by Amanda Dykes
She inches away, pulling back to the doorway to let him have space.
He docks on an island near the head of the harbor. She remembers this spot—Everlea Estate. Her family had some history here, though the details are foggy. Something about her great-grandmother Savannah. It wasn’t in the family now, but she’d seen pictures of a Victorian house with pointed roof, gazebo, pond—all of it.
“Be back soon,” he says, and picking up a beige messenger bag, he disappears up a trail and into the trees.
The boat bobs gently, sun warming her shoulders.
This is what some people give their life’s savings for, she tells herself. To come here and soak in silence and bob away on the waves. This is nothing to be afraid of.
Still, she can’t stop herself from planning her quickest exit and pinpointing the location of the life jackets as she waits.
And waits. Time stretches out, and finally so does she, stretching her legs as she ventures back into the wheelhouse. Just as it looked yesterday, but in the full daylight the details are clearer. In the corner, a backpacker guitar—she’d know that shape anywhere, too small to be a full-sized guitar—in a soft case, with straps to live up to its name. She’d guess Bob was behind that, too.
From the bookshelf she pulls out the old copy of The Moonstone, thinking to fill her time with the old mystery. But as she settles back on the bench outside and opens the cover, something flutters from the crisp yellowed pages.
She retrieves it and, as she’s returning it, takes in the first lines. Hey, Fletch . . .
A letter.
She looks away.
The handwriting, snapshotted and filed away in her mind, is loopy and smooth, slanted like a breeze blew through it. A bit of a tremor in spots.
She hadn’t meant to see the next words, but there they were, branded in her mind before she could look away: I know you’re not going to want to read this for a while . . .
Her college textbooks come back to haunt her near-photographic memory, taunting her to read more. The study of written communication is crucial, one book had said, for gaining insight into the structure and function of human interactions. Society itself, modern or otherwise, cannot be fully understood without such examination. . . .
She shuts the book hard on the letter. “Stop it,” she says, scolding the phantom textbook. Maybe what it asserted was correct, but if she’d learned one thing in her disastrous and short-lived career as a field anthropologist, it was that knowledge means nothing without trust.
And trust has to be earned.
A crash sounds from somewhere in the trees, like a tower of dishes clattering to the ground, and Ann flies from the boat. Pounding up the trail Jeremiah had taken, she breaks into a clearing where the house from all the old photographs stands as big as life—pale yellow and trimmed in flaking white paint. On the porch, Jeremiah is on his hands and knees, a concerned look on his face.
EMT. He’s an EMT. The crash, the look on his face, him on his knees—he must be helping someone. She rushes to join him, pulling out her phone to call for help. Useless.
“Oh, that won’t work here, darling.” A woman with a long white braid and a floppy straw hat takes Ann’s phone, holding it as if it’s a three-day-old fish she’s about to toss back into the water. “Do you need to make a call? You’re welcome to use the radio if you need shore.”
“I . . . it was reflex. . . .” Ann takes in the scene—Jeremiah gathering bits of a broken china plate, the woman’s face smudged with soil. Her denim pants, tucked into tall black galoshes, marked with dirt at the knees. “I heard a crash. Is everyone all right?”
“Everyone but that plate,” the woman says. “And the scones. Not that they were much to write home about.” She thumbs over her shoulder toward the house. “There are three cases of shined-up silverware in there from this place’s heyday. Just gathering dust while I eat over the campfire. Seems a waste, don’tcha think? They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but I’m determined to figure out how to make civilized food. Starting with the infernal scone. That silverware will be used again for something other than dust-gatherin’.”
“Those scones . . . if you were aiming for infernal,” Jeremiah says, “you got it just right.”
The woman narrows her eyes at him, and Ann’s just about to rise up on her behalf when she tosses her white braid over her shoulders and laughs at the sky.
“That’s a good one, Fletch.” She points at him, and Jeremiah gives a stiff, shallow bow.
Ann can tell this woman has never met a stranger. And she likes that. Envies it, really.
Jeremiah stands, plate pieces stacked, and the woman points him to a galvanized bucket. “Stick ’em in the ash bucket, where they belong.”
Ann glances over her shoulder to the bucket and sees, sitting on a heap of ashes like Job himself, a pile of blackened triangular would-be pastries.
“I’ve gone and skipped the hiya’s again, haven’t I? Sylvia Phelps.” She sticks out a garden glove–clad hand, and Ann shakes it, thinking how the grit of the soil that clings to her afterward matches Sylvia.
“They called me Sully on the mountain,” she says. “But you call me whatever you like. Call me Sully. Call me Sylvia. Call me Mary Poppins, for all I care. Names don’t make a person. What’s yours?”
Ann’s mind races to catch up with this whirlwind. “My name? I’m Annie.” The name slips out in a fluster . . . and sounds strange in her own voice. She’s been plain Ann for so long, but being here, back in this place . . . “Annie Bliss,” she says. It sends a small thrill through her.
“Annie.” Sully curves the name, like it doesn’t make sense. “Bob’s Annie?”
She’ll never tire of how that phrase drapes her in belonging. “Yes,” she says. “I’m here for Bob.”
“I thought you were off in San Francisco or Miami or Beirut or somewhere.”
“Close.” She tips her head. “I’m up from Chicago.”
“Huh.” Sylvia put her hands on her hips and looks Annie up and down.
Jeremiah’s been watching all of this with amusement, but then he grabs a shovel and starts digging a hole beyond the deck, out where the makings of a garden are. “Right here, Sully?”
“You got it, Fletch. Thanks!” She turns back to Annie, gesturing to the white wicker chairs, where they sit. “I’m puttin’ in a fence. Infernal deer around here make a habit of eatin’ my dinner.”
Sylvia takes out a pocketknife, starts to whittle a stick. “For the fish,” she says, pricking her finger with the knife point to test it. “Nothin’ beats catching ’em the old-fashioned way.”
Annie considers Sylvia, the rugged woman all mud-streaked and fierce, sitting on the prim porch of an old Victorian. She and the house are as unmatched as can be—and yet there’s a rightness to her out here on this island, the wild sea all around. There’s a story here—Annie can sense it.
“What are you growing?” Annie plies the tools of her trade, hoping that the questions will lead to connections. It was what brought her into anthropology in the first place. When she was a painfully shy teenager, she discovered the magic of questions. If she asked the right questions, the other person would talk, and talk, and talk. And she could listen. She fell in love with listening, marveled at the magic of the things she found out, just by asking a few questions. Treasures buried in every conversation.
“Growing!” Sylvia spits the word with disdain. “Mud—that’s what. It’s mud season, don’tcha know? Summer, fall, winter, mud. Spring’s a myth here, and summer sprouts up sometime after the mud.”
Annie had forgotten about the season of mud. After the long winter these hearty people endured, the cold melted everything in sight into . . . well, mud. This part of Maine was a place like no other spot in the universe, and being back was like finding an old patch of sunlight in a long-lost home, and settling in.
“Was the mud bad up on the mountain?”
“Mountain?”
“You mentioned a mo
untain. Is that where you came from?”
“You don’t come from the mountain. The mountain makes you. I was a guide fifty years up there until I finally turned in my compass.” She points at Annie accusingly. “Not that I needed a compass. Knew Katahdin like the back of my hand.” Annie recognizes the name of Maine’s tallest peak.
“You must have so many stories from your time there,” Annie says.
Sylvia hoots. “Stories!” She glances at Jeremiah, who’s leaning on his shovel, posthole all dug, listening. “Tell you what. You two come on back later this week and I’ll serve you up an earful of stories. I’ll start with the one about the rabid chipmunk and the troop of corporate know-it-alls from the city. And I’ll give you lunch, if you’re lucky.” She glances at the ash bucket. “Or unlucky.”
And just like that, it seems their visit is over.
Sylvia walks them back to the Glad Tidings and waves her floppy hat as they pull away from the dock.
The whole way back, Jeremiah shoots Annie furtive glances. His expression is stolid, and it’s maddening. She should be able to tell something about what he’s thinking, but he’s got a poker face like no other.
“You do that often?” she asks at last.
“Do what?”
Annie waves back at Sully’s island. “That. Dig postholes while you’re delivering mail.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever done that before.” Jeremiah’s smile is wry.
“But that sort of thing. That’s part of the job?”
“That’s just part of living here. You don’t remember that?”
That silences her. She’s used to city life, rich in its own way, with an energy and bustle from the lives there, but where eye contact is a safety issue and a good neighbor is your insurance company’s tagline. The perfect place to skate by on the surface of society . . . which she told herself was a blessing. Safer that way.
But the growing hollow place inside says differently.
They ride in silence until they arrive at Sailor’s Rest. Jeremiah offers his hand to steady her as she steps onto the dock, holds her hand for just a few seconds longer than needed—as if she might bolt. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asks. He’s searching her eyes, and it takes everything in her to not look away, hide from this intensity.
“Learn how to do what?”
He releases her hand. “Sylvia. I’ve brought her mail every week for the last three years, and never once have I heard her open up about the mountain.”
Annie smiles. “It’s the magic.”
“Oh, great.” He rolls his eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s phases of the moon and—”
“No,” Annie says, feeling her defenses rise. “Just the magic of questions. People. You ask, you learn.”
He studies her. “Not always.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shooting her a maddening glance, he heads up the path, as if she’s proving his point and he’s just won the battle.
She jogs to catch up.
“What did you mean?” she demands.
“Not everyone will answer your questions. Especially around here.”
“What—like you?”
“For starters.”
“Why not?”
“Bob told me about you.”
She stops fast in the path.
“What did Bob tell you about me?”
“You and your . . . people-detecting.”
This guy is nuts.
“You’re a people detective. It’s what you do, right? Study them, figure things out about them.”
His summation is so simple, it cuts away the fog of the last four years of people boiled down into numbers and trends.
“I’m a consumer insights analyst,” she says dully. “I just crunch numbers.” She walks around him to make a beeline for the sanctuary of the house as he rounds the corner of it, heading out back for who-knows-what reason.
But there, planted on the steps between her and safety, is a man in a gray suit. Annie registers little else, her mind going into overdrive. He must be from the hospital, or maybe Washington County, here to deliver a notification she doesn’t want. It must be. He looks grave, his wire-rimmed glasses framing somber eyes.
“Good day,” he says, voice polished. “I’m here regarding Robert Bliss.”
“Oh,” Annie murmurs, eyes growing wide. “He isn’t . . . he hasn’t . . .”
“I’ve a standing appointment with him and have been waiting over an hour.”
Shackles of apprehension click open, and she can nearly hear them fall away. “I see,” she says.
The man seems to notice her for the first time, and a polished smile emerges. “Spencer T. Ripley,” he says. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
She introduces herself, folding her arms and backing up a step. “You have an appointment with Bob?”
“No, he doesn’t.” She turns to see Jeremiah, face as stone and a package of shingles under his arm. He strides toward them, slows as he passes Spencer T. Ripley, never taking his eyes from him. Two more steps and he’s in the house.
“Hey!” Annie goes after him, only to find him pulling an envelope off the stack of speared notes next to the door. Spencer T. Ripley, it says. That’s why the name sounded familiar.
Jeremiah strides back out and presses it to the man’s chest. Spencer scrambles to gather it up, rip it open. Jeremiah stands back, arms folded, waiting.
Spencer scans the paper as if he’s the hunter and it’s the prey. He stops. Scans it again, the spark dying in his eyes.
“Very funny,” he says. “Please tell Mr. Bliss that the Committee for Excellence in Maritime Poetry will continue to await his earnest next installment, for display at the upcoming summit.” The man talks like a form letter.
“Good luck with that,” Jeremiah says.
Spencer T. Ripley turns from him, directing dark eyes to Annie. “Ms. Bliss, was it?”
Annie nods, pulling a water bottle from her bag and taking a sip.
“I’d be much obliged, Ms. Bliss, if you’d convey my message to the venerated Mr. Bliss.”
She nearly spews her water—not because Bob’s not worthy of being venerated, but because she can picture his face twisted up if he ever heard himself called so.
The man removes a business card from his suit pocket and hands it to her. It’s crisp white with bold black type. “If you learn of Bob’s promised installment, do look me up.” He turns to leave but stops and looks over his shoulder, as if he’s Spencer Tracy instead of Spencer T. Ripley. “Or if you’d just like to enjoy a coffee together sometime, I’m staying above the Realtor’s office in town,” he adds with a wink. Ignoring her shocked expression, he continues. “I’ve rented the flat there for the next two weeks, in preparation for the festival.”
Jeremiah drops the package of shingles, its slap piercing the air and sending Spencer jogging down the harbor trail in his Oxfords.
The paper he’d pulled from the envelope falls behind him and dances a circle inside a whirl of breeze. Snatching it up, Annie reads Bob’s words.
A life well-lived
is a life well-gived.
And a poem well-wrote
is a poem goodly-smote.
She looks from the paper to the retreating man and back. Jeremiah’s watching, his expression as serious as ever but his eyes laughing.
Annie scratches her head. “What just happened?”
Jeremiah stoops to gather the shingles, which have escaped from their brown paper wrapping. “You just stepped into Bob’s worst nightmare.”
Annie kneels to help him, and he goes on to explain how Spencer T. Ripley is a thorn in Bob’s side. How his department at the New England Oceanic College is putting together a festival—the Summit for the Celebration of Maritime Literature. How they’d descended upon Ansel’s town meeting three months ago with no warning and announced that they’d chosen Ansel-by-the-Sea to host the prestigious inaugural celebration. How the tow
n board had informed them that they might have trouble securing a venue and lodging, seeing as they’d chosen the same weekend as the annual Ansel Lobsterfest, which pulled in no small crowd. And how Spencer T. Ripley and his Committee for Excellence in Maritime Poetry were undaunted and planned to descend on the town that weekend anyway, choosing local poet-hero Robert Bliss to be their keynote speaker and headliner.
To which they’d been met with a room of blank faces and not a few chuckles. Mr. Ripley had never met Bob—nor had he seen the way his on-a-good-day gruff manners grew coarser by a thousand whenever someone mentioned his single poem, penned some fifty years ago.
“How did Bob react?”
“As you might imagine,” Jeremiah says. “Bob wasn’t at the meeting, but Spencer showed up here to give Bob the ‘good news,’ and Bob shut the door in his face. He flat out refuses to take part in their literature fest, which the rest of the town has started calling Bobsterfest. Bob’s dead set on going to Lobsterfest and won’t set foot near Bobsterfest. He’s written a pile of”—he looks at the paper Annie is holding and holds his fingers up in air quotes—“‘poetry’ to feed the guy whenever he comes around. Made up words, cheesy rhymes, the gamut.”
Annie smiles and aches all the more to hug that gruff old man.
“Since then,” Jeremiah says, “that guy has plagued every town meeting, bringing updates that no one cares about. He gets to town a day before the meetings and shows up on Bob’s doorstep, begging for more poetry, convinced he’s going to be the one to summon the great poet who united a nation back into writing.”
Annie had heard the whispers around town, of Bob’s famous poem written back in the forties. She didn’t know the details, and though she’d gone hunting for a copy of it when she lived with Bob that summer, she’d turned up nary a clue. Still, she knew it had gained him some renown, and he’d loathed it, refusing to call it poetry. “They’re just words,” he’d grumbled.
“All they had to do was open up Rusty Joe’s classifieds, if that’s what they wanted,” Annie says.
And Jeremiah—for the first time—laughs. Deep and alive, it’s the sort of laugh that frames his mouth in kind lines and reaches right inside everyone around. She joins him, and he glances up, their eyes meeting and holding.
