up with…but now it was gone.

  Enthralled, Robin sat on the bench for almost an hour listening to the sounds of Mackinac. From the low hum of a ferry’s engine off in the distance and the calls of the gulls flying over the town to the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the occasional ring of a biker’s bell as they signaled their existence. Like a serene melody, the sounds filled her ears, but just barely, and Robin’s smile grew. She liked the concord of Mackinac. She liked it a lot.

  ***

  The bell over the door rang as Maxine entered Brushstrokes, a small art gallery on Market Street, and before the door could close behind her, Maxine saw Judy Dunnigan grinning back at her from the counter. “Good morning, Judy.”

  “Good morning, Maxi,” Judy said, closing the book she’d been reading. “What are you doing up this way?”

  “Just visiting,” Maxine said, unbuttoning her jacket as she scanned the shop. “Are Walt or Sally around?”

  “No, with things slowing down, they’re using the time to get a jump on packing up for the winter. Why, do you need them? I can call them,” Judy said, reaching for the phone.

  “That’s not necessary,” Maxine said. “I was actually hoping they wouldn’t be here.”

  Judy raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because I’m about to steal their favorite employee away from them,” Maxine said, rubbing her hands together.

  “I’m their only employee, and you know it,” Judy said, setting aside the book. “And what do you mean steal me away?”

  “How’d you like to manage the Safe Harbor Inn?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if you heard, but Adele’s—”

  “Maxi, you and I both know if Mackinac’s grapevine were any thicker, we’d be producing wine instead of fudge,” Judy said with a laugh. “Of course, I’ve heard. She’s a writer. Her name’s Robin, and she moved into the Inn last week, but what in the world does a writer know about running a B&B?”

  “Nothing, which is why she’s looking for someone to manage it, so I told her about you.”

  “Me? I’ve never run a B&B.”

  “No, but you helped out Adele when she needed it, and you’ve filled in at most of the others, too. And I thought...” Maxine stopped and looked around the empty shop. “I thought maybe you’d want something a little more challenging than this.”

  “What makes you think I’m looking for something more challenging?”

  “Because you’ve worked in just about every shop on the island since your divorce.”

  “Maybe I just like change,” Judy said with a shrug.

  “Or maybe you’re bored out of your mind,” Maxine said, leaning on the counter. “You and I both know you were the driving force behind The Wheelhouse. Sure, Scott could wrench bikes with the best of them, but when it came to everything else, it was all you.”

  “Yes, and it was crazy and hectic, and non-stop from May to October.”

  “And you loved every minute of it,” Maxine said, tapping her finger on the counter. “The people who live on this island are a special breed, and you may not have been born here, Judy, but you live and breathe the chaos of the tourist season just like the rest of us. It’s in our blood.”

  Judy couldn’t argue Maxine’s point because, for the past twenty-five years, she had experienced it firsthand…and she did miss it.

  Like a crocus emerging from the winter frost, Mackinac came alive in the spring. Shop owners, not brave enough to spend the winter, would begin arriving in April as would the teams of horses returning from their stay on the mainland. Shortly after that, ferries loaded with freight would pull into the docks and carts jam-packed with boxes of souvenirs, books, and supplies would be delivered by dray. The boards and plywood over the storefront windows would be taken down, and anything and everything that needed a fresh coat of paint would receive it. Neighbors would reacquaint themselves with neighbors. Windows on the B&Bs would be opened, allowing fresh air to replace stale, and gardens would be weeded and prepped for the spring. Like racehorses readying themselves for a dash, the people of Mackinac were champing at the bit for the season to start and on the first of May, it would do just that.

  Every hour, a ferry horn would be heard, announcing the arrival of the next group of visitors, and after hundreds disembarked, bikes were rented, shops were visited, and bed-and-breakfasts and hotels across the island would begin to fill. Sightseers would clamber onto carriages, anxious to visit Fort Mackinac, Arch Rock, and the Grand Hotel, while others would set out on foot or bicycles, wanting to experience the beauty of the island at their own leisurely pace.

  Rain or shine, seven days a week, and from dawn to dusk Mackinac was a bustling melting pot of young and old, but the island also had another vibe, and that came out at night. With fourteen bars on the island, the pub crawls of Mackinac had become a tradition for many. Those hardy enough, or perhaps foolhardy enough, could be found walking, weaving, or stumbling from one pub to the next, collecting the bartender’s signatures and earning them boasting rights once their hangovers wore off. Late into the night, music, dancing, and the boisterous camaraderie born from friendship could be heard throughout the town until eventually, all would go quiet until the morning…and then it would start again.

  Judy sighed as she looked around the gallery. The same pegboard-covered walls had stared back at her for the past six months, their surfaces thickened by the fresh coat of white paint that Walt and Sally always applied in the spring. Watercolors hung in every available inch of the little gallery, each framed to accent the swirls of transparent colors depicting local scenery, wildlife, and lighthouses within its confines. Some had caught and held Judy’s attention for weeks, the artist so adept with washes, glazes, and edges that the watercolor clouds appeared as soft as cotton balls and the autumn colors were the truest she had ever seen. She was always sad to see them leave the shop, yet there were others Judy would have gladly given away if it had been up to her for their hues were too splotchy or their perspective too skewed.

  Crates along the floor held small pieces of artwork, each matted and wrapped in cellophane for an easy sale, and in the center of the room was a rack filled with larger paintings, protected in the same way so customers could fan through them to their heart’s content. Most of Judy’s time had been spent kneeling at those crates or standing at the rack, sorting and rearranging what others had disordered, and she had never been more bored in her life. She was used to the hubbub of candy stores and souvenir shops, and to the waves of pe
ople jockeying for position as they scrambled to rent bikes. She was used to chatting with customers eager to listen to stories about the island, but those who visited galleries spoke in whispers or not at all. Judy wasn’t sure she wanted to manage a bed-and-breakfast, but she did know that next year, come hell or high water, she wouldn’t be working at the gallery.

  ***

  Robin wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt, and sitting back on her haunches, she admired her handiwork.

  Maxine had been a wealth of information that morning, answering as many questions as Robin could think to ask, and by the time the woman left, Robin’s day was planned. After visiting the bike shop and ambling down Main Street, Robin headed up to Market Street to complete her errands for the day. Her first stop was the police department where she renewed the licenses required for each of the three bikes that were now hers, and her next stop was the Department of Public Works.

  Robin had always thought of herself as an environmentally conscious person, recycling her newspapers, bottles, and cans like most everyone else, and any old paint, batteries, and chemicals were always taken to the designated disposal areas. However, after listening to Maxine, Robin realized she needed to step up her game because Mackinac Island had no landfill.

  Whatever trash was generated had to be sorted in one of four ways. Plastic bins were still made available for recyclable materials, but the rest had to be put into clear, tan, or blue bags, all of which had to be purchased at the Department of Public Works. The clear sixty-gallon bags were used for yard waste while the tan thirty-three-gallon ones were for any compostable materials, both of which would be taken to the island’s composting center where they’d be emptied and sorted. The blue bags held everything else, and since they had to be hauled off the island by ferry to a landfill on the mainland, the cost of those bags was double that of the tan, helping to offset the transportation charges while also acting as an incentive for the residents to sort their trash appropriately.