At Last (The Idle Point, Maine Stories)(62)

The big red sign now read Gas-2-Go and the smaller signs beneath it promised that milk, cigarettes, magazines, and coffee were all waiting inside to soothe the frazzled traveler. There was a car wash adjacent to the parking lot, a Jiffy Lube, and unless her eyes deceived her, the ramshackle motel behind Eb's gas station was now a sparkling Motel 6.

And that wasn't all. She had already noticed the brand spanking-new condo that curved around the harbor, all pre-weathered siding and gingerbread trim with Hollywood-perfect rowboats bobbing in the calm waters that lapped against the owners-only pier. Unless she missed her guess, she'd bet there were more condos where that one came from.

Idle Point was bursting at the seams with prosperity and she felt almost like a stranger as she sat there in her truck with the New York plates and her New York attitude and tried to take it all in. She wondered if this was how Noah had felt when he came home from St. Luke's each summer to a town that had changed just enough to keep him slightly off-balance, not quite sure if he was a townie or a tourist or just passing through on his way to someplace else.

She reached over and scratched the top of Pye's head through the bars of the cat carrier. Pyewacket opened one lime green eye, yawned, then dived back inside a dream.

Lucky you, she thought as she climbed out of the car and stretched. At least Pye's dreams couldn't break his heart. The worst that could happen was tuna for supper instead of mackerel.

Her limbs were stiff and sore from spending eight hours behind the wheel without a break. Once she had crossed the Tappan Zee and headed north toward New England, she had simply kept on going. A smarter woman would have stopped for lunch in Massachusetts, walked around a little, read a magazine or two, then knocked off the rest of the drive up the coast to Idle Point.

Or then again maybe a smarter woman wouldn't be there at all.

Everywhere she looked she saw ghosts. Old Eb, his eyes brimming with tears, as he wished her well. Gramma Del and her friends hosting the church bazaar in Fireman's Park across the street. Noah racing down Main Street in his flashy red sports car.

Noah.

Damn it. She had promised herself she wouldn't fall prey to memories but now that she was standing there with the ocean breeze whipping all around her, so sharp and salty she could almost taste it, it was impossible to keep the past at bay. At least she wouldn't run into Noah while she was here. The last she'd heard, he was still in Europe somewhere living the life he'd always dreamed about. The kind of life that, if she was being honest, had never appealed to Gracie. She would have followed him because she loved him but she would have always longed for home. Idle Point was where she had wanted to be, where she had thought she would settle down and establish herself with Doctor Jim as the second-best vet in town.

You know you could turn around and drive back to New York right now. The voice followed her as she strode toward the man lounging in front of Gas-2-Go. Who'd know? You're a stranger around here. Fill the gas tank then run for your life.

The man lounging near the air pumps looked over in her direction. He had dark hair, a slightly receding hairline, and a look of shock on his face. He looked vaguely familiar to Gracie. She stopped and looked at him closely as the years slid away. "Don?" she asked. "Don Hasty, is that you?"

"Gracie?" He stood up. "I'll be a son of a bitch! Gracie Taylor, you've finally come home!"





#





"You worry too much," Laquita said to Ben as he paced the small living room of the house by the docks. "Everything will go smoothly." She patted his arm with a gentle hand. "I promise you."

Ben felt that touch deep in his soul but he still wasn't convinced. "It's a long time since Gracie's been home. A lot's changed."

Laquita smiled. "I'm the biggest change, Ben, and you've already told her we're getting married. The rest is window dressing."

He stopped pacing and sat down on the arm of the sofa Laquita had reupholstered last year. The fabric was pure creamy white with streaks of sunny yellow and pale green running through it. He couldn't quite remember what color the old fabric had been—spilled tea, maybe, or a nice shade of used coffee grounds. If you had told him ten years ago that he would be living with something so beautiful he would've pegged you for the one with the drinking problem. He'd never cared much about the way he lived. Drunks never did. All a drunk cared about was the next bottle of Johnnie.

Drunks didn't care about their kids either. Drunks didn't show up for birthday parties or first communion or graduation. They didn't notice the awards or the scholarships or the hard work. They didn't notice when the sleeping infant in the baby blanket turned into an accomplished young woman with sad eyes. They sure as hell didn't notice when that young woman stopped coming home. Not while they were drinking. He would still be a drunk if it weren't for Laquita. He'd still be peeing his pants, sleeping in his own vomit, wondering why his daughter didn't love him the way a father ought to be loved.