Firefly Beach (4 page)

The bank had a bright red awning positioned at about nine feet, covering only the door. A brick window box with red and blue petunias beamed proudly under a freshly washed pane of glass. Adjacent to the bank was a seafood restaurant, shaded by a slightly faded, orange awning decorated with a smiling lobster. The lemon gem marigolds in the window box gave the restaurant a cheerful air, even though its paint was faded and its windows dirty. The children’s clothing store sported a curved blue and white striped awning and a pale blue window box overflowing with marguerite daisies. Continuing on toward the marina, on her left, Beth saw a real estate office, a fish market, and a small coffee shop. On her right at the top of the hill, she found a shoe store with an overstated, bright blue awning and two meticulously manicured window boxes filled with fuchsias. Next, a hardware store with a worn exterior and a pale gray awning sat adjacent to a drug store and a woman’s clothing store. Near the end of the row, a jewelry store painted bright white included a pale green awning and a window box blooming with a variety of wildflowers. Finally, at the bottom of the hill, she saw
Kelp Corner,
the gift shop owned by Bobby Downy. It had a tattered slate blue awning and a worn window box containing deep purple petunias.

No art gallery,
Beth observed, her eyes twinkling.

She parked her car in front of the jewelry store and took a deep breath before emerging.

With her paintings clutched protectively in her arms and a spring in her step, Beth entered
Kelp Corner.
The small shop offered a variety of souvenirs and jewelry. Hand embroidered t-shirts and sweatshirts with pictures of lighthouses, nautical symbols, and the words “Virginia Point” hung on small racks. Beth walked tentatively to the back of the store. Next to the counter stood a multileveled display of handcrafted pieces of art made out of stones or small chunks of wood.

The man behind the counter looked up from the
Bangor Daily News.
He was a tall, lean man in his mid-forties. He wore a lightweight, red sweatshirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. His sandy blond hair showed signs of gray and a slightly receding hairline. He had a day-old beard and a warm smile.

“May I help you?” He stood to greet her. His six-foot-two frame made the tiny shop look even smaller.

“I’m Beth LaMonte.” She held out her hand enthusiastically.

Mr. Downy took her hand in his, briefly covered it with his other hand, and smiled joyfully. “My southwestern artist, she arrives at last.” He glanced down at her bundle of brown-paper-wrapped treasures. “Let’s see them.” He pointed to a tattered map of coastal Maine on the wall, which hung by itself in the middle of the store. “I’m anxious to recycle that old thing and hang your paintings.”

Beth unwrapped each one. “Delightful,” he exclaimed, especially pleased with the lighthouse. When she showed him the painting of her grandmother’s house, he exclaimed, “Oh the ladies will love this one.” And finally, she brought out the flower painting. His response was tepid like Mary’s. “This one may not appeal to my clientele, but you never know. I will hang it until you bring me something new.”

Beth was disappointed that no one appreciated the flower painting. It was the one piece she felt had captured a little bit of her own spirit. But she did not let his response deflate her overall good mood.

He tapped his pencil on the counter, making some calculations in his mind. “I am thinking I will try to sell them for three-twenty-five and pass two-fifty on to you.”

The lines on Beth’s forehead creased slightly. She had hoped for more. She was a little angry with herself for not discussing the matter before packing up and moving twenty-four hundred miles. How could such a detail-oriented woman forget that one, not-so-insignificant detail? She ran a rough estimate in her head – rent, utilities, groceries, art supplies. “How many do you think I can sell?”

“Oh, that all depends upon the season,” Bobby replied. “You will do very well June through September, but things get rather slow in the winter.”

Beth sighed subtly. She had a nest egg, which gave her some financial freedom. Upon her mother’s death, she had inherited over five hundred thousand dollars after taxes. The amount took her totally by surprise. Sophia had lived a frugal life.
Poor Mom,
Beth lamented.
She never did anything for herself. She could have remodeled her bathroom, bought new appliances, and taken nice vacations.
A sense of guilt overwhelmed Beth on the day the funds were transferred into her name. Still, the money was hers. But it would only go so far if she could not make a steady living. The idea of eating away at the inheritance without producing something made her sick to her stomach. Should she attempt a part-time accounting job in Portland or Bangor? Or maybe she could provide an auditing service, dialing in to businesses and going over their books to find areas in need of improvement. With her credentials, she could probably build a stable clientele for such an entrepreneurial endeavor, but was that what she really came to Maine to accomplish?

Bobby looked down and shuffled his feet. “You know,” he began. “You could try setting up a website. People love the coast of Maine. Paint a dozen or so pictures and post photos on the Internet. That way, you are more likely to maintain a steady income. I know a young man going to college in the fall who is a computer wiz. I’ll bet he could help you set up a site.”

Beth looked up at Bobby and smiled. “That is an
excellent
idea, Mr. Downy.”

“Please. Call me Bobby. I’m an old salty dog. I don’t be going by the name of Mistah,” he mocked in a playful, fake accent Beth couldn’t place.

She left
Kelp Corner
relieved of her awkward, brown paper wrapped bundles, and she decided to take a walk along Main Street. She peeked in the jewelry store. It seemed stark white and devoid of color, and no jewelry adorned the window. The clothing store’s door was shaded by a ruffled, pink awning. A mannequin dressed in a sporty blue jumpsuit stared impassively at the sidewalk. She stood on a blue-checkered blanket and around her feet were the makings of a picnic – a basket, blue plastic dinnerware, artificial grapes, and pathetically obvious fake sandwiches. The drug store had a more utilitarian presence – a green striped awning, non-flowering plants in desperate need of water, and a simple arrangement of summer necessities in the display case. The hardware store had a small window with no display, but the shoe store sported an elaborate, almost gaudy presentation in each of its windows. A woman waved from inside. Beth grimaced faintly and returned the gesture.

Beth crossed the street. The restaurant had an arrangement of plastic chairs and tables dressed with ketchup, napkin containers, and salt and pepper shakers. Several patrons with hardy appetites enjoyed lobster as well as fried haddock and clams. A few lobster traps and about twenty lobster buoys hung from the ceiling in a colorful, chaotic pattern. The children’s clothing store featured several child mannequins in bright summer clothing, along with a kite and a stuffed dog jumping in the air. The real estate office windows were covered with photos and descriptions of property for sale. The fish market was white and brightly lit. Along the back wall, a glass counter displayed fresh fish and lobster as well as a few steaks and pork chops. A woman with long, gray hair spoke with a tall, dark-haired young man who stood behind the counter. The café’s yellow awning and window box, filled with a rainbow assortment of Petunias, welcomed townsfolk and visitors. A small counter near the back displayed muffins and pastries. A family sat in one corner eating sandwiches and their toddler laughed as his mother tried to wipe applesauce off of his face. Beth smiled, crossed to her car, and drove back to the cottage for a brief nap.

That afternoon, she returned to
The Virginia Point Cove
eager to share her ideas with Mary. Mary poured two glasses of red wine. Then she placed a plate of crackers and small cheese squares on a round, wrought iron garden table on the back patio. The Schmidts’ backyard bloomed with even more flowers than the front. A small bean-shaped patch of grass took a backseat to lush gardens, blueberry bushes, and a bubbling stone fountain of an angel. The neighboring houses were not visible from any direction due to a large cluster of trees that encircled the property.

As the ladies sipped wine and discussed the day’s events, Beth noticed Mary fiddling with her wedding ring. Beth looked down at her own bare left hand and realized how empty it felt.
I should buy myself something,
she mused,
an independence ring.
Then she remembered her mother’s sapphire anniversary ring, a stunning deep blue jewel set in gold and surrounded by tiny diamonds.

Her father had given the ring to Sophia on their tenth wedding anniversary, a year before he died in an auto accident. Beth was ten years old at the time of his death. She never truly allowed herself to grieve the loss of her father. Sophia put away her wedding ring and wore the sapphire ring in its place. Throughout Beth’s turbulent teenage years, she sneered at her mother whenever she wore the ring. Beth believed that removing the wedding ring was a betrayal. In addition, and true to teenage inconsistency, the sapphire angered her because it was a constant reminder of her father. As Beth matured, her hostile tantrums were forgotten, and her mother continued to wear the ring until her death. In a small, handwritten will, found in her lingerie drawer, Sophia had requested that Beth keep the sapphire ring and bury her in her wedding band. She wrote, in her usual matter-of-fact fashion, that she would
hate to see this beautiful ring buried six feet below ground on the boney finger of an old woman’s skeleton.
Beth shuddered and looked out over the garden.

Poor Mom,
Beth thought, remembering the third anniversary of her father’s death. She wished the memory had faded over time, but it always seemed to overwhelm her in vivid detail at a moment’s notice.

They sat in the kitchen at a round Formica table with wobbly silver legs, the one that drove her mother crazy. Nevertheless, she did not replace it for years. It was one of the first pieces of furniture the newlyweds purchased a year before Beth was born. The kitchen radiated canary yellow, a yellow that seemed to grow brighter and deeper over the years each time Beth recalled the day. Her mother made spaghetti and meatballs that afternoon. Beth swirled the noodles around on her fork but refused to take a bite.

“It’s your favorite,” her mother gently reminded her.

Beth glared judgmentally at the blue sapphire. “So we just forget now?”

Sophia sighed and looked down. “We don’t forget. We move on.”

“We move on? You didn’t love him, really, did you?”

Sophia’s eyes met Beth’s and held them in a gaze that betrayed a complicated mixture of feelings so intense Beth had to look away.

Beth stabbed her fork into a meatball repeatedly. In a wave of unanticipated cruelty, she retorted, “Maybe he just didn’t want to come home.” It was beyond out of line, what she said; it was despicable. Beth knew very well that her father had been commuting home at his usual time, taking his customary route. He must have briefly passed through the blind spot of a large Sears delivery truck. In an instant that changed Beth’s and Sophia’s life in the most terrible way, the truck driver changed lanes, sending Mr. LaMonte’s car down the embankment. It flipped several times before hitting a tree. Her father was pronounced dead at the scene.

Beth picked up her knife and flipped it around. She smashed her meatballs, randomly and with vigor, until they were reduced to mush. Then she pushed her plate away and stormed to her bedroom.

Sophia quietly removed the plates and silverware from the table and scraped away food remnants before placing the dishes in the sink. She turned on the water and added a drop of soap. Her movements were slow and methodical. She stared blankly at the bubbles forming around the dishes. The water turned mildly orange. She watched in silence. Whatever dreams Sophia had cherished as a young woman slowly withered away over the years, as sink after sink filled and drained. Her life blended with the lives of countless other mothers, resigned to the whim of tedious chores, the ones that returned every day, mocking a woman’s potential and intelligence.

Beth hid in the hallway watching her mother. She longed to say that she was sorry and to take over washing the dishes. But she did not, due to pride or shame; she never really determined which. She left her mother alone on the anniversary of the accident, alone to soak in the soapy water and the hateful words of teenage irrationality.

“Hello? Cat got your tongue?” Mary asked, bringing Beth back into the present.

“I saw a jewelry shop in town,” Beth blurted out. “I need to get a ring resized, a very special family heirloom. Is the jeweler reliable?”

Mary sighed and smiled. “Ah, good old Kenny McLeary. He’s an odd one, but he’s an exceptional jeweler. I’ve never seen a more meticulous man in my life, hunched over that bench night and day. But he’s got a creative side, too. Maybe you’ll understand his language. You’re an artistic type.” She ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “There is not much to go by. The man hardly says a word to anyone, except in the course of business. Shy as a field mouse, that one. I often wonder what secrets lay beneath that innocent exterior.”

“So I can trust him with my ring?”

“Absolutely. It will be flawless, nothing less. And while you’re in there, treat yourself to a custom brooch or pendant. The man is a genius. See, he keeps a little notebook. When he meets a customer, often times a stranger passing through town…” She swished her hand through the air and said, “I recommend him to all my guests. Anyway, when he meets someone, he looks them over and scrupulously enters notes in a little book, like a journal. Later he delivers a masterpiece so suited for the individual you would think he’d have known them all his life. It is like he can look inside a person, read them, you know?”