Lilies on Main

by J. Lynn Bailey

  At the front counter, I set Aaron’s aside and take a sip of mine. There’s always something magical about the first sip of coffee in the morning. It starts with the scent when brewing. Then, it leads to the pour. And then? The first sip. Not too weak, not too strong. To get it to the right consistency, it’s six scoops of coffee and water just a smidgen above the twelve-cup marker.

  Lilly and Aaron approach the counter as she explains that cats are nocturnal.

  Lilly says, “Oh, I’ll be right back.”

  And the silence returns again. Tries to sit between us. Tries to get comfortable.

  “I poured you a cup of coffee,” I say. “It’s just black. There’s raw sugar, half-and-half, milk in the back.”

  “Thank you.” Aaron takes the cup by the handle. “How are you?” he asks casually.

  Lilly approaches the counter with a bookmark. “You need this, too, Aaron. To keep your place.” She leans in closer to whisper, “My mommy hates when I fold the page down to keep my spot.”

  Aaron smiles. Looks at me. Dimples and all. “Noted.”

  My face grows warm. The thing with Aaron is, nothing got started. Not the first kiss. Nothing. We attended Ethan and Bryce’s engagement party together at Level Grounds about six months ago. He put his hand on the small of my back, and it was over. Lilly wasn’t with me at the time. She was still back in New Hampshire with my parents. The small gesture he did unraveled me. I’m not sure why. His large hands. His big body behind my small frame. The lack of space between my backside and his front. Nothing touched, except his hand.

  But it’s mainly the way he treats people. Handles their words with care. Listens.

  He pays for the book and then gets down on Lilly’s level. “Thank you, Lilly, for saving Harry. I’d better go and get him to where he needs to be.”

  Lilly nods.

  Aaron stands again. Takes my eyes in his. “Thanks for the coffee, Lydia.”

  I hate the way my name sounds coming from his lips. I hate it because it sounds beautiful, the way it rolls off his tongue and meshes with the world, adding color and light.

  I hate it because I love it.

  Aaron turns to leave, and just before he walks out the door, Lilly says, “Aaron, can you come over for dinner?”

  My mouth falls open, and my reaction is, “Lilly, no.”

  I see what my words do to Aaron. Thinking of different scenarios, I try to redeem myself to better his heart. “I’m sure you have plans, Aaron.”

  That sounds worse, Lydia, as if you’re putting the burden on his shoulders to bear.

  “I mean, you don’t have time, right?”

  You’re digging yourself a hole. Stop.

  “Mommy, you’re not letting Aaron answer.”

  Oh.

  Aaron looks between my daughter and me. His unbreakable jawline has somehow become a bit softer. Perhaps it’s the light in the room or the way my words have made him feel.

  “Maybe another time, Lilly.” Aaron nods, turns, and leaves.

  Lilly looks at me, then to Aaron outside, and then to me again. “That was weird, Mom.” And she walks to the back room and yells, “Can I have some coffee?”

  “No.”

  “How about a pop?”

  “Lilly White, it is 10:07 in the morning. No, you cannot have any pop.”

  “How about a kitten?”

  “Negative.”

  She peeks her head around the corner. “You didn’t say no, so is that a I’ll think about it?”

  “You are wise beyond your years, missy.”

  The bell rings at the front door, and a new customer walks in.

  Lilly comes running to take up her job.

  Four

  Aaron

  I sit in my truck for a minute. Think about what just happened. Then, I put my blinker on and pull onto Main Street.

  Granite Harbor is a place where most East Coasters flock to vacation. It’s not a weeklong vacation spot; it’s a place where you spend three days and take in all the sights. The sixty-five lighthouses strategically placed along the coast, which tourists seem to enjoy. A town structured in a way where it grows with its people—not in size, but in its ability to wait the storms, hold strong when the winds blow and snow invades our winter months. Within the small town comes its baggage, its stories and secrets, hidden deep down in its cracks of history—some praying they’ll never see the light of day.

  Lydia called me. Hadn’t called me in months. Not after our date to my brother’s engagement party. I’d tried to call her, but she didn’t return any of my calls, so I stopped in the bookstore one day. She was short with me. Didn’t seem like she wanted to talk, let alone go to dinner. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested. My intuition and her eyes told me otherwise. The look she gave me at Ethan and Bryce’s engagement party told me two things. One, I’m fragile, and two, tread lightly. She also warned me when I picked her up that she didn’t come with me to get laid or to find a husband. She said she came because of my hands.

  When I asked why, she simply said, “They remind me of my father’s.”

  I took her answer and tucked it into my chest, near my heart, knowing that I would gladly keep this memory for as long as I could or as long as it needed to be there.

  That night, when I walked her back to the bookstore, she kissed me. It wasn’t just an ordinary kiss. It was a kiss that was half on my mouth and half on my cheek, as if she meant it to be that way. Her lips—soft, gentle, expectant—stayed on mine only for a few seconds. I didn’t want to move, push her away, so instead, I placed my hand on her hip, pressed my fingertips into her side, to let her know there was more to this kiss on my end. When she pulled away, she apologized. I told her there was no reason to be sorry. That I kissed her back and that I’d steal another one if she let me. I saw the regret that stained her eyes, as if she’d let herself down, so I simply let her hip go because I knew that was what she wanted. She’d said good night and walked upstairs.

  Lydia looked beautiful, stunning, this morning. Her light-blonde hair falling around her shoulders. Her pale skin, natural, snowy. Her green eyes that kept you at a distance, not allowing the strength of lust or want to veer her from her path, whatever that looked like to her.

  Lydia didn’t talk about Lilly too much. I had known she had a daughter because it’d come up, but she was private about it. Kept a picture of her on the home screen of her phone.

  Lilly looks just like her mother. Bright. Smart. Witty.

  But my job is to sit back and wait. Be patient. Because there’s no other person I’d rather be with, and I found that out when Lydia first moved to town. I’d had my eye on her, but Ryan beat me to the punch. It didn’t last between the two of them, and I had known it wouldn’t. Lydia wasn’t his type; she was mine.

  Harry, the owl, squeaks.

  “I know, bud. We’ll get you where you need to go.”

  I told Ethan about Lydia after the engagement party. Actually, he asked. He had been surprised to see us together. I think Ethan knew how I felt, just never said anything. Twins have that, the ability to feel what the other is feeling. We’ve always had that. Even when he had come back from Iraq, I’d felt his confusion, his sadness. His detached sense of order. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was taking on his feelings. I hadn’t seen what he saw or done what he did, but I had known what it felt like.

  Avian Haven is about thirty minutes north of Granite Harbor. Although, in the summertime, it takes about ten minutes longer due to tourist traffic. The out-of-staters stop to take photos of wildlife. Bodies of water. The Atlantic. It’s frustrating when tourists approach wildlife. While the wildlife is beautiful and looks tranquil, it’s not smart to pose near them for a picture. But we’ve seen people do it and get hurt or do it and get lucky.

  On my way back to Granite Harbor from Avian Haven, my phone vibrates from its console. Game wardens live in their trucks. They’re like mobile offices, so we have everything we need. A laptop. Phone. We travel more than ha
lf the state in them. Deliver bad news. Save animals. Save humans. Give back. Do work. Make the outdoors of Maine the best it can be.

  It’s dispatch calling.

  “Hey, Aaron. Moose calf off of Route 90. Blocking both lanes of traffic. Can you take the call?”

  “On it,” I say and hang up. I turn my lights on but not the sirens.

  I see the red taillights before I can see the scene. Cars backed up for a good few city blocks. I use the bike lane and drive past the line of cars.

  As I approach the scene, Hodges and Phelps, two state troopers that I’ve grown to respect in our work together, are ready to direct traffic around the calf lying in the roadway. This isn’t normal.

  Ethan’s already at the calf, assessing the scene.

  I park my truck and approach my brother but not before giving Hodges and Phelps a nod of acknowledgment.

  Ethan’s got his hand on his hip. “No visual injuries,” he says.

  “Doesn’t look like it was hit,” I say as we stand a safe distance from the calf.

  We usually see these guys at dawn and dusk, around May to July, during mating season, and with the mother.

  This is odd.

  A man in his mid-sixties gets out of his vehicle and approaches us. He’s the first one in line, which tells me he might have seen what happened.

  “Hello, sir,” I say.

  “Wardens. I-I saw the baby moose from about a quarter of a mile away. He was off to the side of the road. But he wasn’t acting quite right. Couldn’t walk straight. Wavered as he reached the road. I slowed down. Watched him. He looked drunk almost,” the man says.

  Ethan and I know instantly. It’s brain worm.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll take that into account in our investigation,” Ethan says to appease him. “Please get back in your vehicle.”

  The man walks back to his car and gets in.

  Ethan gives Phelps the nod to wave the line of vehicles through.

  I walk back to my truck. Grab my shotgun. This part of the job really makes me wonder if I’m in the right field. I think of Lilly as I load the single bullet that I’ll need to get the job done. She wouldn’t be happy with me or this, but what she might not understand is that this disease will take his life, and the animal will suffer badly until its very last breath.

  When the coast is clear, the cars have all passed, and everyone is a safe distance behind me, I put the calf in my sights and pull the trigger.

  It’s a really shitty part of what I do for a living. The good thing is, the little guy is no longer suffering. The bad thing is, it’s still shitty.

  Ethan’s already backing his truck up. I grab ropes from my truck.

  Hodges and Phelps approach.

  Hodges pats my back. “Got it from here?”

  “Got it. Thanks for your help,” I say.

  Ethan waves to Hodges and Phelps as he parks, gets out of his truck. He starts to tie the calf up so that we can load it into the back of his truck.

  I put my gun back in my truck and then walk back to Ethan. We load the calf up into his truck.

  We’ve done this before, Ethan and me, moving dead animals. Whether we are hunting or working, it doesn’t matter. It’s like ice fishing, rowing a boat, or hiking the Appalachian Trail. It’s automatic. The method is already there. Our bodies do the work as our emotions stay put. I can’t help but wonder how Ethan looks at death now—whether it is an animal we need to remove from the roadway or a body recovery. This is a discussion we haven’t had yet.

  “You all right with this?” I ask.

  Ethan stops. Wipes his forehead with the side of his hand. “What?”

  “The calf.”

  “Loading the animal? Or the dead part?”

  “Dead part.”

  Ethan’s humor is really dry, and that’s something I’ve always appreciated about him.

  He shrugs. Gives the ropes another pull. “Part of the job.”

  But I know, deep down, there are some parts of this job that eat him alive, especially now. He’d never say it, but you don’t spend nine months in a womb with someone and your whole life together to notice only bits and pieces. You notice everything. All the shit that annoys you. All the shit that doesn’t annoy you. Patterns of behavior. Why we are the way we are.

  Mom has been treating Ethan differently since he came home, too. More protective. I don’t think the woman can be anymore supportive than she is. Dad, too. They’re great parents. Dad’s a little more reserved. But I see, in the quiet ways, that he shows us his love. Especially more so now that Ethan is home and safe now. But safe from what? From guns. Further emotional and mental damage, yes. But he’s still got all this baggage that he keeps. Stuff I wish he didn’t have to keep. Guess we all make choices and sacrifices though. Joining the military. Paying the price for protecting his country.

  Once the calf is loaded, he’ll take it to the depository in Portland. He shuts the tailgate of his truck as I walk to mine.

  Ethan calls back to me, “See you on Friday?”

  I nod. “Friday.”

  The drive back to Granite Harbor is quiet. I wonder how the Tudors are doing. Jane, Fiona, and Finn. When you deliver news like that, the next-of-kin notification sticks with you for years to come. I’ve had to do several.

  Matt Tellenbaum. Lost his wife and sister while hiking the Appalachian Trail. It quickly went from a search and rescue to a recovery.

  Lincoln and Anita Stewart. Lost their son when he tried to make it across a frozen lake on a snowmobile in the dead of winter but hit a thin spot on the ice and fell in the icy water. It was just a recovery. Unfortunately, it took weeks to recover his body because of the winter weather and the ice. We tried for days on little sleep to recover his body, but the water was too muddy and too cold. The public made a stink about it. As game wardens, we try our absolute best, but sometimes, our best just isn’t good enough.

  Corbin and Tracy McCall lost their five-year-old son while he wandered off only for a minute and down the swiftly moving river he fell. Ryan made the recovery, and that was when we worked for the dive team. But Ryan, Katherine, and I did the notification.

  Brenda Wilkes. Lost her husband and son when they hit a moose on Interstate 95.

  Wayne and Mary Springs. Lost their eighteen-year-old daughter in a boating accident. Alcohol was involved.

  Denise Pritchard. Her father wandered off from the assisted living home. He was found in the woods four miles from the home, up against a tree, the color, warmth, and life, drained from him.

  Jane Tudor. Lost her husband Kurt while fishing. Still under investigation.

  Each of these was unique and equally hard in their own right but not as hard as it was, and still is, for each family. Each suffering a loss, some deeper than others. Far deeper. The hardest was the five year old. The days and weeks that followed his disappearance still haunt me like a memory I just can’t fix, make right, and twist into a better outcome, no matter how hard I try.

  I signed up to be a game warden because I knew it was my calling. I love the outdoors. I love wildlife. I love Maine. It’s the darker side of me, of the job, that makes things more difficult. Maybe if I didn’t internalize the job so much, thinking we could somehow do things differently. Bought one more hour of each search, each rescue. One thing I’ve found to be absolute in life: we aren’t guaranteed time. We aren’t guaranteed life. Each day is a testament to fate and time well lived on Earth. After all, we’re all living on borrowed time.

  I call into Avian Haven to check on Harry, and the sanctuary says he’ll be just fine. Just needs food and water and some time to grow, and then they’ll release him back into the wild. Lilly comes to mind. She’ll find this news good and hopeful.

  Me: Hey. Would you pass on the message and these pictures to Lilly that Harry is doing great. I just got word from Avian Haven. Just so she doesn’t worry.

  Almost immediately, I get a response.

  Lydia: Thank you, Aaron. I’ll tell her.

&nbs
p; Maybe some things are better left alone.

  Five

  Lydia

  Without prompting, Lilly takes the disinfectant wipes to the hardwood. I kneel down and begin to help her.

  “How did you get so wise?”

  Lilly shrugs. Cleans. But something’s on her mind.

  I gently reach out and touch her hand. “What’s going on?”

  Lilly sits back on her feet. “Is Harry going to be okay?” Her big blue eyes—her father’s eyes—meet mine. With my finger, I push her hair behind her ear.

  “The truth is, I don’t know. Here’s what I do know. Warden Casey knows exactly what to do in these kinds of situations. He’ll get Harry the help he needs.” I’ve never been able to lie to my daughter, except once. A lie I’ve never regretted.

  “How did you know to call Warden Casey?” she asks.

  “He’s a friend.”

  “A friend? Like Maddy Sunday back at Nana’s house?” That’s her given name, swear on my life.

  “Absolutely.” I don’t expand. I won’t explain something that I won’t allow to go any further. I won’t bring Aaron into her life because it wouldn’t last with him and me.

  A voice in my head asks, Why? and I push it aside.

  My cell phone rings from the counter. Lilly and I stand, and she takes the wipes to the trash.

  “Wash your hands when you’re done, Lilly.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know, Mom. Owl poop is gross.”

  It’s my mom.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hey, baby girl. Is this weekend a good time for a visit?”

  I walk behind the counter, pull my planner out from the shelf underneath, and open it to this weekend. “Looks clear.”

  “Wonderful. Dad can’t make it. He’s got some work to do with Scott Lansing.”

  “Dad’s retired.”

  If I could see my mom right now, she’d be rolling her eyes.

  “I know. But you know your dad. Can’t help but help. Anyway, I’ll be there sometime mid-morning.”

  There’s a silence that passes between us.