A black SUV is parked in the driveway by the main house, on the other side of the small restaurant parking lot, by the time I get back. The owner must be back.
For a moment I’m tempted to go introduce myself, but when my stomach starts growling—I haven’t really eaten since breakfast—I carry my groceries inside and make myself a quick sandwich.
Armed with a plate and my favorite travel mug with decaf, I head outside. On the small front deck, with a wooden bench and small side table, I eat my dinner with my feet propped up on the railing.
It’s my first opportunity to take in my surroundings. It’s a beautiful piece of property bordering on the cove and far enough removed from the road so you barely hear passing traffic. All three buildings—the cottage, the restaurant, and the two-story home—have dark gray, wood shingle siding. The restaurant is literally on the water’s edge, with a large patio deck that partially overhangs the water, held up by a structure of pillars and beams. I imagine, once the weather gets a little warmer that will be the perfect place to dine. Both the house and the cottage are set back a little. If you look at the property from the main driveway, the restaurant would be in the middle, which means that even set back a bit from the water, my view ahead is mostly unobstructed.
It’s gorgeous, with the sun dropping lower in the sky, deepening the colors around me. I can’t wait to see what it looks like during a sunrise. I’m tempted to set an alarm so I don’t miss it.
“Hi.”
I turn my head to the parking lot and find a pretty little girl with light blonde hair, maybe eight or nine, walking my way. For a second I have a hard time answering.
“Hello,” I finally manage.
“Have you seen our heron?” she asks, stopping to look at the water’s edge, her eyes squinting against the setting sun. I automatically follow suit.
“No. I’ve sat here for a while, but I haven’t seen one. Do you see it often?”
I look over and find she’s come around the front and lowers herself on the step. “It’s a great white heron,” she informs me in her melodic singsong voice, keeping her eyes focused on the water. “There are lots of blue herons around, the white herons are more rare, but there’s one who comes here at night to fish.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a white heron,” I admit, following her gaze out on the cove.
“Princess!”
My eyes dart to the main house. All I can see is a pair of arms braced on the railing of the porch. The rest of the man’s body isn’t visible.
“Coming!” the girl yells back, getting up from her perch on my steps. She turns to me. “I have to go.”
“Okay, honey. I’m gonna sit here for a little longer. I’ll keep my eye open for your heron.”
Instead of doing that, I follow the girl’s bouncing blonde hair as she crosses the parking lot to the main house.
3
JUDE
“Jude!”
I’m working in the small office in the back of the restaurant, when Daniel calls out.
“Yeah!”
“Got a minute?”
I push back from the desk and go find him. I don’t mind the distraction. I’ve been trying to make headway with the piles of paperwork I’m still digging my way through. I have to find a better system than ‘when I have a minute,’ which worked before my daughter got sick, but not so much since and certainly not now she’s staying with me.
I find him in the kitchen, trying to stop a spreading puddle of water coming out from under the industrial dishwasher.
“Fuck, man. Again?” I rush back into the hall where a panel in the floor opens up to the water shut-off valve.
Don’t ask me why the hell someone would put it there. The original building went up in the late 1800s, but since then it’s been added on to and electrical and plumbing were installed. The structure itself has withstood time, but some of the later ‘improvements’ have had to be redone. Not a lot of space to do it in either. There’s a small cellar under the bar in the restaurant—with just room for some of the more vintage wines—and the crawlspace accessible from the hall, so whatever upgrades I’d want to make would mean major disruptions. Not something I’d even consider at the start of the season.
I walk back into the kitchen. “Same problem?” I ask, helping Daniel empty out the dirty dishes and stacking them in the tub sink so we can have a look.
“Could well be. Turned it on, started on prep, and the next thing I know there’s water all over the place.”
“That’s what Mandy says happened last time. It’s gotta be a seal or something. Help me pull it out,” I instruct him, hoping it’s just a loose hose.
Daniel is a burly guy with a big, russet beard. If not for the hairnet keeping that beard in check, he’d look more like a fisherman than a chef.
It takes a bit of elbow grease and a chorus of grunts, but between us we manage to pull the heavy appliance away from the wall. The seal between the hose and our water supply seems intact.
“Well, shit,” Daniel comments, twisting the hose to show a crack running all the way back into the bowels of the dishwasher.
“Great way to start the day,” I complain, getting to my feet and brushing uselessly at my damp knees. “Get this mess cleaned up and I’ll give customer service a call. The damn thing isn’t even three years old. At least it should fall under warranty. Looks like we’re back to doing dishes by hand.”
“Tell them to bring a damn replacement,” Daniel suggests. “Second time in as many months. Can’t run a restaurant if this keeps happening.”
It takes me half an hour on the phone; quickly dismissing the less than helpful guy in customer service, not getting anywhere with the service rep he connects me to, and finally ending up with a supervisor. That guy is a little more forthcoming, especially after my threat to drag his company through the mud at the biannual Chamber of Commerce meeting in Hyannis in two weeks.
He ends up promising a replacement will be installed by start of business Saturday. Sadly that means we not only have dish duty today, but tomorrow as well.
My next calls are to see how many additional hands we can get in here to absorb the extra work this’ll create. Not the way I want to kick off the new season.
By the time Mandy sticks her head into my office, I have my elbows on my desk and my head in my hands.
“Trouble, Boss?”
“Fucking dishwasher,” I grunt by way of explanation. “And I can’t get any of the spares we have on the list to come in.”
I’d be washing dishes myself if I didn’t have my daughter to look after. She hangs around the restaurant often enough during the day, but we spend our nights at home. That time with her is sacred. I guess I could always drop her with Cassie and Mark for the night, but that would defeat the purpose of her staying with me.
“Is your sister in town?” I ask Mandy. She’s a student and has helped out before during busy summer months when she’s back on the Cape.
“Naw, Becca is still in Philly. She’s got a boyfriend now, so she’s staying there.”
“Fuck. I need an extra pair of hands.”
Mandy looks like a light just went off in her head, and her face cracks in a smile. “Leave it to me. I’ll figure it out.”
I don’t even ask. If she says she’ll find a way, she will. Granted, I may end up with her eighty-year-old Aunt Meida in my kitchen, but I’ll take that chance.
“Great. I’m gonna go check on my daughter.”
I’d installed her in the restaurant dining room with her schoolwork this morning, while I tried to get some work done, and occasionally poked my head in to see how she was doing. I haven’t checked in a while.
The dining room is empty; her books and backpack no longer there. She must’ve gone up to the house to put her stuff away.
“She said she was done,” Mandy says, having followed me into the restaurant. “She’s probably over at the cottage chatting up that reporter chick.”
“Reporter chick?”
I echo, confused to say the least.
“Your new tenant? Didn’t I tell you? It’s Mika Spencer.” At my blank face she rolls her eyes. “Boston Sports News? Christ, Boss, you really need to start paying attention.”
I’ve never been one to follow sports that closely. Oh, I like watching a good game as much as any other guy—I even have my favorite teams—I’m just not interested in all the media hype around them.
I have no idea what a well-known sports reporter is doing roughing it in my rental cottage and frankly, it’s none of my business. My daughter hanging out with her is my business, which is why I head out after her, making time I don’t really have to get acquainted with my new tenant.
I’m just crossing the parking lot when I hear Kelty’s voice.
“Dad! I’m over here.”
I look up to find her on the steps of the cottage; next to the new tenant I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself to. The first glimpse I get of the blonde sitting beside my daughter knocks all the air from my chest.
MIKA
I look up from the digital display on my camera, when the little girl calls out.
Her white heron hadn’t showed last night, but this morning—when I was sitting on the bench, covered in a blanket enjoying my coffee and the sunrise—I saw him fly in. I rushed inside, grabbed one of my cameras and started snapping photos.
He was majestic, standing silently along the water’s edge in the morning light, his head slightly bent scanning for food. Every now and then he’d dart down, fast as lighting, his head disappearing in the water. When he’d come up, flinging water droplets back, I could almost see the muscles of his long sleek neck working whatever fish or frog was unlucky enough to cross his path.
When the girl showed up on my doorstep just now, I quickly grabbed the camera to show her.
My eyes catch on the man she called out to, and before I realize it I’m on my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. Those dark eyes looking as shocked as I feel.
Whatever higher force is at play here is a cruel bitch.
“Dad, you should see the pictures of the heron.” She jumps up when her father approaches.
With each of his long purposeful strides his smile gets bigger, as does my urge to run.
“You look familiar,” he says when he reaches us. His voice gritty but warm. Exactly how I remember it. “Jude Parks.”
“I get that a lot,” I answer by rote, but it seems to take him aback. “In my line of work,” I add, and now understanding floods his features as I take his offered hand. “Mika Spencer.”
“Right, yes, Mandy mentioned we have a resident celebrity, but I have to confess, I had no clue who she was talking about. I recognize you from the two times I saw you at Tufts.”
“You were at the hospital?” his daughter pipes up in her musical voice, and I suddenly freeze as the full weight of this situation lands on me.
My God.
“And I see you’ve met my daughter, Kelty.”
A pretty name for a precious girl. I just hadn’t realized how precious until now. I resort to nodding, since I can’t trust my voice.
“Can you show Dad the heron?” Kelty asks.
I pull up the images on my digital display; eager to cover the fact I haven’t yet answered her earlier question. “Sure.”
I force every thought and emotion into a tight box, to be examined at a later time. Not now.
Stepping down from the porch, I hold the camera display turned to him as I scroll through the images.
“Show him the one with the sparkly water drops,” she suggests.
I tilt the screen my way to find the series of shots she’s talking about, and feel her father take a step closer to peer over my shoulder.
“Those are beautiful. Are you a professional photographer too?” he asks, and I suppress a shiver at his proximity. It’s like every cell in my body is acutely aware of him.
“It’s just a hobby.”
“One with professional results,” he counters. “I should know, I’ve been looking for some decent artwork for the restaurant that captures the true spirit of the cove for months now. Anything that even comes close is priced out of the stratosphere.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I mumble, not quite sure what to do with the compliment. “I just do it for fun.”
“I’m just saying,” he emphasizes. “If you didn’t already have an exciting career, you could easily make one of this.”
No one—least of all me—has ever looked at my photography as anything other than a way to pass the time. Weird that it would take a stranger to see the opportunity. It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me.
It’s on my lips to explain I no longer have the career he refers to, but I don’t want to open up any more than I already have.
“Thanks,” I repeat instead.
“We should get out of your hair. We need to eat lunch and then it’s nap time for Kelty, and—”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“It’s embarrassing.” His daughter glares at him, her button mouth set in a stubborn line.
“What’s embarrassing?”
I almost chuckle at the clueless, yet exasperated, expression on his face.
“Naps are for toddlers,” she whines, the stubborn line morphing into an adorable pout.
“Naps are for people of all ages who are still recovering,” he counters.
I know I shouldn’t wade in, but I can’t help myself.
“Naps are also for people who need their beauty sleep—like the one I’m about to have.”
“Come on, Princess. You heard the woman, she needs her beauty sleep.”
This time when her father gives her a little nudge, Kelty doesn’t argue.
“Later!” the girl yells out when they cross the parking lot.
“You bet,” I call back, wondering how the fuck it is I ended up here.
“I’m doing great, Sam.”
I lie. I’m not,
I’m shaken to the core, but I haven’t had time to process things yet. For now I’m on a mission to find out why it is my best friend suggested this place.
“I was asking how you knew about this place?”
“I don’t. Not really,” Sam responds.
“Well, you’re the one who suggested it.”
“My brother did. It’s one of his summer listings, and he said he knows the owner personally. According to him the place is great. Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
Her brother has been a real estate agent on the Cape for many years. It never occurred to ask his help when I started looking.
“Nothing. The cottage is small, but I love it. There’s nothing wrong with it, except…”
When I finish explaining the situation it’s quiet for a moment, but then she lets it fly.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
Nope.
No kidding here.
I wish I were.
4
MIKA
This morning is as peaceful as yesterday’s was.
The only difference is I was well rested yesterday, but barely got any sleep last night. The need for coffee is high, especially since I’d planned to head down to the end of the Cape this morning to check out Provincetown.
It’s shameful that I’ve lived in and around Boston most of my life, have traveled all over the U.S. and overseas, but have never visited Provincetown. It’s at the northern tip of the Cape and apparently not only a historically significant location, but also a beacon of diversity, and a quaint, artsy community.
That was the plan, but after flopping around my bed all night, trying to come to terms with my current predicament, I’m not so sure.
Finding out who the little girl is was a shock. A big one. Feeling the strong visceral draw to her father was another. The fact I ended up moving in right next door to them is beyond casual happenstance. And right now, that’s what I’m struggling with most.
If I hadn’t had a chance to interact with Kelty be
fore I found out, I would’ve packed my bags and left. Knowing what I know, I shouldn’t be here, but the girl had already made as much of an impression on me as her father had.
It’s seriously freaky, definitely wrong, and has my stomach twisted in knots. So why is it that instead of leaving, I sit here in the early morning hours staring at their house for even just a glimpse of either one of them, like some obsessed stalker?
How would I even explain this situation? I can only imagine what Jude might think if I tell him. He’ll never believe my being here is completely coincidental. I wouldn’t, if I were in his shoes. How is it possible to rationalize being here, for not even two days, has given me a deeper sense of human connection—a clearer sense of purpose—than I’ve felt in the past almost six months?
I don’t even understand it myself.
My head is a bit clearer after my second cup, some breakfast, and a refreshing shower, but Provincetown will have to wait for another day.
While munching on a bagel, I was checking the classifieds online for job postings, when I bumped into an ad for an estate sale. The house is actually right across the cove near Weeset Point.
When Sam and I were students, we’d sometimes go to estate sales. Not that we had money to buy anything, but it was kind of interesting to see how the other half lived. Seeing that ad reminded me of those times when, in hindsight, our worries were so simple.
I stick my feet in a pair of flip-flops, grab my camera and purse, and head outside where Mandy is just coming up the steps.
“Morning.”
“Hey, Mandy.” I smile at her.
“You heading out somewhere?”
“An estate sale.”
She nods. “William Bentley’s place off Tonset? Yeah, I saw that. I hear his kids wanna sell the place. It’s worth a sweet penny these days. You looking for anything special?”
“Not really, although a bookshelf would come in handy. Maybe I’ll drive around a bit. Get a little taste of life in Orleans.” I chuckle. “If I’m lucky, maybe find a job.”
Then There Was You: A Single Parent Collection Page 105