THE NEXT MORNING, my headache is less excruciating than I expected. My embarrassment, however, is pretty significant.
I turn over, open my eyes, and pull the phone out from under my shoulder where I slept on it all night. The clock next to the bed tells me that it’s only a little after seven. The light coming through the curtains is beautiful, and I roll off the bed to pull them open fully.
Jesus, I am still wearing dress pants and my silk top. I look like some business lady who got drunk at an office party and passed out under a desk or something. Fabulous.
I open the sliding door to the small veranda and am hit with a blast of cold air. The view, as promised, really is stunning. I understand how Felicia would never tire of this.
It’s a beautiful place to start a new life.
Impulsively, I take the phone, still in my hand, and hurl it off the balcony toward the water below. I shut the door and then head for the shower.
An hour and a half later, after slugging through my usual routine, I am dressed and made up. I look terrible though. My eyeliner is all wrong, my long hair is frizzing in this salt air, and there’s a run in my knee-highs. A knock on the door is the only thing that distracts me from my faulty appearance.
Felicia has delivered breakfast, which seems excessively kind, given my weird behavior last night. “Good, you’re awake! And dressed…to run a staff meeting?” She winks and then walks past me before setting a tray on the dresser. “House omelet with local goat cheese, fresh spinach, and tomatoes. Bread from The Finicky Turtle, which is an amazing bakery right down the street. I know. The name is bizarre, but don’t let that stop you. And a pot of coffee. I figured you might need it.”
I hardly know what to say. Maybe I should confess my act of littering, flinging my cell phone into the Maine ocean. Maybe I should say that I’m a moron, and I’m driving back to Chicago right after I inhale this breakfast. Maybe I should throw myself into her arms and sob. Instead, I say, “Thank you.” It’s inadequate, but it’s all I can come up with.
“I have to get back to the kitchen.” Felicia places a hand on each hip, and her head tips to one side.
I can’t read her expression, but it can’t be a good one.
I look down. “I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to take off. You’ve been really—”
“Here.” She cuts me off and steps closer. Grabbing my hand, she pushes a key into my palm. “You need a place to stay for more than a few nights. We have a house not far from here at the end of the road. The place needs some work, but it’s quiet, high on a cliff, and surrounded by trees. I think you’ll like it. The second floor is available to rent, so I’m giving you this key. Pay when you can. I left directions under your plate.”
“Wait, what?” I protest. “I don’t even know if I should stay.” I still can’t look at her. “What I said about Sam last night…driving here was insane.I’minsane.”
“Check it out. If you like it, stay. If you decide to go, that’s fine, too. Spend a few more nights in this room, if you like. Sounds as though you don’t really have anywhere else to be, right? You might as well settle in someplace safe.” Felicia walks to the door and pauses. Then, very softly and gently, she says, “Sam could use a friend. I think that friend might be you.”
I notice that the crinkles around her eyes are not just from smiling, and her rough skin isn’t just from the frigid Maine winds or too much sun. Felicia’s face is washed with pain.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The door shuts behind her, and I realize that I didn’t ask who lives on the first floor of the house to which she gave me the key. Maybe I already know.
I retrieve the breakfast she brought me and devour it while sitting on the bed. Felicia is right. I have nowhere else to be. I’m on the verge of something resembling happiness, and I’ve gotten myself this far, so I might as well keep going. In fact, now that I’ve ditched my phone, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Not to mention, this omelet is ridiculously delicious, and the bread is like nothing I’ve ever had. I resolve to check out the small town of Watermark and to make a point to stop into The Finicky Turtle bakery.
I decide to see my new apartment before buying groceries and other supplies. This is my first place on my own, away from my mother. As that understanding begins to take over my entire soul, I cannot wait to get there. I set the breakfast tray outside the door and toss a few belongings into my bag. When I check out at the front desk, I learn that my stay was on the house, and I’m again overwhelmed by the generosity and care Felicia has shown me.
It is indeed a short drive. I weave my car down the winding road running from the inn through the center of town. I know from the map I studied yesterday that Watermark is one of a group of towns that make up the Britannia Bay area. Ellsworth is about an hour away, and if I really decide to stay here, I might have to venture up to that larger town to find a big supermarket or chain store.
In the light of day, I am even more charmed by this waterside town, and I nearly miss my turn up the steep hill. Gravel and sand bounce under my tires, and a few low hanging branches brush my windshield. This is obviously a converted single-family house, and the structure has certainly seen better days—white paint is chipping off every surface, and there are a few missing shutters—but it’s still beyond beautiful.
I park in the shady drive, and then as instructed per Felicia’s note, I walk up the rickety stairs on the side porch leading to the upstairs unit. There are bay views—postcard views really—from here and the back of the house.
It takes a minute of fiddling with the key before I walk in. A small kitchen with an island opens into the living room. I check the ancient gas stove, and after a bit of clicking, it actually lights. Then, I open the cabinets and drawers. They’re empty, so I will have to get dishes and whatnot immediately and definitely also some cleaning supplies. To say the place needs a thorough scouring is an understatement. Dust coats every surface, but at least the living room has a stone coffee table and an armchair. With some hard labor, the wood floor planks might be gorgeous. A cobbled fireplace takes up a corner of the room, the rocky frame climbing all the way to the ceiling. I have no idea how to start a fire, but I resolve to learn.
I wander around a corner toward the bedroom, which is surprisingly large, and I’m relieved to find a bed and dresser. Despite the dust, both are in good shape, and they are probably antiques. What I love most about this room though is that the doors open to a wraparound porch overlooking the water. I clap my hands and do a little jump.Who has a view like this?My smile refuses to be controlled right now, so I let my heart soar. The first attempt to fling open the doors in a celebratory move is less dramatic than I hoped because the hinges are nearly rusted shut, so it is only after much tugging and jiggling that I get them open. I step out and take a deep breath. It was worth the struggle.
The sound of a car pulling up to the house is the only thing that takes me out of my ocean daydreams.
He’s here.I’m surprisingly calm, and I continue looking out over the seascape.
The clop of heavy shoes slowly moves closer as he walks up the steps to reach this side of the house, and soon, I can feel him standing at the top of the stairs. I’m terrified to turn and see him.
“I heard someone rented the apartment.” His voice is deep and level, unexpressive. “I live on the first floor. Let me know if you need anything.” He pauses. “I’m Sam Bishop.”
“I know.” Finally, I get myself to pull from the view and face him.
