Alex
October 10, 2017
San Francisco, California. This is crazy.
My heart pounds out of my chest as the wheels of the 747 aircraft leave the ground with a drop, and gravity pounds against my body like a grieving widow. I know I am powerless over people, places, and things. I know I’m also powerless in a 747.
Slowly, we begin to level out, and I stare out the window below me as San Francisco’s skyline starts to disappear quickly. The fog assumes its normal position on the bay. My eyes follow a car moving on a lonely road, and I wonder where they’re going so early in the morning. I try to focus my attention on my itinerary.
Departure: October 10, 2017
Return: November 7, 2017
The woman sitting beside me, in her mid-fifties, takes out her paperback book, and I glance at the cover and the author’s name. The bookmark reads, Jesus Saves.
“Good book?” I ask, wondering her opinion with her peculiar bookmark.
The woman sets the book down on the tray in front of her. “Lord have mercy,” she drawls. “This woman can write a love story. Sweet baby Jesus!”
I laugh. “What’s it about?” I already know the answer, but I’m asking to see her interpretation of the book.
“It’s about a young woman who’s looking for love in all the wrong places.” The woman shakes her head with a smile. “Finally, she finds it with a firefighter. And the love scenes, those will get your heart going like a great nativity scene at Christmas.”
Why she compared the two, I’m not sure, but maybe it has something to do with her Jesus Saves bookmark. At any rate, I smile and look back at the book. I see she’s at the tail end, and I know what comes next.
“Enjoy.”
“I’m Ruthie, by the way.”
“Alexandra.” I extend my hand.
“Feel like I’ve gotta light up a cigarette every time I finish one of her books.” Ruthie shakes her head. “Don’t tell my husband that. I’m a Christian woman who loves the Lord, but I love me a good romance, too.” She pauses. “I bet this author lives in some high-rise apartment and contemplates the cosmos by sipping expensive red wine while her husband fans her and feeds her grapes.”
I let out a half-gasp, half-laugh. “Perhaps.” But what I want to say is, Not by a long shot.
The flight from San Francisco to Chicago is long. I want to text my mom and text Bryce, curse them for talking me into this, but I didn’t pay the extra ten dollars for the Wi-Fi. With first class, you’d expect that to come with the price of the ticket. And, if I’m being honest, the only reason I paid for a first-class ticket was for the food. That, and my accountant said I could afford it. But it doesn’t take away the fact that I’m cheap.
“Oh, dear God,” Ruthie whispers, tears in her eyes, her attention fixated on the words she’s reading. Tears stream down her face.
I’m sorry, I want to say. Keep reading.
Ruthie sets my book down and goes to the restroom.
While she’s gone, I pull out a piece of paper from my journal and write her a note. I shove it back in her book, so it’s unnoticed, but she’ll find it on the last page.
Dear Ruthie,
Don’t worry; your heart will mend when you read book two in the Swept Series.
Thank you for reading my books.
My love,
Alex Fisher
When we land, Ruthie isn’t quite done with the book, but she’s within pages of finishing.
“Nice to meet you, Alexandra. Where are you headed?” She shoves the book in her purse.
“Really, it’s a long story. One I’m having a hard time grasping myself, Ruthie.”
“Well”—she grabs her carry-on from above—“if you ever find where you’re going, here’s my card.”
She hands me her business card. The air from my lungs leaves as I read what she does and where she’s from.
“You’re-you’re a real estate agent from Granite Harbor, Maine?” I say it out loud, trying to will myself to believe this. “But you have an accent. You’re supposed to be from Texas or Mississippi or Louisiana.”
She laughs out loud and places her hand on her hip. “Twist of fate,” she says. “My husband, Milton, and I met five years ago in Texas. He’s a Texan, and I’m from Granite Harbor. The accent just stuck.” She nods in my direction, my eyes fixated on her card and her. “Really, he can work from anywhere. I needed to be closer to my mother, so we moved back to Maine. Catching a flight from Chicago to Florida and then going home.”
We exchange good-byes. Second thoughts push themselves around in my head after we’re in the terminal. Fear festers between them.
You’re taking a trip to Maine by yourself.
You know no one. Except Ruthie now.
A moose’ll probably trample you. You’ll fall in the frigid waters of Rangeley Lake.
I text my mom.
Me: I’m coming home. This was a bad idea.
A return text comes almost immediately.
Mom: No, you’re not. I see your flight has landed in Chicago. You’re almost there. You don’t have much time to make your next flight. GO! Call me when you land in Granite Harbor.
Before I do, I go to the ticket counter to see if there are any return flights back to San Francisco, but there’s a snowstorm covering the northwest territory, so the next four are canceled, making it impossible to get back to the West Coast in the next day or so. My heart starts to pound, and my face feels hot.
Of course.
I text Bryce.
Me: You’re sure the house you rented for me isn’t out in the boondocks, right? I’m not in the mood to be murdered in my sleep.
Bryce booked my trip because, the last time I booked a trip, I ended up in Arizona when I was supposed to be in Las Vegas. She also sent me a pre-packed bag of clothes—to supplement what I packed—and overnighted it to me along with a note: Yoga pants are not street legal. Find something different.
Bryce: (eye roll emoji) I’m sure. There’s the witty friend I know and love. Love you. The rental car should be waiting for you. Granite Harbor is about an hour and a half north. Call me when you get there.
I quickly walk to my gate. The passengers are already in line to board. I could stop right here. I could say I’m not going, like an indignant child. I could turn around and go back the way I came. Tell them I’m drunk and that I can’t fly.
Why lie, Alex? Why not tell them the truth? Why do you have to have any excuse at all? You’re a grown woman. Don’t go if you don’t want to. Chill the hell out.
Sighing, I close my eyes and look up at the industrial ceiling of O’Hare International Airport.
What now? Guilt creeps in about leaving my dad. About leaving my mom to take care of my dad.
It’s just a month, Alex.
Maybe all I need is a sign that this trip is the right decision. I’ve never taken a leap of faith. I’ve always been on the side of facts. No risks. Calculated. Calm. Planned. Allowing myself to see the whole picture. My heart thumps against my chest.
A shove from behind makes me fall forward as I wait on the sideline, debating on the impending line of passengers. Is there a line for maybe?
“Oh, I’m so sorry, miss.”
I turn to a man, a really tall man, who has an apologetic look on his face.
“I was looking at the travel sign, not paying attention to where I was going. I’m so sorry.”
I smile and look at the travel sign.
Granite Harbor, Maine. Where you come as a visitor and leave as a friend.
“I’m Kyle.”
The air leaves my lungs, and a loud ringing takes the place of the airport noise. I stare.
The man known as Kyle looks from side to side.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I finally speak.
“Kyle? My name is Kyle.”
I look down at his shoes. They’re white Vans, the kind with no laces. Slip-ons. “Did you say your name was Kyle?”
I’m sure he’s thinking, Crazy lady in aisle four.
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know, Kyle.” I shake my head and go stand in line to board the plan.
Message received, loud and clear.
We board the plane.
“Mrs. Beaumont?” the male flight attendant asks.
I look up at him and notice his eyebrows. First of all, they’re well kept, and second, they’re furrowed, which means he might be upset or perhaps worried.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, but I’m not. I haven’t heard Mrs. Beaumont in quite some time. My heart contracts and saddens.
“How did you know my last name?”
It’s my married name. I kept it Fisher for writing purposes, but anything personal was under Beaumont. I changed it back to Fisher once Kyle died. One of the only things I managed to do. Back then, I felt that the quicker I tried to remove myself from the situation, the quicker I’d heal. Somehow though, I can’t manage to take off my wedding ring.
He points to my writing bag.
“Oh.”
Kyle had it made for me as a wedding present.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Water, please,” I say in a pubescent teen voice, trying to keep my memories, my emotions at bay.
Across the aisle, two men talk in giddy voices. One of them pulls out a picture of a dog, and they both fall all over it.
“I can’t wait to get back to Granite to see her.” One of them leans his head over on the other one’s shoulder.
“Soon,” the other says.
I roll my eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me.
They both turn to me. I’m staring, and I quickly turn my head and stare at my lap, as if I wasn’t staring but I totally was.
“Do you have a dog?” one says.
God, did they see me roll my eyes?
“I was—I wasn’t rolling my eyes at you—just—no. No, I don’t have a dog. I have a cat named Larry,” I offer.
The awkward silence kills me, even over the drone of the plane’s engines.
I continue, “I was just admiring how adoring you both are about her. She’s beautiful.” I nod, as if nodding will allow me to shut up.
“Her name’s Lucy. I’m Clay, and this is Randall.”
They both extend their hands across the aisle for a handshake.
“Alexandra,” I say.
“Where are you headed?” Clay asks.
My eyebrows rise. Say it. No, don’t. “Granite Harbor. You guys?”
“Granite Harbor actually,” Clay says. “Back from a quick trip to Brooklyn and then Chicago and now back up to Maine. Flights can be weird.”
Randall’s head cocks to the right, and his eyes narrow. “Business or pleasure?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Honey, nobody flies to Granite Harbor, Maine, unsure. Are you working? Or are you going to take up what our side of the country has to offer?” Clay rests his cheek on his hand.
“Both, I guess.” I stall.
I’m a writer. My husband died and I can’t seem to connect to anything anymore. A friend booked this trip for me in hopes that I’d find a new different. A new life. Meanwhile, my mother is home, taking care of my father, who has Alzheimer’s. I guess that’s where it all started. The intervention. So, I’m here, on this flight, praying to fucking God that I don’t turn around and fly home because I know I need a new different. I’m desperate, I say to myself instead.
Clay and Randall stare back at me, as if they can see past the bullshit line I fed them and read straight to my brain. Clay puts down the picture, pushes past his partner, walks across the aisle, and throws his arms around me. He whispers into my hair, “You just found your two new best friends.”
It’s just past nine p.m. when we land and pick up the keys from the car rental company. I still have about an hour and a half to drive to Granite Harbor.
Randall throws his carry-on over his shoulder while pulling his overnight bag.
I find my bag on the luggage carousel, and with one swift move, I pull it off the belt.
“You’re an avid traveler.” Clay walks up behind us. “That was no beginner move.”
“Did some traveling for work.” I try to keep it vague.
“Some?” Clay’s right eyebrow rises.
I shrug. “A lot.”
“Better,” he says.
Randall’s perfectly cut, longer-on-the-top dark brown hair sits on his head as if he just stepped out of a salon. He’s a lot taller than I thought. Standing next to him, I wonder how I didn’t notice this before. He must be at least six foot four. A collared button-down shirt and slacks makes it look as if he was traveling for business and not pleasure, and I didn’t think to ask earlier.
“I never asked. Are you both traveling for business or pleasure?”
Randall says, “Business.”
Clay says, “Pleasure.”
Randall gives Clay the look. Clay is shorter than Randall but not by much. Same look—dress shirt, slacks, expensive shoes, and belt.
“Both,” Randall says. “Where are you staying?”
I pull up the confirmation email on my phone. “33 Eastward Road.”
Clay plugs the address in his phone. “We will lead; you will follow. We can’t let our latest tourist go missing like the last seven.”
I stop. “What?”
“Kidding!” Clay pulls me by the arm. “It was one. And she wasn’t a tourist.”
For whatever reason, I don’t ask for further story on the matter. Maybe because it’s late and I’m tired. Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because Eastward Road, according to Google Maps, is by itself on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. It’s all a bit creepy.
“Why on earth would you bring that up, Clay? Now, she’s scared.”
“What’s in the hardcover container?” Clay asks.
“A gun.”
Randall stops. Clay smiles and continues on, following my lead toward the rental car.
Kyle and my dad made me get a concealed weapons permit. With all the travel for book stuff—walking through airports and staying at hotel rooms—and being home alone at night, Kyle made me take gun classes. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, no matter how many excuses I came up with. I hate guns, but I did it anyway.
Kyle was always a just-in-case type of guy. Maybe because he’d seen a lot of bad in the world, the ugly part of life, with being a firefighter. Maybe it was also because he wanted to be prepared for anything, like: the 9.9 earthquake that California keeps predicting, wildfire—which seems reasonable—flood, an active shooter, and the zombie apocalypse.
Kyle had a plan for everything.
Clay touches my arm. “Oh, honey, the only reason you’ll need a gun in Granite Harbor is to scare off the wildlife here in our great state. Not a serial killer or something.”
“Granite Harbor doesn’t have serial killers. All the serial killers live in Bangor, Maine, with Mr. King,” Randall adds.
“Noted. Don’t go to Bangor.” I click the button on the key fob in the dimly lit indoor parking garage and see the taillights illuminate. I stop, drop my head, and sigh.
Bryce, seriously? A brand-new Tahoe? I roll my eyes. Why would I need a brand-new Tahoe? A sedan. A four-door sedan would have been practical.
“We will take the lead,” Randall says.
We pull up to the well-lit house. A hint of seaweed, salt, and cotton candy lingers. It’s different, the smell of the Atlantic. It’s almost sweeter, less salty than the Pacific.
The house looks far more practical than the beast in the driveway. I get out and grab my bag.
“I don’t know what you do for a living, Alexandra, but the Malcomb Place is exquisite.” Clay whistles as he eyes the house.
“Huh?” I look back toward the moderate one-level house. Maybe it’s a Maine thing? Maybe we have different standards in California? At any rate, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, so I ignore the comment. “Thanks for your help tonight.”
“It was our pleasure, and welcome to Granite Harbor. What’s your number?” Clay leans over Randall from the passenger side. “Just in case you need two debonair, ruggedly handsome tour guides.”
We exchange numbers.
They don’t leave the driveway until I’m safely inside. Mood lights are set on low through the entryway. The house smells new yet borrowed, as if the owners remodeled.
I turn on the lights, and my jaw falls to the floor at the work, extravagance, and beauty the homeowners have put into this house.
The entryway, with a timeless black light fixture, opens up to the living room with a wall of windows past that. Dark hardwood floor runs the length of the house. Soft white furniture matches the makeup of the kitchen aside from the slab granite countertops.
A massive fireplace, also made of granite pieces, runs up the wall, touching the top of the vaulted ceiling. Wide white bookshelves line the sides of the fireplace with inset lighting, illuminating book titles. I run my fingers over the book spines. Some names as modern as Patterson and Hoover to the king of horror to classics like Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
I make my way through the house and realize it goes on forever and that the wall of windows line every room on the east side of the house, including the master bedroom and the two spare rooms, each having their own bathroom and walk-in closet.
The house must be at least three thousand square feet. I lean against the counter after my self-guided tour and smile, biting my lip. Leave it to Bryce to do this trip up. Maybe it’s her attempt to make the trip beautiful and wonderful, so I’ll find my different.
I pull out my phone and look at the time—12:32 a.m. I text Bryce, knowing she’s three hours behind.
Me: Just want to say thank you. The place is amazing.
I wheel my suitcase into the master bedroom where the curtains are already drawn, and two bedside lights sit on either side of the plush California king with a cream-colored duvet. The whole house is warm and inviting, not like mine. White and sterile. But, if I rewind the story, our home didn’t used to be like that. After Kyle died, I had to change the house, and I thought, by doing that, it would change the memories or keep them at bay. Keep them as far away from my mind as possible. But there was always just one more reminder that I hadn’t taken care of. His ashes. My ring. Those are things I wasn’t willing to part with.
I open my suitcase, trying to distract myself from my thoughts, and my eyes fall to the designer jeans, tops, sweaters, and shoes along with the bag that Bryce packed, which I threw in at the last minute. I roll my eyes. Under the new clothes Bryce purchased is the sticky note she’d written with the package she’d sent. I’d thrown in my bag as a gentle reminder: Yoga pants, sweatshirts, and T-shirts OFF-LIMITS. I laugh to myself, and it makes me miss her.
I grab my phone.
Me: And thanks for the clothes. :)
She texts back.
Bryce: Welcome. Love you. This is going to be good. What do you think of the place? Nice, right?
Me: Very.
I let my head fall to the soft pillow and close my eyes. “Please, God, let this be what I need.”