|
Ruffling Feathers Chapter 19 - Strength of Character
Whiteside Cove is nestled behind an array of ledges between and to seaward of a series of islands that hug the Maine coast north of Portland. The ledges swallow ocean rollers, leaving only moderate chop when it's windy, which is almost always. By two on a summer afternoon, the sun has burned off the morning fog and Whiteside Cove spreads out and away like a field of diamonds. Sunlight glances off a million whitecaps, playing havoc with a person's depth perception. As Amy Hutchins sat on the grassy cliffs above Whiteside Cove on a sweet afternoon in June slowly eating the last sad remains of lunch and trying to count sails in the shimmering bay, she felt that more than her depth perception was out of whack. She must have been crazy to come to Whiteside to do a story on the Maine Coastal Program. After all, Whiteside is but a cove away from Carlisle Point. The two villages face each other across the sound and share a horseshoe main street that also serves as Maine's oceanfront highway. Amy felt somewhat like an undercover agent, sitting on a cliff in one town eyeing the houses of another, wondering which one was Paul's. It had all started out innocently enough. Amy had calmly implemented the plan she formulated when Jay O'Brien first asked her to cover the global warming conference in Portland, Maine. She had flown to Boston, rented a car, driven to Portland, and spent three exhilarating days at the conference. It was just up her alley—full of incredibly smart, committed people working passionately for next to nothing on something they thought was so vitally important that it would change not only the face of civilization but the entire world. She had written some good stuff for both Jay and NPR and developed solid leads for six months worth of follow-up stories. She was ready to sneak back to Boston and escape Maine with Paul Donovan none the wiser, and then she met Marion Chamberlain. Marion—a stout, square woman with a sensible haircut and a wardrobe consisting solely of L.L. Bean twill—chaired the Maine Coastal Program or MCP as it was known along the eastern seaboard. She was totally up front with Amy. She remembered Amy from C-Span's coverage of the South Park rally. She approved of the pieces Amy filed on the Portland conference. She knew Amy's style and issues from her column and stint in London. In short, she wanted Amy to make a stop in Whiteside and learn about MCP and the work they were doing. Whiteside, as Marion told Amy, may appear like a small fishing village to the uninformed, but it is really ground zero of the new environmental world order. Amy was a shade skeptical, but then she met Ellen Crowe. It wasn't so much Ellen's style as her story that brought Amy to Whiteside after the conference ended. Ellen was Marion's administrative assistant—working her way through college, Ellen was a fisherman's widow and mother to a little girl. After her husband died, Ellen told Amy, she thought she had died too. She confessed that she could barely get up each morning to face another day without her husband, could barely care for their child. Then, one day, she read an article about the pollution from the logging industry destroying fish habitat and compromising Maine's drinking water and likewise the health of the people of the region. Ellen told Amy that that article saved her life. She started college, studying environmental economics and marine biology; she was working for MCP; and she really wanted Amy to come to Whiteside and tell the world what they were trying to do there. Amy agreed...if she could do a human-interest story on Ellen as well as report on the MCP. Marion said that of course Amy could do a story on Ellen. Since Ellen only looked daggers at Marion but didn't out-and-out refuse to be fodder for human interest, Amy found herself safely ensconced at The Inn at Whiteside, ready to tell the world about the Maine Coastal Program and one of its more interesting employees, Ellen Crowe. Amy fully intended to spend the afternoon reading the white papers Ellen had given her on using coastal resources in a ecosystem context, watershed management, co-management of fisheries, and marine habitat research, but the sunshine and freshening breeze lulled her into daydreaming and sail-counting. Okay, try a different venue. I have to read this stuff or Ellen will think I'm an idiot and refuse to do the interview after all. Maybe coffee on the deck... Amy gathered her lunch remains and stowed her background reading into a bag and walked back to the Inn. Mrs. Ashley, the Inn's proprietress smiled at Amy from behind the front desk as she crossed the lobby to the deck. She helped herself to coffee and settled down in an Adirondack chair, the kinds that is ideal in which to read romantic fiction whilst wearing a broad-brimmed hat and sipping colorful fizzy drinks, but totally wrong for reading detailed scientific papers laced with political ramifications. Amy sighed and gave herself over wholly to enjoying the view—islands, lighthouses, harbor, bay, and ultimately open ocean. "Mind you, that's the finest view on earth there." Mrs. Ashley said, joining Amy on the deck. "Don't mind me now, just getting ready for our social this afternoon." She added, as she started arranging doilies and fixing bouquets for the tables. Amy hoisted herself out of her chair and walked over to the railing. "That's Carlisle Point, across the bay, right?" She casually asked. Mrs. Ashley took the bait. "To be sure. Loveliest little village...next to Whiteside, that is. Now that house," she said pointing to the tip of the peninsula, "that's a real Frank Lloyd Wright house. You'll want to get yourself a tour of that one. Mr. Wright designed it for William Donovan back in the 1920's after he struck oil in Texas—he was a wildcat that one, so they say." Mrs. Ashley shook her head with rueful pride. "Certainly too wild for a quiet little village like Carlisle Point. Old Bill, as we used to call him, is the one who started up Meriweather Explorations—named it after his first wife, he did. What a beauty she was—green cat eyes and a quick tongue. Oh, but the men did like her. The Donovan men have always picked showy women for their wives—some say it's their downfall, but I don't see that they seem to mind falling." She pursed her lips and stuck a handful of daisies in with a clump of bachelor's buttons and then stood back to admire the effect of white and yellow in a sea of blue. "Now let's see, Old Bill was great-grandfather to our Paul and Gina, that's Paul and Gina Donovan, the only two Donovans left. You know, Donovan Industries. Paul changed the name a few years ago, never did know why. Well, Paul runs the lot and Gina is the sweetest girl—she's in college and wants to be a cook, I hear. I wish my granddaughters wanted to cook but all they want to do is chase boys and wear black. I do not understand why pretty girls want to wear black all the time these days. When I was a young girl, yes I was a young girl once, my mother wanted me to dress in pastels but I was mad for bright colors, cherry and turquoise and magenta, something with some snap to it, but my little granddaughters won't wear any pretty colors at all. Oh well." Mrs. Ashley took much needed breath and commenced filling sugar bowls while Amy digested this banquet of information. I wonder if she would consider me a showy woman? Amy thought as she suppressed a giggle. His downfall, indeed! Mrs. Ashley put down her bag of sugar and cast Amy a sidelong glance. "Can you keep a secret?" "Of course." "I hear that Paul Donovan is giving up Donovan Industries. Selling out. Can't stand to be away from home. He's been here since last fall. Came home in an awful snit, they say. Beth Sullivan, we're in Ladies Auxiliary together, says he was just as moody as could be all winter. Had him over for dinner and he could barely put two words together, she said. And he was always such a sweet boy. I've known him since the day he was born, and he has always been the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world. Not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. He's always giving—not just to Carlisle Point and Whiteside, but to Maine. He's a real friend to the working man." Mrs. Ashley twinkled her eyes at Amy, "And the women too, mind you. Women just can't leave him alone. Good-looking fella he is. Seen his picture, have you?" Amy replied that yes, she had, in fact, seen a picture of Paul Donovan. "I'd like to see that boy marry, but I don't know who's good enough for him, and that's a fact. Beth Sullivan's older girl has been after poor Paul for years. She'd leave her husband, and he's a judge in Boston—nice place, Boston—if Paul would look twice at her. But he won't. She was up for Christmas and made a spectacle of herself, chasing after Paul. I'm hoping he'll settle down with Beth's younger girl—they're real chummy together. They go out to dinner, walk on the beach, you know, that kind of thing." Amy did, indeed, know the kinds of things couples do when they're falling in love. She quietly chewed on her lower lip and gave Mrs. Ashley her full attention as she continued, "Well, that poor boy just had an awful time out West last summer. Must be an awful place, out West." Mrs. Ashley lowered her voice as she started folding napkins. "Turns out that his parents were murdered—I'm sure you must have heard about it. It was on Court TV and everything. I couldn't bear to watch it. To think that our George was killed by some two-bit ski bum who was after Anne. But then, she was a flashy woman. Skiing and all that. Would have done better to stay home and look after her man, that's what I say." "The ski bum got off, of course, probably some high-powered lawyer like that F. Lee Bailey fella. Anyway, as soon as the trial was over, Paul just perked up and started taking notice of life again. That's when the rumors started about him selling out. Wouldn't be a bit surprised myself." The chiming of the clock in the lobby stopped Mrs. Ashley's dissertation on all things Paul. She looked across the deck to where the path led down to steps that descended to the beach below and laughed as she saw a young child, boy or girl, Amy couldn't tell, run by at full tilt. "Three o'clock and there's Addie—you can set your watch by that child." Mrs. Ashley folded her last napkin. "There I'm done, and I've just about talked your ear off. If you're looking for something interesting to do, you might take a turn on the beach yourself. Be sure to be back for the social hour, though—I've got a new crop of sailing school students checking in this afternoon. They're always fun." A walk on the beach sounded perfect to Amy. She was just going to have to ask Ellen to explain the MCP's projects to her and forget about faking any actual knowledge of coastal issues and fishing and all that. Amy was pretty confident in her abilities as an interviewer, so she blithely blew off studying the white papers in favor of beach combing. Mrs. Ashley pointed her to the path that led to the stairs that allegedly would bottom out on the cove's beach. As she walked down the path toward the beach stairs, Amy turned to look again across the water to the Donovan family's Frank Lloyd Wright house, perched at the end of the Carlisle Point peninsula. And while she was conjecturing as to whether form followed function in this instance, the owner of it himself suddenly rounded a bend in the path and was there before her. They were within twenty yards of each other. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards Amy and spoke to her, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. "Amy!" He said. "Paul!" She replied. "You're here." "I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy. I was in Portland..." Amy began to explain, but Paul cut her off. "I know." His voice was soft, admitting that her existence hadn't gone unnoticed. "You do?" Sweet expectation warmed her words. "I heard your stories on the conference down there..." "You did?" "We do have radio up here..." Paul said a bit edgily. "I didn't mean to imply..." "How's your family?" "Excuse me?" "Your father—how's your father? And Jenn, and your mother?" "Fine...I guess." "Where are you staying? "The Inn at Whiteside." "Yes, yes of course. And your family? They're all well?" "Yes, Paul, they're just fine." She said evenly, and then her smile broke through, "But you're soaking wet!" Blessed with unerring timeliness, Addie came bounding up to Paul, brandishing a stopwatch. "That was your best time yet, Paul. You're going to be Paul Bunyon this year for sure." The blush returned to Paul's cheeks as Amy smiled coyly at him, a glint in her eye. "Indeed, you're going to be Paul Bunyon." "It's this ridiculous Ironman competition that Carlisle Point puts on every year for the tourists." He blustered. "Addie is my trainer and thinks I can win the swimming leg." He ruffled the hair of the little girl to hide his embarrassment, which was rooted in his natural modesty as well as the fact that he was clad only in an Olympic style, skin-tight body suit. Not only was the deck above them rapidly filling with sailing school students, who were not known for holding back raucous comments, but he was also acutely aware that the pretty woman on the path in front of him had a critical eye as well as a teasing tongue. Surf dripped off his schoolboy curls and Amy noted muscles that glistened with the sheen of ocean and sand. So that's how a runner looks when he takes to swimming against the tide. Her tongue could not be still. "How about the log rolling and axe wielding competitions? Not to mention the flapjack flipping contests? Does Addie here lay you good odds on winning those as well?" Amy teased. Paul's gaze frosted over. "You must excuse me." He bowed slightly and turned and quickly walked along the lower path down and around the Inn's deck, while Amy stared after him dumbstruck and embarrassed. Had she had offended him with her teasing? Clearly he hadn't appreciated her intruding into his world. She remembered how he guarded his privacy so jealously. What must he think of me? I shouldn't have come. I should go. Amy darted back up the path and ran up the stairs to the deck. She didn't hear Mrs. Ashley calling her over to meet the other hotel guests. She didn't see Marion Chamberlain waving to her as she walked through the front door. Head down, Amy scuttled across the lobby and headed for her room. What was I thinking, coming here? Of course, I would see him. Admit it, you wanted to. Ellen's story was just an excuse for throwing yourself in his way. Amy flung the door closed behind her and threw herself on her bed and buried her head under her pillow and sobbed like a child. I could just die. Why do I have to tease all the time? "Think before you speak, Amy!" Oh, Daddy, you're right. I just say whatever pops into my head to be cute. And now Paul Donovan thinks I'm the world's biggest jerk. And... I... am! Amy sat up, buried her face in her hands, and ground her teeth mercilessly at her weakness. You took off like a scared rabbit when he said he loved you last summer and asked you to marry him. Then you didn't have the gumption to leave him alone but had to come nosing around his town under false pretences—be honest, MCP is not that big a story that you had to come here in person! Then, when you do see the man, you get scared again and revert to grade school behavior instead of just being nice. She crossed over to the window and looked out at the path leading to the beach stairs. From her room she could see all the way to the bottom where the steps dissolved into sand. There was the beach onto which he had walked up out of the sea—she sighed—fruits of the sea...good God girl, get a grip. The telephone rang, jarring Amy out of her reverie. It was Marion Chamberlain, calling from the front desk. She wanted to take Amy out sightseeing. Amy begged off. What she really wanted to do was to check out and get the heck out of Maine and try to recover some self-respect and cultivate some strength of character. She waited a few minutes, long enough for Marion to leave. Then she swallowed hard and walked quickly down the stairs to the front desk. No one was there so she rang the little bell on the counter. "Please don't go." She turned to see Paul standing in the doorway to the deck—freshly showered, dark curls combed. Clean white shirt startling against tanned skin. Khaki shorts. Nice legs. Soft brown eyes, wounded. Beyond repair? Amy saw the hurt, lingering, tentative. Yet something else was there too—indomitable spirit, a willingness to try again? "I must. I shouldn't be here." She shook her head ruefully, averting her eyes. "But you haven't seen Carlisle Point. Some say it's beautiful here." "It is. It is so beautiful..." "Then you approve?" "How could I not?" "But your good opinion is rarely bestowed, and so is more worth the earning." Amy had no words for him. Any notion of strength, of leaving, dissipated as he touched her arm, and a warm lightheadedness invaded her body as he breathed, "Will you go for a walk with me? Down to the wharf? I want to show you what I've been building."
Back to JaneGS.com or Jump to Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 |