Demon Spirit, Devil Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  A man walked up to the front of the room.

  “It’s terrific to see such a good turnout on a Saturday evening for this critical discussion. I’m Bill Grimm from WGMB Maine, moderator of tonight’s debate.” Grimm outlined the debate’s schedule—opening remarks followed by questions from the audience.

  Everyone settled down. Behind one podium, the governor’s representative was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie. He ran a forefinger under the neck of his collar and rotated his head back and forth. The speaker for the Penobscot Nation was thirtyish, athletic, and tall with black wavy hair. His wore a light-blue short-sleeved oxford shirt and a blue tie, and scanned the audience with a smile.

  Ted’s female friend whispered something to him. I’d always found people who talked during presentations extremely irritating.

  Red-tie was named Fred Baxter. Fred jumped right in. “You need to understand that the issue in this federal case isn’t just water quality of the Penobscot River.” He swept a meaty hand across the room. “If the Indian Nation wins, hardly any of you’ll have access to the river. Tribal victory means nothing less than exclusion of non-tribal people. As you know, the Penobscot is beloved by fishermen, canoeists, and kayakers. I’ll bet some of you boat and fish. Think about losing access to that magnificent river.”

  As Grimm introduced Peter Miller, I watched Baxter. Grinning, he looked pleased with himself. I bet he’d never boated the Penobscot, never mind fished it.

  Miller thanked the audience for attending the debate. He said, “The Penobscot River was named by native peoples who’ve lived in its valley for over five thousand years. We don’t want to restrict access to this river. That is not our way. Our goal is to protect traditional fishing rights. For more than a century, our river has been contaminated by waste from pulp and paper plants and domestic wastewater. Since the mid-eighties, water quality has been so bad tribal members can only eat small amounts of fish. Maine must adapt tighter standards to protect sustenance fishing rights of the Penobscot Nation Indian tribe.”

  When Grimm asked for questions from the floor, people lined up behind the microphones.

  “Why should the EPA have control over the river?”

  “Who is going to pay for the cleanup?”

  “You said sustenance fishing. What fish are you talking about?”

  At the end of the meeting, Bill Grimm thanked the speakers and the audience. I walked toward the exit and glanced back. Ted’s companion was young and very pretty. Her blond hair was cut in a cute pixie that complemented a pert nose, blue eyes, and petite figure she showed off with tight white pants and a crimson camisole.

  Outside, Ted and the young lady were so engaged in conversation, they walked right by me. I was about to run up from behind when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  31

  I pulled up to my house, shut off the car, and rested my head against the steering wheel. On the way home, my emotions had run back and forth between anger, self-blame, and worry. I hardly remembered driving.

  It was hard to believe Ted would claim he wanted to marry me, and go out on a date a couple of days later. Of course, I knew nothing about the pert blond. Maybe she was just a friend. Maybe I was blowing what I saw way out of proportion.

  Maybe, maybe. Only one way to find out. Talk to Ted. Tomorrow was Sunday. I’d show up on his doorstep. Tell him what happened at Swampy Point. How I’d changed. That I wanted to be with him. How great it would be.

  The Neap Tide restaurant at eight on a Sunday morning was busier than I expected. Like a lineup of rowdy gulls, half a dozen fishermen at the counter squawked about quotas and poor catches. Scientists I recognized leaned over Sunday papers spread out before them, oblivious of shipmates who peered at checkers and dominos at adjacent tables. People who looked like tourists sipped coffee and took in the scene. There was an empty table in the back corner. I plopped into the chair and ran my fingers through tangled hair.

  Sally slid an oversized mug across the table and filled it with steaming coffee. She stood back and put a hand on her ample hip. “Mornin’, Mara. Have to say you look like crap.”

  I grabbed the cup. “Bad night. How ‘bout some toast and a fried egg?”

  “Over easy?”

  “That’d be good. Thanks.”

  I drank the coffee quickly and walked up to the counter for a refill. On the way back, I passed a couple leaning so close to each other their foreheads touched. From my corner, I tortured myself and watched them. She reached over and caressed his cheek, and he kissed her hand. Unaware of anyone else in the noisy room, they were in their own perfect world. Ted and I could’ve been like that if I’d let it happen. If I could only explain how I’d changed, we still could be.

  Ted lived ten miles inland in a charming old cottage. I’d visited often for dinner and overnights. The drive west from the coast took me through open farmland, dense forests, lakes, and ponds. Usually, I was on the lookout for wildflowers in bloom, eagle nests on ponds, loons on the big lakes. Today, I practiced what I would say, and worried about Ted’s response.

  If a moose had crossed the road, I probably would have missed it.

  I parked at the bottom of Ted’s driveway and walked up the hill. An unfamiliar station wagon was parked near the house.

  Ted stepped out the front door, closed it behind him, and met me halfway. Barefoot, he wore faded three-button fly jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off a flat belly and toned muscles. I wanted to run up to him, be wrapped in a bear hug, and know his early morning scent.

  He crossed his arms. “Did I miss something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Didn’t know I needed an invitation. I wanted to, um, talk with you. ”

  He gestured toward a picnic table on the back lawn. We’d last sat there on a warm July day, drinking beer and laughing at antics of grad students playing volleyball.

  We slid onto opposite benches. I glanced at the car and raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s Diana’s.”

  “Who is—?”

  “Daughter of my parents’ closest friends.”

  I tipped my head.

  “She’s thinking of transferring to UMaine, Orono, and has an appointment there tomorrow. I invited her to stay for a few days.”

  I must have looked skeptical because he added, “For god’s sake, Mara. I’m fifteen years older than she is.”

  “Ted, what’s going on?”

  “You mean with us?”

  “With us. Yes, of course.”

  He studied his hands and looked up at me, eyes blue as Maine waters on a calm spring day. “When we were waiting in the hospital, I had lots of time to think. I realized it then.”

  “What? Realized what?”

  “The drama. What it does to me.”

  “Drama?”

  “Everything that happened in Haida Gwaii. You nearly got swept into the open ocean in your kayak and fell off a ship’s stern. Then you were kidnapped and attacked by a bear. We didn’t know what happened to you for days. It was horrible.”

  I slid my hand across the table in his direction. He glanced at it.

  “I’m really sorry, Ted. Most of that wasn’t my fault, though.”

  Ted’s face was pale. I hadn’t noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

  “I’m not saying it’s all your fault. The drama follows you around.”

  Angelo had said the same the previous day. “Guess I get that.”

  “It’s not the only thing, though.”

  My stomach clenched.

  Elbows on the table, he rested his chin on his fists. “You say you love me, but it sure doesn’t seem like it. I try to be close. You push me away. That really hurts, and I’ve had it.”

  My eyes tightened. I blinked back tears and pulled back my hand. “So you want to end, um, what we have?”

  “Before it gets worse. You’re a terrific colleague, Mara. I don’t want anything to get in
the way of that.”

  I grabbed the bench, sat tall, and tipped up my chin. “Me neither.” Swinging my legs over the seat, I pushed myself to standing.

  Ted cleared his throat and stood. “Mara, was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  “What? Um, just something I realized back in Haida Gwaii. I’d like to talk about it sometime, but not now.

  “That’s it, then. See you at work tomorrow.”

  Marching down the hill, I waved a hand over my head. “See you tomorrow.”

  I drove down the road a ways, and pulled over. Gripping the steering wheel, I shook it so hard the car rocked, cradled the wheel, and sobbed. Spent, I took a slug from my water bottle and stumbled into the August heat. A path on the other side of the road cut through a forest. I stepped into the gentle shade of maples and beeches and followed the path. With only a chattering squirrel for company, I was alone and felt it.

  On my way to Ted’s house, I’d pretended my fears about his distant behavior were misplaced. When Ted understood I’d changed, he’d be elated. Amazing how I’d refused to acknowledge the obvious. Ted was distant in the hospital, more so at Angelo’s house, and curt when we discussed the satellite data. Clear signs that something was very wrong.

  I headed back to the car, unsure where to go or what to do. Six months ago, I would’ve driven to my office, buried myself in work, and told myself to suck it up. That was before I understood that people closest to me wanted to help—and I needed it.

  I called Angelo. He asked me to come right over.

  I found him on the patio with the Sunday paper. A breeze off the water ruffled his hair, snow-white in the morning sun. I tousled the curls and kissed his cheek.

  “Good morning, dear. What can I get you? Coffee? Something cold?”

  “A cold drink would be terrific.”

  I leaned over the newspaper and scanned the headlines of the Portland Times while he was gone. Fishermen were complaining that record catches had forced prices down. International news remained bad. Angelo returned with a frosty glass tinkling with ice.

  “Italian soda. Lemon.”

  “Perfect.” I took a sip and nodded at the paper. “There’s a piece about a mass grave in Africa. Compared to that, my worries are pretty trivial.”

  “We’re very lucky to live in our country, this town. But that doesn’t mean we don’t hurt.”

  A couple of tears rolled down my cheeks. I fell into a deck chair.

  He handed me a white handkerchief. “Take your time and tell me about it.”

  I dabbed my cheek and blew my nose. “It’s Ted. He, um, just wants to be colleagues.”

  Angelo put a hand to his heart. “I am sorry to hear that. He’s a fine young man.”

  I sniffed and dabbed my nose. “The irony is I’d just realized how much I cared. That I wanted to, ah, commit.”

  Angelo tipped his head and held up his palms. “Explain.”

  “Before we went to Haida Gwaii I was hesitant. Like I’d be trapped. I wanted to talk to Ted about it. You know, explain, when we were there. With all that happened, I never did.”

  He smiled.

  “What?”

  “You sound like your mother.”

  “But she and Dad—they were so close.”

  “That was later. When they first met, Bridget was hot and cold. Nervous about commitment. Drove Carlos crazy. I worried I’d made a mistake introducing them.”

  My mother anxious about being with my father? Impossible to imagine.

  “But Mom and Dad were perfect for each other.”

  “Bridget Shea was fiercely independent. She was afraid of losing that. You’re a lot like her, Mara.”

  “So what happened? Why did she change?”

  “It took a shock. Carlos was in a train accident, but he wasn’t hurt. Bridget realized how much she loved your dad when she almost lost him.”

  Not so different from my own jolt about Ted.

  “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “It happened years before you were born.”

  I sipped my drink. “I’m at loose ends. Not sure what to do.”

  “Something that makes you happy. Try to not dwell on what’s happened. At work, be yourself. You never know, Ted might change his mind.”

  An hour later, I launched my kayak from the beach in front of my house. Water temperature in the sixties, wind light, sky cloudless. A perfect day to paddle. I took quick, short strokes until my arms screamed, and didn’t think about my destination until I was halfway there. The boat pointed right at Cove Island, Ted’s favorite.

  To change direction, I swept the paddle in a half circle, pulled back, glided to a stop. I didn’t need to avoid Cove because Ted liked it. A paddle sweep on the opposite side returned the kayak to my original heading. I waited for an approaching motorboat to pass before moving forward.

  Connor waved his Boston Red Sox cap, cut the motor on his wooden fishing dory, and slid alongside. As usual, Irish Wake’s green hull looked newly painted and cream interior spotless.

  “Why’re you out here alone? Where’s Ted?”

  I pushed off the hull and looked up at him. “We’ve, ah, split up.”

  Connor pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Really sorry ta hear that.”

  I ran a hand through the water and watched the ripples as they faded. “Yeah.”

  “Mara, you’ve got the Irish’s green eyes ‘n chestnut hair ‘n Gina Lola what’s-it Italian good looks. The man’s a fool.”

  “Gina Lollobrigida.”

  “She’s the one.”

  I gave Connor a half-hearted grin. He was studying me intently. “What?” I asked.

  “I get the idea something happened to you back at that Haida Gwaii place. Something important about you here.” He placed his hand over his heart.

  This wasn’t the first time Connor had peeked into my soul. “You’re right. I’m still trying to work it out, but it has to do with being grateful for love and friendship. I’m so lucky to have Harvey, you, Angelo, even Ted, in my life. Maybe I need to worry less about work and pay more attention to each of you.

  He handed me his baseball cap. “Here.”

  I pulled it on. “Isn’t this your favorite cap?”

  “The best ship’s friendship, Mara. The cap’ll remind you how much we love you.”

  He started his motor and backed up. I waved the hat and with quick, fast strokes, flew toward Cove Island.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks go to Connie Berry, Lynn Denley-Bussard, Judy Copek, and Mary Woodbury, whose comments fundamentally changed this book. Kirsten Allen and my agent Dawn Dowdle edited an early version. President of Hampshire College Jonathan Lash proposed Haida Gwaii as the setting for this story. The Wilfrid Laurier University Press granted permission to use quotes from This Woman in Particular: Contexts for the Biographical Image of Emily Carr by Stephanie Kirkwood Walker. “A Buddhist Concept of Nature” by the Dalai Lama can be seen at www.dalailama.com, and quotes for Teilhard de Chardin at the American Teilhard Association site (www.teilharddechardin.org/index.php/biography). Sarah Blair helped with the book cover and map design and Nicolle Hirschfeld with the scuba scene. I am delighted to be working with the good folks at Maine Authors Publishing, who recommended the excellent editor Katherine Mayfield. Finally, I thank my husband, John Briggs, for his ongoing patience and support.

  Stay tuned for the next

  Mara Tusconi Mystery expected June 2018

  HONOR THE LOBSTERS’ SEA

  Nature favors loops, twists, and turns. All corners and straight lines, Gordy’s mussel aquaculture raft looked like an oversized soggy matchbox floating out there off Spruce Harbor.

  From my office window at the Maine Oceanographic Institute I eyed the thing through binoculars. Yup, there it was, bobbing up and down like it’d been for weeks. Damn. Back-to-back fall research cruises had left me zero free time. Still, I should’ve checked out my cousin’s pet project.

  Gordy had
saved my life when a madman tried to dump me into icy Maine waters last spring. I owed him big time.

  I powered off my computer, refused to look at the to-do list on my whiteboard, and pulled the office door shut behind me. Harvey Allison, brilliant marine chemist and my best friend, stopped me halfway down the science building’s stairs. Her layered blonde bob kissed the collar of a lab coat that would’ve made Mr. Clean proud.

  As usual, my ponytail had transformed itself into an unruly mess. I tucked wayward locks of auburn hair behind my ear. “What’s up, Harve?”

  Harvey rolled her shoulders. “Ugh, that’s sore. I’m back up to the lab for another bout with the auto-analyzer.” She tipped her head to the side. “Mara, you look happier than I’ve seen you in weeks.”

  We blinked at each other for a few awkward seconds. Harvey’s half-brother Ted, also an MOI scientist, had broken off our relationship a month earlier. She didn’t want to pry back then—or now.

  I squeezed Harvey’s hand. “I’m practicing gratitude—and going for a paddle.”

  “Kayaking always puts you in a good mood. But gratitude practice? Sounds way too touchy-feely for you,” she said.

  “Invite me for dinner. I’ll explain. Surviving being left for dead in that B.C. rainforest taught me something.”

  “Now I’m really curious,” she said. “You’re on.”

  I slid into my sea kayak, pushed off from the public boat launch, and glided by the stern of MOI’s research vessel Intrepid. Two days earlier and dozens of miles offshore, I’d watched our half-ton temperature buoys dangle from the ship’s massive A-frame off the rear deck. Now the hinged metal frame was pulled toward the bow like a mighty mousetrap ready to spring. I hurried by.