Written on My Heart

by Morgan Callan Rogers

Arlee brought her closed fist around to the front and opened it slowly.

  It was Bud’s wedding ring.

  “Oh,” I said. “Daddy would love to see that. He’s been missing it.”

  Arlee closed her fist around it. “Mine.”

  “Sometimes people drop things by mistake, Arlee. When I married Daddy, I gave him that ring. It’s his, forever. Like you are. His, forever.”

  “Maybe you can make a trade for something else,” Evie said.

  “Okay. Ice cream,” Arlee said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Evie said. “I have to go soon.”

  “Stay for a while,” I said. “Have a cup of tea.”

  “I drink coffee,” Evie said.

  “I have that too.”

  “Okay,” Evie said. “Then I need to go home to see Archer.”

  “Bring him by, anytime,” I said, heading for the stove. “The door’s always open.”

  Epilogue

  Bud and I went out on the Florine, today. Glen captained her, as he bought her a few years ago. I asked him once why he hadn’t changed her name.

  He told me, “She’s tough, she treats you right if you do the same to her, she’s reliable, she’s got heart, and she’s got great lines. Can’t think of any other name that would suit her.”

  Since we were taking the day off, I made sure to leave the store in good hands. Arlee was at the register and Madeline was in charge of the gallery, crafts, and gift area. Arlee grumbled about working. I’m sure she would rather have been up in Long Reach with her gang of three best friends. She’s twelve, the same age I was when I lost Carlie. She’s as tall as I am now, and a handful.

  “You get the child you deserve,” Ida told me once, but she winked as she said it.

  Travis was gardening when we left. He’s been crazy about it since he stuck his first shovel into the dirt. Much of The Point is covered with flowerbeds and shrubs, bushes, and trees. He’s only ten years old, but he works with gardeners from the surrounding areas to help care for other gardens, including the one owned by the people who bought the Barrington place.

  It’s been nine years since the summer we found out who killed my mother. Edward Barrington died of a heart attack before he and Andy came to trial. Andy was charged with second-degree manslaughter and served four years, which was way too short a time in my estimation. I talked with Billy about the unfairness of that. “He has to live with his crime for the rest of his life,” Billy said. “It will affect everything he does. He’ll never get away from that fact. You need to forgive him so you won’t hold it in your heart forever. That’s how you’ll get even.”

  I’ve said the words several times. Someday, maybe, I’ll be able to mean them.

  Tourists come to Grand’s General Store because, evidently, it makes “destination” lists in magazines. After they stop in, they walk down the hill through flower-lined paths Travis has created to protect our privacy. They wind up on the wharf and buy fresh lobsters, crabmeat, and clams at Leeman’s Little Lobster Shack from whoever is around. Billy, Bert, and Bud built it together about three years ago. On their way up the hill, tourists pause again to take in the beauty of the gardens tumbling down to the sea, and of the houses still standing sturdy in their stubborn way.

  “This is such a beautiful place,” they always tell me. “Just beautiful.”

  I always smile and agree, knowing that if they ever showed up in January, they would sing a different tune.

  Ray sold Madeline Butts and me the store just two years ago. She and I run the place. Ray and Ida retired to Florida. I was surprised, first by their almost invisible romance, and then because Ida was so eager to leave and become a snowbird.

  “God’s everywhere,” she said. “Warm weather is a wonderful thing.” Ray just goes along with whatever she says. He traded his wisecracks for a wise woman. Ida makes and sends quilts up to the store. Many of them have won prizes and she has quite a reputation.

  The gallery was Madeline’s idea. Billy and Bud gutted the upstairs and put large windows in to catch and reflect the light. Madeline hangs her paintings upstairs, along with art from artists living in the surrounding community. My knitting is upstairs, along with hand-dyed weavings and pottery created by an aging commune of hippies down the road. We’re always looking for new work. We both have to approve it, although I let Madeline have the final say. She knows art better than I ever could. Bread and knitting. That’s all I have time for besides Bud and the kids.

  It’s enough. Bud and I had a couple of years where we both ran hither and yon trying to catch up with ourselves, but it evened out in the end. Bud has remained sober, and I’m so proud of him for that. I love him more every day. We’ve been on a few vacations—once to Hawaii, twice to Florida, and once to California to visit Robin and her husband, and to see my uncle Robert and aunt Valerie. We are planning more vacations, most of them together, but once in a while apart.

  Today, at about noon, Bud and I boarded the Florine, along with Glen and his girlfriend, Mooney, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman of few words but many smiles. He found her up north, is all he’ll say, and she obviously adores him.

  Dottie was late, because Archer’s baseball game went into extra innings. Dottie and Archer come down to The Point as much as they can. They live in Falmouth, where Dottie is the athletic director for the school system there. She’s still single and she still bowls better than most people. She has many fans. Dottie’s never officially adopted Archer, but he spends most of his time with her and he goes to school in Falmouth while she works. He’s spoiled as hell, but happy nevertheless.

  Evie seems okay with this arrangement. She’s still a wild girl and sings in a rock band based out of Long Reach. She and Archer are more like brother and sister than mother and son. Evie still lives with her parents, when she’s not living with someone else.

  “What can I do?” Madeline says. “I keep her room ready.”

  We all hope she settles down, but that isn’t up to us. All we can do is love her.

  When Dottie finally showed up, we chugged out of the harbor on a fine, sunny day in July weather that reminded me of another fine July day so many years ago.

  On that day, my father died of broken heart on the deck of the Florine. Today, the waves tried to sass the Florine, tried to boss her around, but she rolled with every swell like the determined lady she is. She took us out to Beaver Island, which is remote and private. Bud and Billy have done carpentry work out there, and the owner has given them permission to picnic, swim, whatever, if no one is home.

  Glen anchored the boat off the beach and the five of us jumped or dove off her and swam to shore, where we stretched out on the little beach and got sunburned. We told stories, old stories about people we know or knew, stories about crazy things we did and about how those things shaped us. We talked about our kids. Glen and Mooney made an announcement. They’re going to be parents, they told us, and we all got up and whooped and hollered for joy for them.

  We hiked to a spot on the island that overlooks a granite rock left behind by the glacier that shaped Maine millions of years ago. Someone hung a rope swing there and we took turns swinging out over the water, letting go, and living in a moment of terror before letting the water welcome us in.

  We boarded the Florine about two hours later and ate our lunches on deck. We did some more talking, but all of us are older than we used to be, and a little more tired. I was feeling the pull of the store. Bud was probably thinking about a cabinet he’s making in Daddy’s workshop for a summer visitor across the harbor. Glen and Mooney sat close together, already changed by what was coming. Dottie’s thoughts are never far from Archer. So, stunned by the sun and by time passing, we headed back.

  It was late afternoon when we arrived back to The Point. We walked up from the wharf and past Ida’s old house, now occupied by Billy and Maureen Krum. We were quiet as we passed. Billy is going t
hrough a rough patch with his cancer, and we all hope the best for them. Maureen is a full-blown minister now. She is the official voice of the church up the road.

  A young couple with two small kids are renting Daddy’s house for the summer. I love the noise of the screen door slamming and the lights streaming from the windows long after dark. It was a sad house for so long. Maggie, the wife, tells me she sometimes senses a presence. I smile, but I say nothing. I know the ghost inside is friendly, and she loves people. She always did.

  Bud surprised me tonight. After supper, Arlee, Travis, and Archer headed off for adventures in the night, like the ones we used to have, only hopefully not as dangerous or destructive. Instead of sitting down in front of the television as we usually do, Bud suggested we go outside. We sat side by side in the Adirondack chairs and looked up at the underbelly of the falling night.

  “Damn fine day,” Bud said.

  I nodded and smiled, cracking the dried seawater on my face. My hair was caked with salt and my body itched with sunburn. If anyone were to ask me the best feeling in the world, I would answer: this one. The one when I’ve been out in the sun on a summer day, and I’m content to not stray too far from the second I’m living in.

  “Dance with me,” Bud said.

  I love him for many reasons, not the least of which is he can still surprise me.

  “You don’t like to dance,” I said. “When have we danced, except at our wedding?”

  “We’re going to dance now, if you can get off your ass,” he said.

  “I can do that,” I said. “Come and get me.”

  He got up from the chair and held out his hands. He pulled me onto the side lawn and I put my arms around his neck. He held me close and we danced in the dark on a lush lawn fragrant with lilies and roses, watched from above by a vast collection of stars, and by whatever souls might be passing by, headed for their own idea of heaven.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe this one to Karl Krueger in large part. You are the best. New England booksellers are blessed to have you as their fierce and enthusiastic advocate. I also thank Rachel Bressler and Clare Ferraro, who believed in this book as well as in Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea. To Kate Napolitano, my wonderful editor, I am so very grateful to you. You’ve been a joy to work with. Gail Hochman, my indomitable agent, and Marianne Merola, literary agent extraordinaire, have supported my work from the beginning and have taken me to places I never imagined I would go in my wildest dreams. And, believe me, I’ve had some wild dreams.

  To the Bearlodge Writers group in Sundance, Wyoming: What would I have done without all of you? You held me together, you made me laugh, and you made me feel like I could have been a cowgirl. There is no higher compliment than that. Pat, Jeannie, Katie, Andi, Connie, Carol, Jim, Jytte, Maureen, Amanda, Kathryn, Kathy, Brittany, and everyone else involved with the group, so many good times at table. Love also to Manning, Dale, Meg, John, Angie, and Michael. I miss you all. I will be back.

  This is a book about the joys and struggles of a relationship and sticking together through all of it, good and bad. I thanked some of my women friends for their amazing support during the time I was writing Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea. For this round of acknowledgments, I want to say how grateful I am to know the partners who have been there for my favorite people through thick and thin. Paul Brown, Allen Gaul, Christopher Horton, and John Paige, you all set such loving standards. My brother, Mick Rogers, and my brother-in-law, Derek Leopin, also shine as fathers and spouses. John Beebe and Joe Lombardo, you are fine, fine men. David “Beaver” Bourget, you truly were The Point’s red ruby heart in a cold blue sea. We will hold you dear, forever.

  To the kids I like to think I helped raise in some small way: Thanks for the lessons in patience, humor, astonishment, and love. Molly, Casey, Krista, Danica, Jaime, Tommy, Brian, Michael, Rachel, Emily, Anna, Alessandro, Ray, Shannon, Mary, Celeste, Michael, James, Jeremy, Tim, Emma, Willa, Ian, David, and Bonnie—I’m so proud of you. You all humble me. Some of you are beginning your lives as parents and it is such a joy to watch the circle continue, unbroken. To the B-man—you are a hoot. Can’t wait for your next chapters.

  My parents, Warren (Smudge) Rogers and Frances Callan Rogers, were high-school sweethearts. They married in December 1950 and celebrated their sixty-sixth anniversary at the time this book was being published. In their quiet way, they managed to raise four children who turned out “pretty decent” as my Dad would put it. During a dance at a wedding, a deejay asked them how they had managed to stay married for so long. “Just be good to each other,” my father said. Good advice.

  Readers, thank you for embracing Florine and Bud’s world and for cheering them on. Love who you love with everything you have and just be good to each other.

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