Chapter 42
The next morning Ravenna is up before me.
“I felt a little muzzy-headed so I went down the beach,” she tells me as she hunts through her case for something respectable to wear. “It’s pretty wild down there. Not a soul around.” She gets up and shows me her shots of the deserted coastline. “I went to post these picture on Facebook but then I thought he’d see. And I want to keep it for myself a while longer!”
“You know, I think there’s going to be very little chance of a signal today—weaving through the White Mountains, the elevation has got to be six thousand feet . . .”
Her face brightens. “You reckon I’ve got one more day?”
“At least,” I confirm.
• • •
Her pep continues all the way to the breakfast room—she walks straight up to our assigned table, gives Charles a peck on the cheek, chirrups, “Morning Mum!” and leans in for a skinny-armed hug.
It’s fleeting but it’s there, and to Pamela’s credit she doesn’t fall to the floor and start praising the sweet baby Jesus. She just stares at the breakfast menu, taking in absolutely nothing.
“The crab cake and avocado Benedict looks good,” I nudge her, discreetly pointing to a neighboring table.
“Everything looks good,” she says, still in a daze. “Everything.”
“So Ms. Organizer Extraordinaire,” Charles addresses me. “What do we have on the schedule today?”
“Well, it was a toss-up between the Barns and Quilts Tour and a Dry-Stone Wall Building Workshop . . .”
“So Maine!” He smirks contentedly.
“In actual fact we are going to begin with a bit of outlet shopping.”
Ravenna raises her juice skyward.
“But! Before you despair, you should know that there’s a very manly component—as in the L.L.Bean flagship store.”
L.L.Bean is the U.S. equivalent of Millets, providing all the kit you need for camping/kayaking/hunting/fishing/geocaching, etc. One unique aspect to this store is that it’s open twenty-four hours a day. (And has been since 1951!) Because you just never know when you’re going to need a pocket-size water purifier or a critter-proof backpack.
The other notable aspect is the giant tan and brown hiking boot beside the main entrance, standing sixteen feet high.
“Excuse me, would you mind taking our picture?” I hand my camera to a stout gentleman as we assemble around it.
We smile, each of us kicking a leg in the air. And then break into a spontaneous rendition of “These Boots Are Made for Walking . . .”
Gosh! I puff as I press my heart back inside my body—this is starting to feel like a family.
• • •
Main Street Freeport has to be the nicest outlet setup of all time—instead of a low-rise lineup of identikit shops, each store is housed in its own—well—house. Each more historic-looking and picturesque than the last. Even McDonald’s is disguised within colonial clapboard. Despite the Coach outlet calling Ravenna’s name, she decides to join us first inside L.L.Bean. Just out of curiosity. If she starts showing an interest in the “RV chic” drawstring shorts and chambray skirts, then I really will start to worry. But I think it’s legitimate that we city girls are so transfixed by the softness of the fleeces that we each get one (hers in plum, mine a dark teal) with the aim of being extra cozy in the mountains tonight.
My stomach flips at the thought of seeing Harvey later. Definite nerves. Though I think my greatest concern is that we won’t get any time alone. Sadly the odds of us being given a suite and encouraged to get room service are slim.
• • •
“Where’s Mum?” Ravenna asks Charles, when we locate him in the winter sports section.
“Looking at the cookery books, where else?”
“They have a cookery book section?” Ravenna is amazed.
“What, like cooking by campfire?” I laugh.
Within minutes I’m holding a book called Campfire Cookery.
Ravenna squints at the cover image. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“That’s a s’more.”
“A s’more?”
“As in the singular of s’mores—the great American campfire tradition. You toast marshmallows on a stick and then squidge them between two graham crackers—that’s a sweet crispy biscuit—with a layer of chocolate.”
“Wow.”
“Because when you take your children out to the wilderness you really want to get them hopped up on sugar before they go to bed,” Charles tuts behind us.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?”
“My son has a very sweet tooth.”
“Yes he does,” Ravenna and I confirm in unison. Which is rather embarrassing.
“So did you go camping often, when he was a boy?”
“Harvey was always more of a reading-with-his-flashlight-after-dark type than into whittling spears out of sticks. I’m surprised he turned out to be so good with engines.”
I can’t help but smile at the image of him in his sleeping bag, poring over some childhood tome. Like War and Peace.
“So the tent would glow orange into the wee small hours?” I ask.
“A beacon for all the local bears.”
“Did you ever see one?” Ravenna gawps. “A bear?”
“Oh yes. The first time that happened was the last time Harvey’s mother came with us.”
This is the first time Charles has mentioned his ex-wife. I realize we don’t know anything about her. I’d like to ask what she was like, but Ravenna has a more pressing concern: “Sh-she wasn’t eaten by the bear?”
Charles laughs. “No.”
And then he asks, almost shyly, “Do you think you’d ever want to try it, Ravenna?”
She thinks for a minute. “A week ago I would’ve said ‘not in a million years,’ but now . . .”
He smiles. “Maybe one day I’ll take you.”
“Could we have s’mores?” Her eyes brighten like those of a six-year-old.
“Until you couldn’t take any s’more!” he chuckles.
I edge away, leaving them to it. It feels a little close to the mark: a glimpse of the childhood Ravenna might have experienced, if Pamela had chosen Charles.
My fingers trace along the bookshelves, hooking out the ones that catch my eye, until I bump up against the woman herself, perusing Notes from a Maine Kitchen, with The Wild Blueberry Book tucked under her arm.
“It all sounds so fresh and delicious I can’t stand it!” she reels as she turns the pages. “What have you got there?”
I hold up A Moose and a Lobster Walk into a Bar and Cabinology—A Handbook to Your Private Hideaway.
Until today, my fantasy property was a Carrie-esque walk-in wardrobe, but now I can’t help thinking how cozy it would be to have a log cabin or perhaps a converted lighthouse to retreat to every now and again. Especially if I had someone like Harvey to retreat with . . .
“Do you think I could get away with antler chandeliers in a Little Italy apartment the size of a garden shed?”
Charles takes the books from me and sets them back on the shelf.
“I think it’s time for us to move on.”