by Cassia Leo
This was the first time Ana had seen his face in clear view, and she was surprised he was not much older than her. He didn’t look anything like his younger brother, or at least what she had seen of Finn from a distance. Finn was stockier of build with a raw, rugged earthy strength that went well with his strong features and ruddy blonde hair. In contrast, Jonathan was tall—much taller than she had realized before he turned to face her—with hair the color of midnight that looked as if it would be soft to the touch. His face had the same supple texture, with only a few lines around his mouth, reminding her of an eagle’s wings set to flight. He had the appearance of a man who has never seen hard days, but his eyes betrayed a much different truth; they were the color of emeralds, but with the depth of an entire forest. If not for the look of pure animosity on his face, she thought he would be handsome, in a dark sort of way.
Handsome, though, was the last description she had on her mind now that she was face-to-face with the reclusive island vet.
“So you’re a veterinarian?” Ana probed. She was enjoying his disquiet, after his rude introduction.
“Yes,” Jon confirmed, shifting uncomfortably. He continued to look past her as if he was waiting for someone, but no one came. His face lit up with relief each time the line moved forward.
“What do you do all day? Sit in the back and play video games?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, I can’t imagine the veterinary business is exactly booming on an island of 200 people,” Ana clarified with a laugh.
Jon stared at her and blinked with a slow deliberateness, as if trying to decide whether he should bother with a response. “It keeps me busy,” he finally replied.
“What, the video games or animal care?”
His lips formed a thin line and he gave a short sigh of disgust. He was once again looking past her, at the line, willing it to move faster. The conversation was obviously causing him great discomfort.
“Aye! Ana!” a voice called out behind her, and she turned to see Alex waving enthusiastically as he headed toward her.
“I see you’ve met our beloved veterinarian,” Alex said as he joined them in line, clapping Jonathan on the back. Jonathan flinched and grunted, but Alex didn’t seem to notice.
“Ya know, he is the first veterinarian this island has had in over 200 years?” She gave a polite acknowledgement and, encouraged, he added, “Aye, and his father was our only physician as’well. Family of medical geniuses, the St. Andrews men are!”
Jon’s lips twitched again at the mention of his father. “‘Course,” Alex continued, “e’ryone was hoping Jon would be a doctor as’well. Ya know, Andrew St. Andrews was the best doctor in the whole state of Maine, you best believe, and he did a lot o’things he weren’t supposed to, like surgeries and whatnot, and right out of his own house! He did it out of love, ya know, love for this island and the people, and oh, Jon, you were his assistant back in those days, ya?” The question seemed rhetorical as Alex continued to go on and on about Andrew St. Andrews and his wonderful, but unorthodox, medical practice.
Ana watched Jon as Alex talked. His eyes took on a darker gaze the more his father was mentioned. She still couldn’t read him, but his unease was apparent. Irrationally, Ana found herself feeling sorry for this unpleasant man, as she watched his expression evolve from annoyance to pain.
“Alex, I’ve been meaning to ask you, should I be keeping the cupboard doors under the sink open at all times, or only at night?” She was bailing Jon out, even though he’d given her no reason to. Jon’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile, as he turned back to face the line.
As it happened, Alex was also dining alone, and offered to join her. She wasn’t opposed to some lighter company after the unpleasant interaction with her neighbor, so she accepted and they took the burgers back to her place.
Ana didn’t know if they were the best burgers in Maine or not, but they were better than anything she had eaten since she arrived.
After Alex left, Ana spent the afternoon returning emails from friends and family, including a handful from some of her students at the University. Seeing their names in her inbox caused a sharp pang of regret.
Her father had been holding out hope she would join Deschanel Media Group, but she didn’t have the heart for business. She was sorry he hadn’t had sons, or even a more willing daughter. It was looking more and more like he was either going to groom one of the cousins to eventually take over, or go public and take a backseat, though Ana could not see her father taking a backseat to anyone.
When Professor Jones asked her to step in as a Professor of English, it was supposed to be temporary until he found someone else. Later, she would remember the glint in his eye when she accepted, and she wondered if he knew then how much she would love the feeling of purpose.
She missed her students, her classes, and the feeling of belonging that only really came to her when she was standing in front of a class, speaking about those things she knew best. Ana related to people most easily when she was helping them, offering a bit of herself.
Ana’s thoughts grew darker as her mind wandered back to all the nights in the Quarter. The routine was always the same: pick him out from a crowd (this was easy; “he” was the one scanning the crowd looking for the same thing), make eye contact, let him buy her some drinks, then back to his place. When she realized this was more than an occasional thing, she moved to bars in Treme, where there would be less chance of being recognized. It was not the embarrassment she might bring to her father that bothered her. More so, it was the shame she felt in herself... for not being capable of connecting with another human being in any meaningful way; for letting herself seek companionship in ways that were dangerous and completely unlike anything else she had ever done or wanted to do. She was fortunate to have never run into anyone she knew, or anyone that might have recognized her. At least, until that last night.
Was this what was meant by the Deschanel Curse? Many Deschanels believed the family had a centuries-old curse brought upon them by a greedy ancestor who sided with the wrong faction during the Civil War. Ana thought it was ridiculous, but sometimes, when she would wake up next to an unfamiliar face with an all-too-familiar headache, she wondered if there wasn’t some truth to the story.
Then there was this ridiculous “gift” she had been granted, simply by being born a Deschanel. Healers are rare, her Aunt Colleen liked to tell her. Aunt Colleen was a healer too, but her ability actually worked. When Ana laid her hands on another person and imagined their wounds healing and their body mending, nothing at all would happen. It only worked on herself. She could only heal her own cuts and scrapes. You’re not focusing enough, Colleen would say. But if Ana focused any harder, she thought her brain might explode.
If only it worked on my mind, and not just my body. What I wouldn’t give to fix that.
Cocoa jumped into her lap and rubbed her face against Ana’s, creating a welcome distraction. Ana did not come here to dwell on what had happened. She came to distance herself from the whole sordid affair, to figure out what was wrong with her, and why she felt she could only connect with another human being through meaningless physical contact. To figure out why she had done what she did that last night in Treme, and if there was any way of correcting the damage.
Later, when Finn offered her his daily wave and smile, she was reminded once again about the type of men she had taken to bed... the firemen, policemen, physical laborers... all strong, rugged, masculine... and she realized why she had not introduced herself to Finn St. Andrews. He reminded her of everything she had thought she needed back home. Everything she didn’t want for herself anymore.
***
4- FINNEGAN
The first storms were going to come early this year, although if asked to say exactly how he knew, Finn would not be able to rationally explain it. He had spent twenty-seven years on this small island, most of them watching the ocean, winds, and behaviors of the seasons. His mother taught him h
ow to observe using more than his eyes. Finn could smell, hear, and even feel the subtle changes when a storm was coming. He didn’t even check the Beaufort Scale anymore, nor did he listen to the weathermen. He only trusted his own senses.
Easing alongside the dock, Jeremiah nimbly leapt to the wooden pier and tied down the ropes. Forbia was the love of Finn’s life, an old, formidable forty-foot fiberglass trawler built for the sturdiness of large hauls and not much else. She had helped him pull in lobster since he was a teenager, and he rarely lost a trap, even with his bold eight and nine trap trawls boldly marked with blended colors of the Irish and Scottish flags. Other fisherman marveled at how little equipment he’d lost over the years. And I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried, just like I can’t describe how I know the weather.
Their catch had been average, but he’d been hoping for more because he predicted barely two weeks left before the storms began. Finn was one of the few fishermen still out on the sea this time of year, and most people thought him reckless. He would be less concerned if he’d been able to stock his reserves better this season, but business was booming, so more catch had gone to consumers and less to the household.
The St. Andrews boys inherited a nice sum of money when their father died three years ago, but they left the resource untouched. Their father always taught them reward comes with hard work, and they’d never lived with excess.
Finn had learned more than sensibility from his father. Andrew St. Andrews, to the casual eye, was an average, unremarkable man, but to the people of Summer Island he was a local legend. He brought his wife, Claire, to the island before their sons were born, with their few belongings, paying for the old white and grey Colonial on the eastern shore with cash. Nothing was known about the doctor and his wife except that he was Scottish, she Irish, and they had come to open the island’s first medical practice.
Ferry service back then was not nearly what it was today, so having access to medical care seemed to drown out all the unanswered questions about the St. Andrews’ family origins. Everyone soon learned Dr. St. Andrews was no ordinary physician. In fact, he was something of a rogue, practicing not only routine family care from his household, but also emergency procedures, often using very unorthodox methods. If he ran out of vital equipment he would find and sanitize ordinary household goods as temporary makeshift substitutes. Most of what Andrew St. Andrews did in his home office would have caused him to lose his medical license.
At first, the community did not know what to make of this, but when Dr. St. Andrews saved Mayor Cairne’s life, performing an emergency appendectomy, the St. Andrews clan became honored members of the community overnight. The residents of Summer Island worked as a collective, and the secrets of the St. Andrews’ renegade medical practice would go with them to the grave.
It was Jonathan who took after their father, having inherited that same gift of healing hands and finesse under pressure. From the time Jon was seven or eight, he assisted their father in the evenings, and as a teenager there were certain procedures he was allowed to do himself. Andrew observed his son’s work with beaming pride, which always left Finn feeling a hollow emptiness. He didn’t begrudge his brother, as he loved Jon, and he had known, even as a child, his older brother was... different. But there had been times Finn wished he had inherited their father’s gift, too, so he could share in those moments.
Then, Jon had thrown it all away. Two years of medical school wasted, when Jon shocked everyone and dropped out, enrolling instead in veterinary school. That marked the end of Jon’s sacred relationship with their father, who had never forgiven his eldest son. He could never understand or accept Jon’s choice, and he carried the unyielding burden of disapproval to his death. It was a fractured relationship Finn knew Jon regretted deeply, even if he never said so. Finn understood Jon’s reasons, but he was the only person who had ever understood Jon.
Finn’s childhood had been mostly carefree. Very few things bothered him the way they did Jon. While Finn was quick to temper, he was also quick to cool, never holding a grudge. His father had abandoned any hopes of mentoring of him when he was young, when it was clear he was made more for physical labors than mental ones. However, his mother cherished him in a way she had never been able to nurture Jon.
A petite Irish redhead with round cheeks and big blue eyes, Claire St. Andrews was the picture of love to Finn. She spoiled and coddled him, kissed his bruises, and told him colorful stories about growing up in County Clare, Ireland. She read to him, fed his interests, and indulged in silly imaginative games. This was done away from the disapproving eye of her husband, who did not believe there was enough time in the day for fun and play. After his father dismissed Finn as unfit for the family business, Claire had taken the time to help him discover what he was good at. As a schoolteacher, helping Finn find and explore his potential was second nature. And while Finn did not have the gift of science, he did have a sense of the world around him, which she encouraged him to embrace.
She shared with him her love of books, and he devoured material faster than she could add to the library. His father watched with a skeptical eye when his youngest son pursued a Liberal Arts degree at Bates College in Lewiston. I don’t know what’s worse, Claire… a son who wants to fish for a living, or a son who wants to pursue an embarrassing degree. I should have taken more care with him, and not let you feed his whims...
But the sea’s call was stronger than literature. His mother remained his biggest supporter when he returned to the island with a new goal. Finn picked up on the fishing trade well and quickly, with many third and fourth generation fishermen coming to him for advice on the best areas and techniques. Business was always good, even for a small, private, old-fashioned seaman with a clunky boat and dated equipment.
After hauling the traps to the storage house, Finn and Jeremiah slowly removed each of the lobsters, separating the hens from the cocks. Finn had dozens of large water tanks lining the large space, and they slipped the lobsters into empty ones. He frowned as he looked at all the chambers that remained empty. Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe there’s more time.
Jeremiah eagerly took his two lobsters as payment, and headed home to his mother. Finn only received Jeremiah’s help on school breaks and weekends, but his assistance was invaluable. Finn refused to hire a deck-hand full time, although he could never say exactly why except that he preferred to do it on his own. “There’s a reason you named that damned boat Forbia. You really are ‘headstrong!’” Jon would rant whenever the subject came up.
Finn took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he inhaled the crisp, salty air. There was no love of Finn’s, past or present, that could ever rival the love he had for the sea.
He removed his hip-waders and extra layers of clothing, hanging them up to dry. Through the salt-encrusted shed window, he could see Ana Deschanel reading, though not successfully, as the wind blew her book and hair around fiercely. He chuckled to himself.
Finn stepped out of the storage shed with that evening's dinner and waved at her. Immediately, she waved back with a smile. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, because he sensed she wanted to keep to herself. Jon speculated she must have gotten into some kind of trouble, shamed herself or her family, to be sent to Maine on the cusp of the long winter, but Finn couldn't see anything bad or shameful about Ana. If he did ever speak to her, he knew he would never ask her why she had come here, but he was almost certain Jon was wrong.
Even at a distance, and in a relatively short time, she had become a part of Finn’s daily ritual. Wake, dress, and go out on the water. Return, dock, handle the catch, and wave to her as he made his way back up to the house. On the odd day she was not sitting on her porch, or on the bench at the edge of her property, he always felt a bit off. He couldn't say he liked her, exactly, because he didn't even know her, but their small exchange was as much a part of him now as waking, dressing, and going out on the water. He imagined he would readjust when she returned home, but for now she was a welcome part o
f his routine.
From what he could see, she was sure pretty. Dark red hair with pale freckled skin that always appeared flushed from the wind and weather. She wore a wool sweater and jeans, both very natural on her, as if she was born for this setting and not the heat and lighter clothing of the South, where she was from. He had only been up close to her once, in town, and he could not recall the color of her eyes, but he did remember they were intense, like Jon's.
Finn thought of the coming storm, and hoped Alex had sufficiently prepared her. For locals, the inevitable island shutdowns were standard fare, but for someone like Ana he imagined it might be downright terrifying. He resolved that, whether she wanted her privacy or not, he could not in all good conscience let her go into the winter without knowing she was equipped, and decided to go see her before the storm rolled in.
***
5- ANA
Ana started up the gravel path leading to the Casco Bay Lighthouse. Every afternoon, she would take a walk. And every afternoon, when she reached the narrow hill leading up toward the lighthouse, she would keep walking, ending up instead near Edgewater's, and then back through downtown toward home. Today, something compelled her to climb the hill and investigate.
Since the day Ana arrived, her interest was piqued by the old, crumbling structure. Despite its necessity, it seemed so out of place, jutting up awkwardly from the raised earth like it didn't belong. Moreover, it didn’t look anything like she expected. Disparate from the tall, graceful white structures on scenic postcards, the Casco Bay Lighthouse was a shorter, squatter building painted with loud, peeling stripes of red and white. It reminded her of a clownish barber pole, forgotten and left to rot.
The delapidated structure sat atop the highest point on the island, Edgewater Point, and the only hill on Summer Island. In addition to the hill, a man-made rock base raised the diminutive monolith even higher. It has to be high enough for mariners to see the light, Alex had informed her. Ana wondered if the forlorn cylinder looked less pitiful from the sea.
