by Karina Sharp
I find a small alcove of shore that has just enough sand for me to lie upon, but with enough trees to shield my presence from the road and surrounding properties. Walking leisurely toward the water, I note the large estates dotting the cliffs and beaches along the shore. I open my large, plush, pink towel, laying it on the sand perpendicular to the water’s edge, unfold my lounge chair, pour myself a glass of light, white wine, and open my beachy romance novel.
Reading about a petite, quirky girl, much like myself, romanced by a forbidden man has my mind wandering to places it hasn’t been for some time. I put the book down to refill my wine glass and spot something out of the corner of my eye. Just beyond several trees and overgrown bushes, I think I see the outline of a large house, but I’m not certain. It appears to be a Cape Cod style house with cedar shingles, although it seems to be in gross disrepair. Curious, I move closer to it to check it out. It’s not often that large estates are not in pristine condition. Generally, those who own neighboring properties do not look favorably upon prime real estate to not remain just that.
Standing with only greenery separating me from the iron fence of the abode, I see its true beauty. My father instilled a knowledge and appreciation of architecture into my brother and I, and this house is a masterful work of art. It has large dormer windows, slate tile on the roof, cedar shingles on the sides, and large windows, providing sweeping views of the ocean. It would have a one-of-a-kind view if the windows weren’t all covered in heavy fabrics and the exterior with wild shrubbery. The house needs to be painted and landscaped, but the bones are still there. The in-ground pool would benefit from some serious chemicals. I think it currently houses the largest colony of tadpoles on this planet.
Even through its unkempt exterior, I can see that this house is sturdy and well built. I’m sure in its heyday, it easily graced the cover of Coastal Living Magazine or an architectural digest. Something about the home seems sad, almost as though the entire aura of the place is mourning its former glory.
Assuming the house must be vacant, since it’s in such a state of disrepair, I forge through the green wall of vines and bushes to get a closer look. Cement sculptures and large stone steps, remnants of their former selves, lead from the algae filled pool to a large back patio where I can envision lavish, formal parties being held at sunset or big weddings with live bands. At one point, this home had to have had life; it must be at least one hundred years old.
I cautiously creep over to the large French doors and adjacent windows to see if I can sneak a peek into the structure. I picture tall ceilings with hardwood floors and walls of books. It is dark inside, but it appears to be in direct contrast to outside. Furniture seems to be in place, pictures on walls, and, yes, even many books aligned on bookshelves. Moving down the row of dusty windows, I see a conservatory with a large piano, keyboard uncovered; chaise lounge; and some other pieces of furniture, of which I cannot discern exactly what they are.
Seeing the interior of the home still furnished and clean, gives me an eerie feeling. Why would a vacant estate remain fully furnished and completely as it was when the inhabitants were here, but not the exterior? It’s very strange. I want to find a way in, so I can snoop further, but I listen to the little voice inside my head that tells me I should make my leave.
I turn toward my escape route when I hear, “What do you want?” in a lovely, but irritated, baritone voice.
I simultaneously jump and squeal and, on instinct, immediately attempt to run away as if the cops just caught me drinking whilst underage. When I take my first step, my foot lands on a large rock, my ankle twists, and I find myself on my ass, trying not to look up at the source of the inquiry.
Scrambling to get back up, the voice moves closer to me. “Are you okay?”
My hair is in my face, my sun dress up above my waist, and I struggle to get up.
“Just stay right there,” the voice says smoothly as footsteps move closer to me.
I can’t bring myself to look up, I just know he must be a police officer. I moved to this area to start a new life, and this is definitely not the way I planned to start. I know full well how gossip sprints around in small towns.
Well-manicured feet wearing brown leather flip-flops stop right in front of me.
“I’m so sorry...I...err...I didn’t realize anyone was here. I didn’t mean to trespass.”
Tangled auburn hair covers my face as I reach down to feel my ankle. It’s painful and swollen, but not broken. It hurts more than I’m willing to let on, though.
“Is your foot okay?”
“It will be fine. It’s not broken; I probably just twisted it.”
I look up to see a man, a very handsome man, towering over me. He is definitely not what I pictured when I heard his voice the first time. I don’t know that I really pictured anything, but his face looks a lot kinder than the tone I heard, although his eyes look tired and hardened. His dark, almost black, hair is a little shaggy, wavy locks hanging over his eyes and ears. Although he doesn’t have a full beard, he appears to have remained unshaven for quite some time. Sunlight struggles to beam through the canopy of trees and shrubs, making the area dark and shadowy. Even in the dim light and under the wiry brush of facial hair, I see strong and handsome features.
He continues to stare at me, expectantly, so I feel the need to further explain myself. “I’m so sorry for trespassing. I didn’t think anyone was home. I was on the beach over there and saw this incredible looking home. I’m a little nosy, so I wanted to come see it closer. Are you a neighbor or something?”
His eyes deepen with fatigue, I think. I‘m really uncomfortable now. Why does he just stare at me? I look down to my throbbing ankle and attempt to stand back up. When I try to put weight on it, I grimace, to which this handsome, silent stranger takes notice. He offers his hand to me for assistance.
“I think I can manage myself,” I say, embarrassed and trying to leave as quickly as possible.
“Clearly you can’t,” he says flatly, hand still extended.
“Yes I can! I don’t need assistance; I can do things myself,” I respond resolutely.
“Suit yourself.” He takes his hand away and watches me.
“I will, thank you very much.”
I help myself up from the pavement and begin to hobble back to my car and back to my pride. I am making very little progress, but determined to make it to my car before I collapse and cry out in pain, when I feel an arm wrap around me and help support me.
“You’re obviously struggling. I can help you walk.”
“No. I said I will do it on my own,” I snap.
I’m a bit perturbed now. Who does this guy think he is? He’s just going to force his help on me? I don’t think so.
“I’m not going to sit here and watch you limp back to wherever it is you’re going. Now, either let me help you walk into my house so I can get you some ice for your ankle, or I will pick you up and carry you there.”
“You will NOT pick me up. Wait… This is your house?”
“Well, kind of...” He clears his throat. “I WILL pick you up if you don’t let me help you.”
“Ugh,” I sigh. “Help me walk into your house. For the record, this is not the first injury I’ve had, and I know it’s not broken. It’s just sore and swollen. I was going to deal with it when I got home.”
We begin walking toward the French doors I was looking into earlier, I guess they were unlocked the whole time. He has to bend down a bit to have his arm under my shoulder to support some of my weight. His arm feels warm and muscular. Very muscular. Hmmm… This situation could be the set up for a porno. Or a horror film. Or a romantic comedy. Random girl from out of town stumbles upon a handsome stranger by snooping around his house. She goes inside with him without even knowing his name, and he- Oh… I agreed to go into his house and have no clue who he is.
“Since you’re determined to assist me, can I at least know the name of the person to whom I should write a thank you note?”
/>
“Jack.”
Jack remains silent as he supports me across the patio.
“I’m Journey. Quite the talker, aren’t we, Jack?”
“Not really.”
We walk in silence through the doorway. Way to take the bait, Jack.
“I’m Journey Ferrer. I just moved to the area.”
More silence. Really. Awkward. Silence.
Entering the house, I am swept away by its beauty. The house is gorgeous on the inside and shows no signs of its exterior wear. The ceilings are tall, highlighting the vast sitting room whose one wall is nothing but windows, though they are covered. Everything looks to be in excellent shape, including the furniture. In fact, the furniture all appears to be new and unused. Jack guides me to an overstuffed chair with an ottoman, and I sit.
“I will go get you some ice.”
“Thank you,” I mutter. “You don’t talk, you insist on helping women despite their being perfectly capable of doing things on their own, and you live in a large house that looks as though it hasn’t been cared for in years. Anything else to know about you, Jack?”
His eyes harden along with his mouth.
Oops… I sometimes run my mouth a little too much. I don’t even know whether or not he’s an axe murderer, although I seriously doubt it.
“I apologize again, I didn’t mean to-”
“No, you’re right. You’ve hit every single point accurately. I guess there’s nothing else to know and now you can settle your curiosity.”
Oh… I think it’s time to call this disastrous attempt at making a new friend complete.
“Do you really not know who I am?” His voice cracks as he speaks.
“I’m sorry, like I said, I’m new to the area, so I really don’t know anyone here.”
“Oh.” He drops his head and then looks up at me with his amber and brown eyes.
Those eyes. I know those eyes. They look a little more weathered and weary now, but I know that particular shade of brown against such dark features. Shame overcomes me. How did I not see it before? Realistically, it’s been nine years, but still… I smile in remembrance of many spring breaks in Cabo.
“Where do you spend your spring break, Jack?”
“Lately, here. Years ago, in Cabo San Lucas.” He lifts his head tentatively.
“Just Jack?” I squeal. “Oh my goodness! You live here? In Maine?”
“I do now,” he responds curtly.
I want to get up and hug him and catch up on the past nine years, but not even a hint of a smile appears on his face and no excitement shows in his eyes. I feel guilty, as though I’ve done something wrong. How was I to know that the random old house I stumbled upon in Maine and its shaggy-haired tenant would be Jack, my former Spring Break fling? What are the odds? Honestly?
“You look different. You were always so clean cut with short hair when we were together. You’re bordering on Grizzly Adam’s next of kin.”
Silence ensues, and I take it as my cue to leave. Obviously, some things have changed in the time that has passed, and he’s not looking to share them with me.
“I think my ankle feels better now. Thank you.”
“Is that your car over there?”
I look out of the large bay window and see a straight path to my car. It’s not that far. Time to get going.
“Yes it is. If it’s all the same to you, I will be on my merry way. Thank you for the ice.”
“I’ll drive you to your car.”
“No need.”
“I insist.”
“No, I insist. I think I’ve intruded enough for one day, thank you.”
I stand up, sure to keep a straight face, give a sharp nod, and walk out the house in relief.
Chapter 11
Journey
After my strange encounter and uncomfortable reunion with Jack, I was a little shaken. I’ve always been one to run my mouth at times, but never made to feel guilty about it. I know I hurt his feelings and struck a nerve. I feel a little tug somewhere inside of myself when I think about his icy stare as I left.
After I left Jack’s, I drove straight home, nursed my ankle, and nursed my ego. I’ve always been friendly and able to crack even the most impervious and hardened personality.
I spend Sunday cleaning and painting my cottage, but despite the obvious distractions, my mind keeps returning to Jack. What is it about him? I think I should send him a fruit basket with an apology note or a balloon bouquet. I don’t know, but from what I saw, he would be more apt to pop every balloon before the delivery person could even hand them over.
It’s a crisp summer night and some fresh seafood sounds delightful to me. I drive down to the city of Wells to visit the Maine Diner, which is where Teresa suggested I go. It’s a quaint-looking building with a bar to eat at and a few booths around the room. On the way in, I see a sign that says that the Today Show once visited here.
I sit at the bar where a friendly face, wearing a nametag reading Joanna, greets me. “Welcome to the Maine Diner. Have you been here before?”
“No,” I reply. “I recently moved here, but you all come highly recommended.”
“That’s sweet. Where do you come from?”
“I moved here from Texas, but am originally from Connecticut.”
“From way down south? At least you’re from New England, so you know what weather to expect. Where abouts in Connecticut?”
“Greenwich,” I answer quickly. I loved growing up in Greenwich, but there’s a certain stigma that comes along with it.
“You must be from money.”
Case in point. I say I’m from Greenwich, and the response from those who didn’t grow up there is always something about money or powerful and famous families.
“Kind of, but I moved away a long time ago.”
I open the menu and attempt to look it over.
“You must be familiar with some of the more prominent families who vacation here.”
“I am, but it’s been a really long time.”
It’s true. I have been to many social functions, weddings, charity events, and the like with those families, but it’s not anything I brag about or that people who are from “old money” as my dad would call it and grew up in the circle think is anything special. He was not so much a fan of those with “new money,” and often tried to avoid them as much as possible. They seemed to be intent on making sure everyone knew they had money and status.
To be quite honest, I found some of them from both sides of the fence to be a little overbearing at times. The thing about growing up in generations of privilege is that you don’t feel the need to flaunt it. Also, my family was always determined to make sure that we had a life of our own and didn’t take what we had for granted. Plus, if we did anything to mar our family’s good name and reputation, we could possibly be disowned. I don’t care about being disowned from family fortune, but I do care about hurting the name my family spent years making and risking them not associating themselves with me anymore. At least now I care. There was a time period where tarnishing the family name was not so much of a priority. Regardless, one thing that has never wavered is the fact that I love my family.
“What’s good here?” I ask Joanna to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Everything’s good here. Why don’t I give you a minute to look over the menu?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea, Joanna.”
I peruse the menu, which is huge, for some time. Everything sounds tasty, but I remember what Teresa recommended- the seafood chowder and lobster roll, which is what I order. The chowder is full of large pieces of lobster, scallops, clams, crab, and I don’t know what else, but it’s wonderful. The lobster roll is simple: A toasted New England style hot dog bun, warm lobster meat, and drawn butter to pour over the top. Simple, but delicious.
As I eat, I hear Joanna talking to someone further down the bar. “I know. It’s a real shame, isn’t it? That house used to be pristine. It was one of the finest estates i
n the area.”
I wonder if they’re talking about the one I was nosing around yesterday that houses my long-lost Spring Break Fling, but it’s about 20 minutes north of here, so surely not.
“I can’t believe that he’s not going to give that house to the city so the Fosters can take it over and fix it back up. It’s so sad how it looks right now.”
“I drove to the shore up there and saw what terrible shape it’s in. You need a machete to get into there,” a man’s voice says.
“And their son… I heard he’s actually back in town after years of traveling the world and living off of his family’s money, or so I’ve heard. I guess he lives in there, but no one has seen him around town, which is just as well. They are a horrible family, and he’s just as likely to be the same way. He obviously doesn’t care about that place one bit,” Joanna tells the man.
My curiosity has been piqued. I’ve always had a problem with keeping my nose out of others’ business. “Are you talking about the big house in Kleinport?”
“Yes, ma’am. You know it?”
“Yes. Er...no. Well, kind of... I stumbled upon it yesterday. Literally. I twisted my ankle while I was looking around the house. Jack was nice enough to help me inside and give me some ice for my ankle.”
Joanna, the man, and what I feel is about the entire restaurant halt their conversations and turn their heads toward me. I hear silverware stop clanking and can feel eyes boring into me from every direction, and I don’t like it.
“You met Jack?” someone asks from behind me.
“Who?” I look around trying to find the person who said it.
“Jack Croft- he’s actually back in town? And he was at the house?” the man talking to Joanna at the bar asks.
“Oh? I guess I did. Rather, I suppose I did. He didn’t exactly give me the warmest of welcomes, but he did say that he lives there.” I begin to shake my foot nervously. All of this attention on me is unsettling. “He was very handsome. I was snooping around. It was my fault I fell, actually. He just kind of surprised me. Not much of a talker, though…”
