When the van arrived, arranging the furniture and unpacking the boxes I brought with me did not take long—and I was able to settle into a routine. Island life definitely has a rhythm, and I was slowly getting used to it. It was hard to give up the idea of having a structured day and to just have hour after hour to do whatever I wanted. What did I want to do? I didn’t even know. Shouldn’t I be doing—something? Sure, it was great to go on long walks in the mild winter weather, meet new friends, begin to build relationships with the islanders, read, and practice yoga. All of that was all wonderfully relaxing. But how much more relaxed could I be?
I began to realize that I needed more.
On one of my walks, I bumped into Barb, who was heading to the General Store, the lone place on our island to pick up supplies. You could find one or two of almost anything in this wood-framed shop with wide planked floors and old iron gooseneck light fixtures lining the walls. The ceiling fan was always on, but it never felt like it did much, with the screen door opening and closing all day long. From canned goods to phone chargers and shampoo to produce, you never really knew what you might find. It was a place most islanders visited a few times a week to supplement our more regular shopping on the mainland.
Barb’s golf cart was filled with the boxes she was bringing to some of the properties she managed and some extra food she would deliver to the feral cat house someone had constructed near the community farm. Barb and I were about the same size and we both had to sit on the edge of the cart’s bench seat to reach the brake. Her face was framed with short blonde hair, her bangs lining her forehead. She wore no make-up, no jewelry, and lived in either Keds sneakers or flip-flops and a variety of cargo shorts, T-shirts, and hoodie sweatshirts. Barb had quite a T-shirt collection, many of which were given to her by visitors who sent her thank-you gifts from their hometowns or colleges. She was unfussy, uncomplicated, and ready at a moment’s notice to jump into whatever task was in front of her.
“Hop in,” she invited. As I settled into her cart with her, she quickly listed all of her planned errands as if I might want to accompany her. Since moving to the island full-time, Barb had become a great friend and companion. She quit corporate life decades ago and owned several rental properties. Her cottage was on the other side of the resort and we first met one day as she walked a few dogs on long leashes. I immediately liked her as I learned how much we shared: a love of animals, independence, and a no-nonsense approach to life. I also discovered that Barb was a force in island life. Our friendship gave me a quiet confidence and I was immediately comfortable with her and her many adventures.
At the end of her meandering list of errands, she added, “And most important of all—I need to get some of that pie Miss Lucy baked. It’s Tuesday and you know they will go fast!”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. Miss Lucy’s pies were well known on the island and already were a highlight of my own weekly schedule. If we were lucky, we would beat the crowd.
Miss Lucy had lived her whole life on this island, like several generations of her family before her. She rarely left Mongin, and often liked to say she didn’t trust land that wasn’t sprinkled with sunshine, salt water, and sand. Because Miss Lucy had no desire to be anywhere else, she wasn’t interested in what was happening in “big cities with lots of strangers surrounded by concrete.” She was as in tune with the island and its residents as the gentle breezes that rustled through the trees lining our roads. She often knew what we needed before we did and she showed her love of our island through the goodness of her pies. Although she might be asking you what you needed, what you wanted, what you thought, she already knew. Her weekly pie specials usually came as a result of a conversation she had with someone on the island. Someone may need a little taste of their own family recipe, a reminder of home, or to celebrate seasonal bounties. Miss Lucy and her pies were an island treasure.
As we neared the gravel lot of the General Store, Barb whooped. “Would you look at that? Miss Lucy is just pulling away! Carr, today is our lucky day! We’ll have our first pick of her pies!”
Following her up the wooden stairs, I made a silent promise to try a little harder to incorporate Barb’s joy at such simple things. I thought: Maybe she is right. Maybe today is our lucky day.
The line at the register had already formed, but we knew we would not be leaving empty handed today! “Good morning, y’all!” Barb called out to no one in particular as we pulled open the door. You could immediately tell it was Tuesday by the sweet scent of brown sugar and cinnamon in the air. A minute ago, I would have told you I was not at all hungry, but now my stomach was grumbling. Miss Lucy’s pies were that good.
“Morning ladies!” Hetty, the store’s owner and manager, was ringing up the customer standing in front of her. Greetings with neighbors were exchanged, along with general chit chat about the weather and the newly revised ferry schedule. In a few minutes, it was our turn and the small chalkboard on the counter told us today’s specialty was a Toll House cookie pie.
“Hetty, tell us what Miss Lucy said about this one.” I smiled at her as I took out my debit card.
“Well, you know Miss Lucy,” Hetty said. “She thinks the pies speak for themselves. She doesn’t get into all that stuff about selling you something. You either want it or you don’t. That’s how Miss Lucy is.”
Barb answered immediately, “Oh, we want it, no worries about that.”
“I figured as much,” Hetty said as she boxed and tied up the pies. “To be sure, she did say one thing. This pie is like a giant chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a pie crust. Can you imagine anything more delicious? I wish we could talk her into doing pies more than once a week, but I think that may be a lost cause. Maybe someday.”
As we wedged our pie boxes between us in Barb’s cart, I realized that I was now aboard for Barb’s whole ride that day. The simple fact that I could welcome such a sudden change in plans pleasantly surprised me. Spontaneity like this would have been unthinkable just a few months ago—yet, there I was, content and looking forward to whatever small pleasures lay ahead of us. Barb drove down Old Port Passage Way toward the community farm as we talked about her next stops.
“What’s going on at Allen’s?” she asked me suddenly as she jerked the wheel and turned into the T-Shirt Gallery’s parking area—a mix of dirt and the island’s distinctive tabby, a building material made partly of crushed oyster shells.
“It looks like you are abandoning us!” Barb shouted to Allen as we both climbed out of the cart. Allen was standing on the wide front porch of his store, surrounded by boxes and he several overflowing trash bins at the base of the front steps. The bed of a pickup truck parked diagonally across the lot was also filled with boxes. The scene reminded me of my many moves from house to house.
“The time has come, Barb! Going to move closer to my grandkids,” he said and sighed. “The business has just fizzled. Christmas sales never materialized this year. Last year was bad, too. Just can’t do it anymore. I sit here and sell a shirt or two, but the stuff is just not moving.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” she said.
“Oh, come on now. You must have known, Barb—” and he paused as if searching for words while he taped up the tops of several boxes. He shook his head as he said, “You know I used to love sitting here day after day, talking to the visitors, catching up with our folks. It’s very quiet now, too quiet. I can’t do it. I don’t want to.”
He seemed resigned to the move. He wiped his glasses on his shirt, put them back on, and stared at Barb. For such a tall man, his slumped shoulders made him seem burdened, smaller than I remember him when we first set foot in his store with our kids.
“You’re really leaving, Allen? How many years has it been?” Barb asked. “You’ve been here longer than Boyd—and his pottery has been here forever!”
“A long time!” he said. “But this shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. You both can do the numbers in your head. Who can make a living selling a couple of shirts a week?” The air was heavy with our mutual disappointment. For this small island, with only a few hundred year-round residents, losses of all kinds reverberated through the community. Finally, he sat down on one of his taped-up boxes.
“Grab a seat,” he said to us. That morning, both of us were living on Barb’s clock, which seemed to have all the time in the world. So, Barb and I stepped up and each took a seat on a box. For a while we went back and forth about the island’s changes, including the pressure the resort’s gift shop put on other small businesses.
Allen mainly wanted us to listen. “Believe me, it’s taken me a while to get to this point,” he said. “How do you leave someplace like this? For a long time, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, but you can only ignore what you sweep under the rug for so long. Time to face the music, so to speak. Shirts aren’t always the souvenirs the tourists want these days. Used to be that everyone bought one, and maybe a sweatshirt, too. But now people want higher end gifts—or many just use their own pictures as souvenirs. It seems the only way to survive would be to find something else that people want while they’re on the island. Or maybe a place for people to sit down and spend some time together. Maybe if I’d been running a little restaurant or coffee shop or ice cream parlor, but—I guess, that’s all history now. Maybe if I had seen it all sooner, maybe then … .” He didn’t finish the what-ifs and the could-haves.
My mind started drifting, as it had more often since arriving on the island. It was right there, while sitting on those cardboard boxes along Allen’s porch, that Books & Brew was born.
Just like that—I had my new purpose. It had long been a someday idea of having my own business focused on something I loved—reading. One of my favorite things to do was to find an author I enjoyed and eagerly anticipate his or her next book. Cracking open the cover of a new edition gave me a joy I always imagined sharing with others, but that idea had always seemed like a dream. Today, I unexpectedly was given this gift of opportunity. It was the very first time in a long time that I saw a real future life for me.
I could picture the boxes where we were settled becoming rockers—perhaps similar to the rockers that lined the Inn’s front porch for its guests. Or maybe, I would splurge on new teak Kingsley Bate rocking chairs. They caught my eye at a store on the mainland and they would be perfect for this store and my vision. Those rockers were solid and uncomplicated—exactly what made them so inviting for this porch. The tall backs of Charleston-style rockers provided strength and structure, but their curved seat and wide arms would easily fit a computer, a cup of tea, or glass of lemonade while allowing someone the comfort to spread out.
There was no other bookstore on the island and I could see that Allen was right: our island needed more places to gather—for visitors and year-round residents as well. I saw a clear opportunity for my vision for Books & Brew. We agreed to lease terms, an occupancy date, and we shook hands to seal our agreement. Allen would send along the paperwork. I would need to get busy with a business plan.
Allen and I both recognized my new store was both a beginning and an end, as life is. I was grateful to Allen for helping me nurture a seed that had been planted long ago. That whole week, I found myself back in my comfortable professional role of long days of research, developing my plan, contacting suppliers, and putting my own touches on Allen’s shop.
I was opening a bookstore!