Flying Solo(35)

When Laurie had broken up with him between sophomore and junior year, she’d given back that hoodie, given back the paperbacks he’d left on the table by her bed. She’d told him the truth: She knew he was permanently in love with Calcasset, and she wasn’t. He saw it as his future, and she saw it as the place she’d always love, but like you love an old movie. He would go back after he graduated from college; she would not. And, maybe in order to feel less guilty, she’d somehow told herself he’d take his basic Nick-ness, his tendency to make friends everywhere, and just keep going.

Knocked the wind out of me. She nodded. She took back her hand and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sure I’m going to regret this in about ten minutes.”

They gathered up the papers, and he locked up the library and drove her home to Dot’s. He didn’t walk her to the door. Probably better for both of them.





Chapter Ten


The next time Laurie saw the Grim Reaper was that Thursday, and this time, when he sat himself down in her living room and put the duck on the couch next to him, his expression looked significantly cloudier. “So I do have some news. I’m going to let you read it. Here’s the report they gave me.”

It was printed on Wesson & Truitt stationery, under their bright blue logo.

    Wood duck decoy, approximately 2008. Produced in bulk in the style of Carl Kittery and distributed to museum and souvenir shops as part of a promotion commemorating the history of American folk art. Also sold at traveler locations including Logan Airport. Original sale price approximately $25.99. Current value similar. Many examples available through online auction sites and estate sales, selling for approximately $30.00. Further appraisal not necessary or recommended.



She just stared at it. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, okay.”

“I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for.”

She put down the paper on the couch next to her. “No, I mean, everybody said from the beginning it was a long shot.” To her, it was still a beautiful wooden bird that had secrets under its wings, even with the knowledge it had been picked up at a museum store or a craft store or maybe just a dollar store. “I guess she didn’t have it out because it was junk, you know? She did have really good taste.”

Matt shook his head. “That’s not the way to think about it. Junk, not junk, who knows, right? You see a painting and it’s real or it’s a forgery, but either way, it looks the same on your wall. You like the duck? Then you like the duck. Keep it, put it somewhere, tell people the story.”

“It’s funny,” Laurie said. “It turns out Kittery had a house up in Bar Harbor. Maybe a studio, too. I think I just got a little carried away. Kind of cast a spell on myself. And I think if I kept it, I’d just keep feeling really dumb about it.”

“Look, you don’t need to feel dumb. It happens to me practically every day,” he said. “I’ll see a sketch or a letter or a vase or something, and I get totally obsessed with it. Totally preoccupied with finding out what it is and where it came from.” He took a breath. “Listen. I still like your duck. I think it’s a nice piece. I think somebody is going to want it for an office or a dining room or something. I’ll tell you what: I’ll still give you fifty bucks for it. Just like before.”

“It’s not worth anything,” Laurie said.

“Doesn’t have to be expensive to be worth something,” he told her. He was wearing a Fiona Apple shirt that said THIS WORLD IS BULLSHIT. She liked him. But not quite as much as the first time he’d come over. He was attractive, but he wasn’t reading-room-in-the-dark attractive.

“Fair enough,” she said. She handed him the duck. He took the receipt he’d given her the other day off the coffee tables, and he added a note on the bottom that said she’d sold it to him for fifty dollars. He tucked it into his pocket and handed her the money. “Please don’t feel bad about it,” he said. “You’re doing a great job, and your aunt would be proud of you. I talk to ninety-year-olds more often than most, and the thing they really want is to know somebody’s going to care about what they left behind. You care. That means a lot.” He gave her another copy of his business card. “Drop by the shop anytime, okay? And I’ll talk to you soon.”



* * *



—

Laurie tried to keep the pity party short, with minimal fuss: a little wine, a little Julie London, and one of Dot’s feather boas wrapped around her neck while she stretched out on the sofa and tried not to think about any of it. No Nick, no duck. Just a lot more boxes, and a lot more books.

She was only one sip into the wine when she saw the paper from Wesson & Truitt out of the corner of her eye. It seemed very unfair that she had been taken in by the sheer coincidence of Kittery having a Bar Harbor studio. It seemed very unfair that Dot had not actually known him, that clearly the Polaroid was not of him, that the loveliest night she’d spent in probably two years had been a wild-goose chase (duck chase, perhaps) that had been a misadventure before it even began.

People raised in places like Calcasset developed a healthy lack of regard for tourist objects. They clicked their tongues at little lobster-trap Christmas ornaments, lobster cookie cutters, and dish towels printed with colorful buoys. These things were part of the economy, but it was undignified to have feelings about them. Or keep them. Or collect them. To confuse a mass-marketed gift-shop throwaway with a piece of art was something close to sacrilege to those who had seen their towns full of working boats become homes to Airbnbs and day spas and people who held clambakes ironically.