“In this weather?”
“He’s from Oregon or Washington, somewhere out west. This is his first summer in North Carolina; he’ll learn.”
“I guess he’ll have to.”
“So, did you hear that story about the documentary they made about that guy in Maiden finding a human leg in the smoker he bought at a storage building auction?”
I did not. I shake my head.
“Yeah, it’s crazy. They call it Finders Keepers. The guy who lost the leg wanted it back and the guy who found it didn’t want to give it to him.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction, I guess,” I reply.
“I thought you might have heard about it since it sounds kind of like your story—you know, finding the ashes and everything.”
I smile. “That’s true.”
“Only you gave yours back.”
I nod. It’s been only a few weeks since my trip and yet somehow it feels like months.
“Which, of course, is what Al Wells would do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing really, just that it seems like you have always done the right thing. Help your dad. Take care of your sister. Become the publisher of the Clayton Times.”
Hearing Ben say that gives me pause.
“All right, then.” He stands. “I better get back to the news, tell everybody what they need to pay attention to and what they need to worry about, point them where they need to look.” He’s watching me, but he makes no comment about the lightbulb that has gone off above my head and that must surely be visible to anyone nearby.
“Well, I’m going to go check the police scanner, see if there have been any wrecks or high-speed chases.” He grins at me. “Take it easy, Al.”
“Yeah, Ben, you, too.”
chapter fifty-eight
“SIGN here and here.” The attorney is pointing out the blank spaces where my signature is required.
This isn’t completely brand-new to me, since I signed a similar stack of papers when Daddy gave me the newspaper. Only now I’m selling it to Ben.
“I know you and Oscar have spoken about this, Alissa, but are you sure this is what you want?”
I smile and put down the pen after signing and dating all the right spots. “I am.”
“It’s just you haven’t even owned it a month yet. And I’m not sure about the asking price you’ve given to Mr. Vaughn. If you keep it a year, maybe you’d make more money, get more for it. And even though Oscar gave his blessing, it is still very early for you to be selling it.”
“I know,” I say. “But Dad agrees with my decision.”
Mr. Creech is shaking his head. He wants to give me prudent counsel.
“I’m selling the paper because I realize that I don’t want to be publisher and editor in chief of the Clayton Times and News anymore. I’m happy to write stories for Ben from time to time like Daddy does; but I don’t want to run the paper. I don’t want to be in charge of Clayton’s headlines.”
He pours out a long breath.
“You planning to write a novel like your father?” Joe Creech picks up the contract and taps the edges on the desk, straightening all the pages.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t really have those ambitions, either.”
“Going back to school?”
“Not sure about that. Maybe.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to build a boat.”
He looks at me over his reading glasses. “You’re going to do what?”
“Build a boat. Well, repair a boat, really; the frame of it is already built. I just need to add boards, hang the sails, make it water-ready.”
“What do you know about boats?”
“Nothing really. That’s actually the reason I want to do it—it’s something I know absolutely nothing about.”
I sit back in the chair at the conference table, clasp my hands behind my neck.
“Is it the boat you bought from that woman in New Mexico?”
He knows about it because Daddy called and asked him questions about a bill of sale for an impounded water vessel.
I nod. “Renee Lennon,” I say. “Her father, Dusty, bought it but never got it fixed. He was building it to take a friend sailing. She sold it to me for next to nothing.” I explain how I contacted her to arrange shipment of her father’s things from my garage and how, out of the blue, I asked her about the boat and we reached an agreement for me to pick it up from a warehouse on the harbor in Wilmington where it was hanging, unclaimed, on a rafter.
“I remember that,” he acknowledges. “And you want to finish it, go sailing off into the sunset?” He glances over the papers, making sure I haven’t missed anything.
“No.”
He peers up at me.
I shrug. “I don’t really know what I want to do except finish fixing it. After that, I’m not sure if I’ll go sailing on it or not.”
He stares at me, places his pen on the table. “I don’t understand.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t either. I just realized that I don’t want to report the news anymore. I don’t want to fit life into vertical columns with margins on four sides and gutters in between. I don’t want to tell people what’s supposed to be important to them. I don’t want to live my life like it’s B copy, writing the story ahead of time even though I don’t really know how it’s going to end, just to make sure I don’t miss a deadline.”
He shakes his head, appearing every bit as lost as when I told him I was selling the Times and News.
“Mr. Creech, when my mom died, I felt like I was handed a script. I took on the role of caregiver for my sister and father; and I don’t really have any regrets about that because it was the right thing to do and I was glad to do it. And then, when my sister was grown and that script was done, I took the next one handed to me, the one of helping my dad at the paper; and I don’t regret that, either. I loved working for my dad; I loved covering the news with him. It was a good script to follow.”
I realize I am trying to explain this change of direction for my life as much to myself as I am to the town attorney.
“I don’t want to follow a script anymore. I don’t want to report on other people’s lives; and I don’t want the burden of telling people what they should pay attention to, because I think people need to learn that for themselves. Everybody needs to listen to their own hearts, find out what’s important to them, not just take what’s handed to them. We should all decide on our own scripts.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head; but he’s a lawyer—somebody probably handed him a script, too.
“I want to do something on my own, try something completely different. I want to write my own story, make mistakes, try things on that don’t fit, and learn new lessons until I figure it out for myself, on my own.”
I take a breath.
“I’m building a boat because nobody I know of has ever built a boat and I want to know what that feels like. I want to know what it is to sail across the water, to be loose, untethered. I want to know what it is to let go of everything that holds me back or down, let go of the script and the expectations and the heavy, heavy way I’ve been living. Mr. Creech, I want to know what it is to travel light.”
The lawyer sits up in his chair and leans in my direction. He is nodding. “Alissa Kate Wells”—he hands me the contract—“per your wishes, you are no longer the owner, publisher, and editor in chief of the Clayton Times and News.”
I smile and take the papers. “I know. I own a boat.”
chapter fifty-nine
I kept the box. I scattered Roger’s ashes near Grants, New Mexico; but I kept the wooden box with the butterfly carved on top. After Blossom and I had blessed his remains, we got back in her dad’s truck and the box was still there. I stuck it in my sui
tcase and then when I got home I placed it on the shelf in my closet. Now it’s in the cabin of my boat and in it I keep photographs and small toys, receipts for things I’ve bought for the restoration, my mother’s wedding band. It’s a dream box as well as a memory box; and I like having something of Roger’s, something from that trip, close at hand.
I rented my house to Dixie’s sister. She decided to move to town after the wedding and is dating James William, who I think stays there as well. Her baby’s daddy had left her, and when I found out she was staying with Daddy and Dixie, I offered her the house for not much rent. I didn’t need it since I spend most of my time on the boat in Wilmington. Casserole came along with me, but Old Joe preferred things as they were; so we visit on the weekends, when I pick him up and take him over to Dixie’s.
I’ve been here for a couple of months and so far I’ve learned the names for the front and the back of the boat, bow and stern, respectfully, and the difference between a jib and a mainsail. I had somebody else finish the hull so that I can stay on the water while I work. I have to say that part of what I like about this new project is learning the new vocabulary for sailors. The words are crisp and as unfamiliar to me as trying to figure out where to buy ring shank nails or deciding whether to use epoxy resin or polyester. I appreciate the words I pick up almost as much as I enjoy learning how to cut and measure, sand and fasten.
Today I’m working on the rigging, trying to decide what size ropes and chains I need to support the masts and sails. At the moment, I’m trying to learn to tie a solid sheet bend knot. I am reading Dusty’s notes, which were found in his belongings, and following the diagrams drawn in a chapter in the book I bought that should help me navigate the entire project.
“Can I come aboard?”
I think I recognize that voice, but I stay where I am.
“If you can get through the mess,” I answer and wait for the body attached to the familiar voice to step aboard.
Casserole stands. He’s a little shaky on the water; but he seems pleased with his role as first mate.
“Wow. You aren’t kidding. It really is a mess.”
“Well, only a finish carpenter would say that.”
Lou Winters stands on the other side of the boat. He is wearing jeans and cowboy boots, a long-sleeved Western shirt, and a Stetson hat, whereas I am in shorts and a sweatshirt, sneakers.
“Hey, Al.”
“Hey, Lou.”
And we are both smiling.
“I got your letter.”
“Yeah, I could have texted or sent an e-mail, messaged you on Facebook; but what can I say? I like to communicate the old-fashioned way.”
“It was a nice letter.”
“Maybe your daughter explained that I’m good with words.”
“She did.”
“And did she come along with you?”
He shakes his head, looks out across the water. “She’s in school. Going to be a chef, if you can believe that.”
“I can believe that.”
“She’s found a suitor.”
“So I heard.”
“Good Texas boy, wrangles and rides.”
“A cowboy.”
He nods. “You don’t have anything against us, do you?”
I keep pulling the rope through my hand, trying to tie a good knot. “Not if they don’t mind spending time on a boat.”
“We adapt.”
There is a pause.
“I hear the sky is as full and clear over the ocean as it is over the grand prairie.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” I reply.
“Dillon stops by on his cross-country drops, eats a meal. He loves trucking.”
“Cool,” I say, making Lou laugh.
He watches me. “You need help?”
“With the knot or with the whole thing?”
“Both, I guess. Maybe my daughter told you I was good with ropes.”
“In fact, she did.”
I put down the great knot experiment.
“It might take a while,” I tell him, looking around my boat.
He shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets. “I understood your invitation. I have time.”
“I don’t know how it’s going to go. I’m pretty new at this.”
“We’ll learn as we go, how about that?”
“Perfect,” I respond.
“Okay, then,” he says.
“Okay.”
And I stand as he walks toward me, the water around us crystal blue and the sun bright and full against his back.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Al’s life is changed by what she finds in a storage building. She decides to make this journey because of the discovery of the box of ashes. What do you think this box and these remains really mean to her?
2. This is a story of a great adventure, a long and life-changing road trip. Have you ever taken one of those? What was your trip like? What was the impetus for taking it, and how did it change you?
3. A truly good story takes the main character from one place to another in terms of development. Where did Al start at the beginning of this book? Where does she end up?
4. What does Blossom bring to Al’s life? How does she help her to make the changes she makes? How does she become Al’s teacher in learning to travel light?
5. What is the role of music in this story? What do you think it means to Al to start the trip listening to a song her mother used to sing? How does music define this trip? How does music define your life?
6. When the story begins, what is the relationship Al has with her sister? Does it change? If so, how?
7. Why do you think Al became a journalist? How has that profession served her prior to the point she makes this trip? What profession do you think she might try next?
8. Why do you think Al is drawn to Roger Hart? Does she see herself in his story?
9. What role does Georgia, the hospice nurse, play in Al’s development? What does she teach her about life and death?
10. What does traveling light mean to you? Does this story encourage or inspire you to let go of anything weighing you down? Was there a script handed down to you?
11. What does the boat mean to Al? Why do you think she is drawn to that kind of life?
12. Casserole, Blossom, and Dillon take this trip with Al. They are her traveling companions. Do you have traveling companions? How did they become your companions? What does traveling teach us about the choices we make in life?
Photograph by Robert Branard
Lynne Branard is the author of The Art of Arranging Flowers. As Lynne Hinton, she is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen books, including Friendship Cake, Pie Town, and Welcome Back to Pie Town. Visit her online at lynnebranard.com.
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