Alex
October 11, 2017
It was too late to grab coffee when we pulled into town last night. Pulling myself from the flannel sheets and pillow-like mattress that my body somehow melted into, I pad down the hallway to the kitchen in search of the life-changing brown substance.
Above the coffee pot, I find a brown bag full of coffee. Thank God. I’ll take it black, knowing there’s nothing in the refrigerator due to my investigative skills last night.
I glance at the clock, and it’s just after seven in the morning, Maine time. Stealing a cup of coffee before the brew is complete, I hit the switch on the curtains and watch as they slowly make their way open.
When my eyes focus on the windows, I’m taken aback by the Atlantic Ocean, its vastness, its powerful ebb and flow. The waves sit, waiting for their turn upon the coast. The sun casts its rays, shining through a small opening in the dark clouds that hover below, lightening up the dark water on a chosen spot. To the right, the mainland houses, with quiet lights that hug the coast like a wet blouse, sit along the shore like an abstract painting, choosing where they pick to view the ocean.
Once I figure out how to unlock the slider, I’m met with a cool blast that gives my entire body the chills. The deck wraps around the house with a table and two chairs and three chaise lounges. I quickly retreat back inside to grab a sweatshirt. After I do that, the morning chill greets my feet as I set foot on the deck, and I take a seat on one of the chaise lounges.
In the distance, a boat horn sounds.
Change things up, Alex. Do something different, my head sings.
I look down at my wedding ring, the one I still wear on my left hand, hanging on to memories, promises left unmet, a reminder of my commitment to a man whose body doesn’t exist anymore.
A light breeze picks up from the east, allowing the wisps of my hair to take flight and tickle my face. Kyle used to gather those and push them behind my ear.
My phone sounds.
It’s a text from Clay.
Clay: Good morning, beautiful! We own Hello, Good-Pie bakery in town. A left from your house and down Main Street. Come down when you’re ready. We’ve got a cinnamon roll with your name on it.
What could be the harm, right? A new different.
Me: I’ll be there soon. ;)
After a few minutes, I walk inside to shower.
I decide on jeans, dark brown boots, an oversize cream knit sweater that shows my neckline, and a light-pink camisole underneath.
For the first time in a long time, I decide to dry my hair. Usually, after I wash it, it sits in a bun on top of my head until I go to bed that night. I go back to my bag in search of any product I can use to tame my mane and the hair straightener. I throw on some lip gloss and some mascara.
I read the alarm instructions sent to my email and double-check the entrance code before I lock the door behind me.
It’s half past ten when I pull out of the long driveway. I see the sign before I pull onto Main Street.
GRANITE HARBOR, MAINE, WELCOMES YOU!
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. Can you tell me where to find an Eli? I laugh to myself as I pull the wheel left. I creep down Main Street. Mid-sized maple trees line Main Street, and fall wreathes adorn each post. The vibrant reds, sinful oranges, and magnetic yellows draw me in. Storefronts run along each side of Main. People stop and chat, walk their dogs, wave at me, carry their mail, run, talk or text on phones. Smile. Wave.
As I crawl down Main Street, I read the business signs as I look for Hello, Good-Pie. Granite Harbor Cuts and More, Harbor Theater, State Farm of Granite Harbor, Granite Harbor Opera House, a sign for the Indian Island Light Station—which I saw a sign for last night on my way into town—Granite Harbor Mutual, Merryman’s Restaurant, The Angler’s Tavern, Rings Pharmacy, and a bookstore called Rain All Day Books are all I can capture before I reach my destination, a colorful sign that reads Hello, Good-Pie.
I pull in front. It looks more like a house plucked down on the corner of Main and Shell Street that sits just off the road. It has outside seating, which I assume will not last long with winter coming and the fall leaves taking color. A small white A-frame with black shutters and a brick walkway make you feel like the most important customer they have. A rainbow flag hangs from a wooden pole that is attached to the side of the bakery, slowly billowing in the wind as though it, too, is on vacation.
Taking the walk path, I notice the lawn. It’s kept trim and neat without a blade out of place. I wonder who mows their lawn. Pulling the screen door open, I’m met with an overwhelming scent of cinnamon, freshly made dough, and coffee.
“Alexandra!” I hear Clay say in a singsong voice. He reaches over the glass display and hands me a warm plate of doughy goodness. “You could use some meat on your bones. Coffee is to your left with all the fixings.”
“Thank you, Clay.” I set my plate down at a table next to the window that looks out onto Main Street and go back and grab some coffee with half-and-half. “This place is perfect, Clay, really. It’s so—”
“Touristy?” Clay says, wiping his hands on his apron.
“I was going to say, inviting.”
He shrugs. “That, too. What did you think of downtown?”
“Quaint. Lovely. I can’t believe the fall colors here.”
“It’s the fall-leaf peepers who keep us in business until the middle of November. So, thank you, Alexandra, for contributing to the season. Feel free to make yourself at home.” Clay walks to the professional oven in the far corner of the kitchen.
I take my seat next to the window, take out a small notebook and a pencil from my purse, and start a grocery list.
I notice a woman walking a little dog outside, both dressed in matching sweaters. Behind her, a couple holding hands, in their early twenties, make their way down the street. They stop and talk to the woman who’s walking the dog. They exchange hugs and go about their separate ways. Beyond them is the Granite Harbor Post Office. I think about what passes through there. Like postcards. Maybe Clay and Randall know an Eli. I glance at the two postcards, which are shoved into a pocket on the side of my purse, that I pulled from my trash can next to my desk at home.
I sip my coffee and hear the screen door open again. A green uniform catches the corner of my eye, and I turn my head only slightly.
“Good morning, Eli,” Clay says in a flirty tone. “Usual?”
I choke, spitting coffee from my mouth onto my grocery list, onto the table, and onto the chair on the other side of the table. I cough.
Clay peeks around Eli, and Eli turns to face me.
“Are you all right?” Eli asks.
I wave my hand, coughing, my face beet red, nodding, signifying that I’m still breathing and no mouth-to-mouth is required. I cough a few more times, trying to be as quiet as possible, embarrassed.
“Yeah, Clay, thanks.” Eli grabs his wallet and hands over a ten-dollar bill.
“Have you found him?” Clay’s voice is a whisper.
Eli shakes his head. “Not yet.” His voice is smooth, deep. A terse sound escapes through his teeth, maybe a sign of pessimism. Maybe frustration. Probably both.
Clay looks over at me again by leaning past Eli.
Fuck me. Please don’t do it, Clay.
“Eli Young, I’d like you to meet Granite Harbor’s newest tourist, Alexandra Fisher. She’s renting the Malcomb Place up on Eastward. She’s from California.”
I wipe my mouth, hesitate, stare at the table, stall, pray he’ll get a call and leave. “Alex. You can call me Alex, please.” I wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Eli.” He moves his hand toward mine.
“You, uh, probably don’t want to do that. Coffee incident. Remember?” Shit. Did I just say that out loud?
“I’ve handled worse.” He doesn’t break eye contact.
My hand slides into his. Warm. Despite the chilly weather with the fall season in full swing. His hand is also gentle, rugged, and calloused. Big.
I stare at his badge. Maine Warden Service, Warden Young. Then, my eyes meet his. They’re green with flecks of hazel. He has the type of eyes that tell you, when he makes a decision, it’s the right decision for the greater good. Confidence sits on his broad shoulders like a badge. Not a badge of honor because Eli doesn’t seem like he would wear any badge to promote himself. And he’s tall. He’s at least six foot three or six foot four. I try to pay no mind that he’s handsome. Extremely handsome. Pale complexion, strong jawline. Clean-shaven.
“It’s nice to meet you, Alexandra.” Two lines on either side of his mouth frame his smile.
“Likewise. And you might want to wash your hands. I added sugar to the coffee. Sugar is sticky.”
“Noted.” He smiles again, turns, and calls back to Clay and Randall, “Thanks.”
I slide back into my chair and watch him walk out to his dark gray truck, pull his seat belt on, and look in my direction. With the distance between us, I can’t tell if he is looking at me or just in my vicinity. Either way, I look away because I don’t like the way my stomach feels right now.
You know how to interact with handsome men, Alex.
But maybe it doesn’t have to do with Eli being handsome. It has everything to do with Kyle.
It isn’t time to ask anyone about the postcards until I get more familiar with who is who in this town.
After I leave Clay and Randall, I decide to walk down Main Street and go through the shops and get a feel for the town. Coffee in one hand, purse in the other, I purchase a heavier coat. If I’m going to be here for a while, I’ll need something to ward off the cold. This makes me think of Warden Young and the temperature of his hands. The calluses I felt as my hand slid into his. My stomach explodes into a fit of butterflies.
Oh my God.
A book.
A love story.
Contemporary romance.
Game wardens.
No, not one. Three books.
Wardens having their own book.
I know nothing about game wardens or what they do. There’s only so much research you can do online before the writing becomes stale. What if I job shadow a warden here in Granite Harbor? It can’t be Eli. But why? Then again, why not?
Enthusiasm leaks through my pores. The same feeling I used to get when I’d tell Kyle about a new story I’d worked out in my head.
I can’t wait any longer, so I hop back into the Tahoe and dial Bryce’s number.
She can’t even say hello because I’m already talking. “Contemporary romance. Second chance. Game wardens. Three-book series.” My breaths echo into my phone.
There’s a long silence on the other end.
“Bryce, say something.”
“I haven’t heard you this excited on the phone since the prerelease of Come with Me.”
“Bryce, I haven’t been this excited since then probably.” I look down at my neglected nails and wonder how I let them get this bad. I make a mental note to get a manicure at the shop I passed earlier this morning.
I hear a sniffle on the other end of the line. I’m confused.
“Are you … are you crying?”
“No, I am most certainly not crying. I don’t cry.” Bryce blows her nose. “It’s allergies.”
“You’re crying.” I smile.
“It’s just been a long time. What I wouldn’t give to see your smile right now, Alex.”
My smile grows, but it quickly fades when I realize just how worried my family and friends have been about me.
I feed Bryce some good news. “I’m wearing the jeans, boots, and sweater that you sent me.”
After a few more things are talked about, Bryce says, “Get to work. I have three manuscripts to sell.”
We hang up. My mind is going at warp speed. Subplots. Plot twists. Climaxes.
My phone rings again.
It’s Clay.
“Thank you for the cinnamon roll this morning,” I say when I answer. “If I ever come back to Granite Harbor, it will be for the cinnamon rolls.”
“Well, you’re going to have to tell Randall that yourself tonight when we take you out for drinks. Do you have plans?”
I smile. “Turns out, I’m pretty open.”
“Wonderful. We will be by at about seven to pick you up. We’ll make you a Mainer yet, honey!”
It’s 6:59 p.m., and I’m putting on my earrings when the doorbell rings.
I answer the door in black heels, jeans, and a black V-neck sweater that hugs my body. My hair is down, well past the middle of my back.
Clay and Randall freeze.
“What?” I look down. “Too much?”
“Honey, if I wasn’t gay, you’d be my first choice.” Clay turns to Randall. “Do you remember what Sadie wore that night to The Angler’s Tavern?” His eyebrows rise. “Who told her that chartreuse was coming back?”
“Who’s Sadie?” I ask, pulling on my newly purchased coat.
“Nobody,” Randall says.
We pull up outside The Angler’s Tavern. Randall insisted on driving, said that alcohol makes him break out in hives. The Angler’s Tavern is just that—an old tavern stuck between Merryman’s Restaurant and Rain All Day Books. Inside, it’s lined with pictures of fishermen circa the 1800s and the biggest fish caught, old boat paddles, small boats, lifejackets, and anchors. The light in the old bar is from small table lamps that adorn each small table. The bar itself looks like it’s made from mahogany wood. The smell is musky, aged, as if the bar were a walking history book, a living legend. The mood is light, a small-town feel. And I welcome the lightness. I didn’t feel any lightness in Belle’s Hollow. Everywhere I went was heavy, scattered with memories of Kyle. Constant reminders from others:
“Oh, honey. How are you doing?”
“Are you sure you’re eating?”
“You still living alone in that big house on the hill?”
“We miss you at the fire department. Kyle’s picture is on the wall.”
That’s the thing about death. It’s permanent. Nothing about it is temporary, not even the grief. But here, in Granite Harbor, nobody knows about Kyle. Nobody knows about the grief that has been dragging behind me for the past three years. I just want to be free of the sadness. And this place might be allowing me to do just that.
We grab a table in the corner.
“Clay, Randall, who’s this hot little number?” A woman’s voice sounds from behind me.
I turn.
“Bitty, this is Alex Fisher from California,” Randall says.
Bitty is short, like four foot five, with a tight ponytail, her hair thick and lively in the back, and big brown eyes. Looks to be in her late twenties.
I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.” She whistles through her teeth. “Your name sounds familiar.” She taps her pen against her lips.
“Baseball player.” Not writer.
“Oh, that must be it.” Bitty takes her notepad from her apron. “The usual, boys?”
“Bitty, I think I’m going to change it up in honor of our new friend,” Clay says. “A chardonnay. Surprise me.”
Bitty deadpans. “Really?” She rolls her eyes. “If you want wine and shit, drive your ass to Portland.”
“You’re right.” Clay laughs. “How about a Manhattan, neat? And a tall Diet Pepsi for my man.”
“Got it.” Bitty looks at me. “And for you, Alex?”
I haven’t had a drink in a while. I haven’t been to a bar in a long time. I scan the drink list menu in front of me. “I’ll have what Clay’s having.”
“You got it.” Bitty walks away.
The tavern door shuts, and in walks Eli with three other men.
I’d like to cancel that drink order now. I’d like to leave.
A fresh, intimate feeling enters through my stomach. One I’ve been unfamiliar with for quite some time.
Eli’s in plain clothes this time, and it makes his chest look bigger and broader than his uniform did. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt with some sort of logo on the front, jeans, and a sport fishing hat he takes off as he enters the bar. The three other men follow suit. Patrons nod to the four of them, making small talk as they make their way up to the bar.
Before Eli sits down, his eyes scan the room.
He finds me.
Still, the piercing in his green eyes hasn’t changed since this morning. It’s still there. Alive. Well.
I nod to him, totally unsure of what to do, though I want to be confident, like I know what the hell I’m doing.
What am I doing?
Before I can answer my own rhetorical question, Eli is at our table.
“Clay, Randall.” Eli nods. “Alex.” He looks back at his friends at the bar and motions for them to walk over. “This is Ryan, Ethan, and Aaron. Guys, this is Alexandra Fisher, Granite Harbor’s newest tourist.”