Spence had set it up once, willy-nilly, with no rhyme nor reason to where everything got put. Regulators had been piled with dive computers, and harnesses had somehow been stuffed into a large drawer. Wet and drysuits had been hung, mid-floor, almost hiding everything else from view. But with a little overnight delivery shopping, Trask had procured wall racks to make sure every suit was highly visible, while getting them out of the way of other inventory.
The place was really looking professional, now.
Trask was just contemplating whether or not the number of display cases they had were adequate, when the phone at the counter, rang.
“Diver Downeast, Trask speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hah! You sound like a pro already,” his brother Spence’s irreverent voice came back.
“Bite me,” Trask returned with a dry laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying shit?”
Spence chuckled. “We’re on break right now, which is a good thing, because I just got a call, and I need you to do me a big favor.”
Trask almost blessed his brother for giving him something more to do, but he bit his tongue. There was no need for Spence to think he was bored.
“Shoot,” he said, instead, feigning indifference.
“You remember that guy, Randal, I told you about who sold us all the used gear? And do you remember I brought Buck and Mason back down with me when he wanted to show off some of his diving collection?”
“How could I forget?” Trask snorted. “The onion breath story is already folklore around here, and I still haven’t been able to soak the smell out of that one regulator.” He’d tried everything. Baking soda, vinegar, lemon, sunlight: all the stuff the internet suggested, but without success.
“Yeah, well, get this. Randal is selling his spread in New Hampshire. I don’t have details on why, but in the massive clean-out he’s doing, he’s decided to get rid of all his antique diving stuff. Pre-WWII Diver’s helmets, Mark V diving suits, bronze toed boots, and who knows what else. He wants it to go someplace it can be seen again, instead of just hiding away in his barn.”
Trask immediately pictured all that equipment set up in the store’s front windows, and knew it would more than attract eyes. But was that even enough space for it all? It could also be…his heart pounded a little harder…the beginnings of a diving museum.
Diver Downeast had already purchased the small building adjacent to their main office, and were currently contemplating using it as storage. But if they made it a museum…
Trask had always been interested in history, and his imagination sparked. With the boon of this gear—if it were in any kind of decent shape—there might be the beginnings of an attraction that would bring diving aficionados to Hampden from far and wide.
It could really get them on the map.
“You want me to head to New Hampshire and pick it up?” Trask asked, his mind already on the drive south.
“Actually, no,” Spence apprised. “Randal’s sending it up to us. He says he’s got a pilot who’ll be flying it into Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, if you can make the trip there.”
“Why not Bangor International?” Trask asked. That airport was a lot closer.
“I don’t know. Something about air-traffic and commercial regulations, but do you care? BHB is only forty-five minutes from where you are.”
“No. No. Not at all,” Trask returned. As a matter of fact, he was happy the task would take him longer. It would finish up the day for him, and then he could get back to house hunting.
House hunting. Right.
So far, nothing on the housing market had agreed with Trask. The places he’d seen were either too big, too family oriented—which he was not—or too far away from the water. Some were even completely run down.
Trask had a picture in his head of just what he wanted, of course, but so far nothing had satisfied him.
His agent, a friend of his parents, had given him a short list of things to drive by at the end of business today, and he had high hopes for one of them. From the pictures, it looked really good. But he’d been fooled before. Some brokers really knew what they were doing when they took pictures of properties, making even the smallest hovel seem like a polished gem.
That was okay, though. Trask wasn’t intoomuch of a hurry now. He could basically hide-out in the as-yet-to-open office and not be up his parents’ asses twenty-four/seven, so Trask felt he could be a little choosy.
“Of course I’ll meet them,” Trask continued. “What’s their ETA?”
“I gave Randal your number. He’s passing it on to the pilot who’s standing by for confirmation before they take off. It’ll take an hour and a half to BHB from Portsmouth, and they should be getting airborne the minute I give the okay.Youshould get a call or a text when the plane is an hour out. That way you can arrive at approximately the same time.”
“Sounds like a plan. And for the record, Spence, I really like this windfall if what you’ve described is true. But just a warning.My mind is already putting together a diving museum in our free space.”
Spencer laughed. “You’re the man with the plans,” he stated without hesitation. “I trust whatever you’re envisioning.”
