Find Me

by Liv Leighton

  I led Amber to one of the newer power bar selections. I actually knew very little about many of the food and supplements the store carried, even though I owned the place. I just simply didn’t like the way they tasted, but I knew that lots of the hikers and marathon runners were really into certain brands.

  “The GoBar,” I said, indicating the box on the shelf and hating the way it made me feel like a salesman.

  “The hikers that have been coming in here swear by it.”

  “And it’s not fattening?”

  “Not as far as I know. There’s some buzz about it on the internet, too. It’s supposed to be super healthy and provides energy without causing a crash.”

  “Sold,” Amber said, picking up a dozen of the small bars. As she looked at them, she tossed back her beautiful blonde hair and read the ingredients on the back of the wrapper.

  I turned and rolled my eyes as I made my way back to the register. I didn’t like how just seeing Amber made me upset and borderline angry. Had I really grown to be that bitter ever since Mike had walked out four years ago?

  I tried to ignore this idea as Amber approached the counter and paid for her power bars. I tried to look happy, knowing that any thoughts about Mike and the end of our marriage tended to make me look incredibly sad and, as a result, much older than my thirty-six years. I knew that I was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way but when thinking of Mike and being in the presence of the well put-together Amber Dawson, there was very little that I liked about myself.

  As I put Amber’s bars into a plastic bag, she gave me a sad look that made me want to punch her in her cute little forty-two year-old nose.

  “What are you doing for lunch?” Her crystal-blue eyes appraised me as she smiled.

  “I pack every day.” It was a lie. I just wanted her out of the store. I even added some speed and zest to the comment so she’d think I was in a hurry. But she didn’t bite.

  “I’m on my way to Deitrick’s for a salmon walnut salad. Why not come with me? You need to get out of this store Mac.”

  “Maybe I do need that, but I’m good. Thanks.”

  “You need many things,” Amber said, either not hearing me or not caring. “Chief among them, if you want my opinion, is a man.”

  I stopped what I was doing and stared at the counter for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “Hey, you know, I’ve heard of those,” I snapped. “They pass gas, think with their crotches and walk out on your after nine years of marriage. Not much there, really. I’m not impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”

  I don’t know what I said that took her off guard, but she took her bag and nodded. She took a step back and gave me that frown again. “Have a nice day,” she said. It was a simple statement, but she might as well have called me a bitch. That’s how it made me feel.

  I almost called out to her as she walked away so I could take her up on her offer. But in the end, I didn’t. I watched her leave the store, her perfectly sculpted ass looking as if the jeans that covered it had been painted on.

  When she was out of sight, I could literally feel myself relax, tension leaving my chest and shoulders. But I also felt like a miserable old crone. I looked to the clock, saw that it was indeed lunchtime as Amber had suggested, and decided that I would go grab lunch somewhere. I could be spontaneous. I could be different…so long as it was within my meager budget.

  Five minutes later, I was putting up my OUT TO LUNCH sign and locking the front door. I let the tension of Amber’s visit and all of the ugly thoughts I’d had about myself just melt off as I stepped out into the gorgeous Sitka afternoon. The sun was high and its rays felt amazing on my face as I smiled up at it. I glanced around the bay, taking in the shimmering cold water and the span of tall Douglas fir and Sitka spruce dotting the shore on the other side. I sighed. I needed a change in my life.

  ****

  I ended up grabbing a roast beef on rye at the small deli on the end of the pier two blocks over from The Pine Way. My store, as well as several others, were located on a long strand of side streets and business-centric piers. Teens would call the scene hipster while older generations would call it liberal. I myself really liked the set-up. I knew the business owners well and they knew me.

  I wondered how many of them felt the same about me as Amber Dawson did. Perhaps Stan at the deli thought I also needed a man (although certainly not him because he was married and had four kids, the oldest of which was preparing for their first year of college). And did sweet Mrs. Torrence think I was still pining over Mike even though he’d made a fairly public spectacle of our last days?

  Four years and you’d think that I’d have something better to toss around in my head.

  I was thinking about these things as I made the half a mile walk between the deli and my store. Between the two, I ran a few errands—the bank and the post office, which were basically the only places I visited regularly—and found myself thinking deeply about the end of my marriage for the first time in several years.

  It was painful, of course. And it also led to other painful things. It made me think of my brother David and how I had argued with him the last time I saw him alive. Three months after the argument, I got the call from mom telling me that he had been killed.

  Where the hell are all of these negative thoughts coming from?

  It was a good question. Sure, some people had bad days where they just didn’t feel up to par, but this was ridiculous. And I could blame it on Amber Dawson all I wanted, but this was coming from somewhere else…somewhere deeper.

  I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. And I had no idea why.

  In the end, though, I did neither. Instead, I was distracted by the sight of the baby blue float plane that was docked between Tanner’s Fresh Fish and the fishing pier. A small banner hung from the nose-mounted propeller that read FOR SALE. SEE MEL FOR DETAILS.

  Mel, I knew, was Mel Tanner, the proprietor of Tanner’s Fresh Fish. I’d seen him taking off in this plane just off of the coast, the little blue plane taking him to one of his preferred fishing spots a few miles away from Sitka. Mel was getting up there in age and I wondered if he was eyeing retirement. I knew he loved his airplane and couldn’t imagine him without it.

  Still, something in the back of my head clicked. For the longest time, I had dreamed of offering guided tours of off-the-map locations for hikers and outdoor enthusiasts. It could be done with a boat, sure; but there was so much of the Alaskan wilderness that could really only be reached by jumping over acres upon acres of uninhabited land—something a boat really wasn’t the best option for.

  Before I knew it, I was taking a detour and heading into Tanner’s Fresh Fish. I figured there was certainly no harm in asking about it. If nothing else, I at least wanted to know why Mel was selling it.

  I walked into the shop, surprised as always to find that despite his impressive inventory, the store didn’t smell too strongly of fish. Mel Tanner was sitting behind the counter, watching a news program. Like The Pine Way, his store was void of business around the lunch hour. When he saw me come in he smiled and muted the TV.

  “How’s it going today, Mac?” Mel was pushing sixty and when he smiled, he actually looked older than his age. Rumor had it that he was sick with something, but his family wasn’t yet going public with what he was sick with, exactly. My guess was cancer.

  “Pretty good. How about yourself?”

  “I had a good morning of fishing, so I can’t complain. What can I do for you?”

  “Uh, well, I was sort of wondering about the airplane. I really can’t believe you’re selling it.”

  Mel shrugged but the expression on his face indicated that it was a sore subject. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be and if I’m being honest, I’m starting to get antsy whenever I go up. I think it’s just old age. Besides…there are plenty of fine fishing holes around here.”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Tanner had something to do with the decision. I again wondered what Mel
might possibly be sick with—that was, if the Sitka grapevine was to be believed.

  Not sure how to start the negotiation process, I decided on the best small-town tactic I could think of: getting right to the point.

  “How much are you looking to get for it?”

  Mel eyed me curiously and gave me a smile. “I didn’t know you were interested in flying. Do you have a pilot’s license?”

  “No, but owning a plane would be just the right motivation.”

  “I guess it would.”

  “It’s something I’ve been considering for a while,” I said, “but I’ve never had the opportunity. I’d like to offer brief little expeditions to some of the less-traveled hiking and camping routes.”

  “That’s a grand idea,” Mel said with an enthusiastic smile. He thought for a moment and then looked out of the window behind his store where the little airplane floated. “I’m asking sixty-five thousand for it. The interior is a little busted up; the seats are cracked and peeling and, to be quite honest, smells a hell of a lot like fish. But for someone local, I’d knock five grand off.”

  I nodded, doing the math in my head. If I got clever and combined my personal assets with finances from the store, it could be done. Things would be extremely tight for while (especially if this little venture wasn’t quickly successful), but it was doable.

  “Mind if I think about it a bit?” I asked.

  “Of course. It’s been out there for almost an entire week and you’re the first person to ask about it. So take all the time you need.”

  I gave him a smile and thanked him before leaving the store. When I stepped back outside, I looked out to the small blue plane, bobbing on the water. It almost seemed to be nodding to me, as if it approved my plan.

  How hard can it be to get a pilot’s license anyway?

  That would be the first thing I’d have to find out, I supposed. I smiled warmly at the plane and walked back to the Pine Way with something in my stomach that was either excitement or dread. I honestly didn’t care which it was. It was something other than anger and loneliness and that was more than enough for me.

  I unlocked the door the Pine Way and when I stepped inside, I had nearly forgotten about the uncomfortable visit from Amber Dawson. All I could think about was Mel Tanner’s airplane and how it might have the potential to take my business—and my life—to the next level.

  4—Devlin

  Five weeks.

  That’s how long it took me to make the fall from feeling as if everyone—from my agent to my fans—expected the world of me, to being a useless, scraggly, waste of space. I had done absolutely nothing since I left Aubrey in the hotel. Well, that’s not exactly true. In fact, for the three days after I left her (and Hollywood, and my agent, and my fame, and the director for the next film I had lined up), I had been quite busy.

  I had stuck to the random statement I had given the limo driver. I had caught a flight to Alaska. I had caught a red eye to Anchorage. I slept most of the way and had made my way through the airport with a severe hangover. It was the first time I had ever flown without any luggage and it had been marvelous. Had it not been for the hangover, I think I might have actually enjoyed it.

  I’m not particularly proud of it, but I worked off most of my hangover in the airport. I’d flitted between the Starbucks and the Japanese restaurant, watching the news. I wore a Boston Bruins hat and a pair of Aviators that did a decent job of hiding my features. I spent five hours in the Anchorage airport and only two people recognized me. Thankfully, they didn’t make a big deal about it.

  When I had ordered my coffee from Starbucks, I used cash. I was used to using my black credit card – in fact, I had gone so far as to pull it out and hand it to the cashier. But then I was pretty sure that doing so would mean that Adam would somehow trace the transaction. He’d probably do it within six hours. And that would put a big fat hole in my plans of escaping from Hollywood, and the expectations that had made me into the monster I had become.

  Okay… so maybe not a monster. I’m not sure what in the hell I had become. All I know was that it was hard to look at the man I saw staring back at me in the mirror. I also know that it had been at least an entire year since the last time I read a script for a potential starring role without rolling my eyes. It hadn’t taken long for me to get jaded on Hollywood. I had drank the Kool-Aid and found it tasty—but the poison quickly corrupted my mind. And the night on the red carpet with Aubrey had been the night it had finally reached my heart.

  After spending six hours in the airport, I took a cab to the nearest hotel and checked in (again, all of these transactions made with cash). There, I looked through the local (and not-so-local) papers, looking for some place to stay for a few days, maybe even a few weeks.

  I ended up spending two days and two nights in the hotel. I ordered take-out pizza and Chinese food. I did nothing but watch TV and read. On television, there was already speculation that something had happened to me. Friends say he is not returning his calls and his agent is declining to comment at this time, the reporters were saying.

  I laughed out loud at this, thinking about how I had thrown my phone across the hotel room. I had been cupped in the lap of luxury then. I had one of the most beautiful women in the world in bed waiting for me, a paycheck coming from a studio that would buy a nice summer home, and a body that most other men my age would kill for.

  That had been five weeks ago. Now, I had a thick, blond goatee that did a good job of disguising my face. My hair was shaggy, curling out over my ears and flopping like dead leaves on my forehead. I wore flannel shirts and cheap jeans. I showered once a day (okay, once every other day if I didn’t do anything active). And already, I like this Jack guy. He’s a lot more down to earth than Devlin Stone. He probably didn’t have any sort of a shot with a woman as blindingly hot as Aubrey Henning, but I was warming up to him. I didn’t care for Devlin Stone any more. That guy was a dick.

  I discovered my little hideaway cabin in the real estate listings. A small yet chunky little cabin that sat in one of the more rural areas of Sitka. Steeped in Russian history, Sitka was an interesting little place. Sitting on Baranof Island and facing out towards the Gulf of Alaska, you could only reach it by taking a ferry or plane. The town itself was quaint. If Norman Rockwell had have stepped foot in Alaska at any point during his life, I feel like his little paintings of ideal neighborhoods would have ended up looking slightly different, taking on a certain Russian and northwest coast Indian flair.

  I fell in love with the cabin at first sight. There were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a modest kitchen, and a small living area. A large deck sprawled out behind it, shaded by trees. Through the tree branches, I could spy the sparkling and frigid waters of the Gulf of Alaska. Seriously, where else could you find totem poles, matryoshka dolls and a Russian Orthodox church together?

  I negotiated with the realtor, managing to get the place under a rent-to-own contract for a year. I funneled the money for the first month’s rent out of a personal account that Adam knew nothing about. I had around fifteen thousand dollars in it, something I had decided to set aside in case of emergencies.

  A year seemed like a long time. I realized that as I signed the contract. I didn’t know if I’d be in Sitka that long. Maybe at some point I’d realize that I was simply having a midlife crisis and go running back to the lights and attention that had so badly misaligned me over the last four years.

  But five weeks later, with the goatee grown in and the nice people of Sitka no longer doing double-takes when they thought they had seen Devlin Stone, I found it hard to imagine running back to Hollywood. While I wouldn’t go so far as to commit to a cliché and say that I was falling in love with Sitka, the isolated feel of the place and the fjords, towering timber and sea all around seemed like a perfect fit. Slowly, I began to get a sense that this was where I was meant to be. Even before enrolling in the army and taking the strange path of events that had led me to receiving my first script, bedding my fir
st actress, and giving my first interview, I think I was destined to end up in Sitka—an odd thought, as I don’t believe in destiny.

  The love affair with Sitka started on the second week I was in the cabin. I had met a man at one of the local fish markets that had told me about the network of hiking trails that etched through the Sitka wilderness. My interested was sparked at once; I’d loved hiking and all things about the wilderness even as a boy. It was a passion that had taken a back seat when I had joined the army and had then been pushed away when I started making movies. The closest I had come to being involved in the woods was spending nine days on location in rural North Carolina for an action movie that had done fairly well last summer.

  So I had set out to find those trails. And when I found them, I felt like a child again. I walked along trails that were bordered by large trees and an immense and impossibly blue sky. I took in the smells of an unharmed forest, of spruce and fir that had been thriving there long before I had been brought into the world.

  One day on my fourth week in Sitka, I found a small cliff just off of one of the trails. I walked out to a large outcropping of rock and looked out into the Gulf. Looking at it and noticing how it melded with the horizon made me think of things that did not end. It was that large and uninterrupted. Suddenly, my issues with Hollywood and this dulled midlife crisis I was going through seemed miniscule.

  I sat there for at least three hours, watching Bald Eagles soar in the sky and a group of sea otters frolic and play in the dark salt water. I enjoyed being alone. I liked the solitude and the quiet. I would have stayed there well into the night if I hadn’t started to get cold as the sun made its decent.

  By the time I returned back to the cabin, the idea of staying in Sitka for a year was welcoming. Hell… the idea of buying the cabin outright and staying here for as long as I lived seemed even more appealing.

  The one hang up, of course, was money. Not that I was broke, far from it. I had more than enough money. Earlier in the year, my accountant had informed me that my net worth was somewhere around twenty-two million. I knew that I had at least three million sitting in one checking account and nearly five hundred thousand in another. But to get to those funds, I’d have to access the accounts of Devlin Stone and that would eventually get to Adam and probably my accountant, too.