Seacoast Fog

The Monkey Fist

     Ross watched the Easterly emerge from the summer fog surrounding the Maine State Pier in Portland. The ferry landed with a thump and a few minutes later Alana’s sashay and smart auburn hair exited the gangway.

     Ross owned the Maine cabin, so when they split two weeks ago, Alana moved in with her family in New York City. Last week, their wine-soaked phone call began icy then turned to slush and tears. They agreed to talk face-to-face this weekend while she was in town visiting an important client.

     They met in a writing class at NYU. After living in a SoHo loft, they moved to the Maine coast last year after Ross inherited the five room cabin on twenty acres. Nearing thirty, they followed the path of many creative souls to the rocky Maine shore.

     Ross, a Maine native, preferred chainsaw smoke over subway steam; flannel over Egyptian cotton; E.B. White over Jay McInerney.  When in Maine, Alana tried, but failed, to muffle her affinity for high fashion and precious metal. She wore silver for fun and gold for what she called “The Kill,” or high-stakes antique acquisition.

     Ross placed her suitcase in the car trunk, but when he reached for the package, Alana held it on her lap. Their ride to Newcastle on Route 1 North averaged ten words a mile, several hundred words in all. Alana mentioned her volunteer work for Barack Obama’s presidential campaign, but Ross never voted, so he added an infrequent “that’s great.”

     Alana offer to buy lunch, so they rode into the dusty parking lot of Schooner Landing, the creaky restaurant on pilings known for river breezes and cold ale. Despite the Fourth-of-July crowd, they sat at their favorite table, number 11, the one along the rail facing the Damariscotta River. While a rubbery lobsterman sorted lobsters on the dock below, they ordered a decanter of house Merlot. Ross offered a sarcastic toast and they nearly touched wine glasses.

     “I’ve been doing quite nicely although my cooking is deplorable,” said Ross. “I’ve been eating the lobster salad sandwiches from Red’s Eats quite regularly.”

      “I’m still on my chef’s salad routine,” said Alana, “although they don’t sell Maine cheddar in New York. By the way, why are you mad at me?”

     “I just knew you’d ask,” said Ross. “I tried to tell you last week on the phone. A relationship pivots on trust, and I don’t trust you.”

     “Here we go again. You’re speaking in abstracts,” said Alana. “I didn’t always trust you either, especially after your fling with that plein air artist from Camden.”

     “That was mostly her fault.”

     “Yeah, right.  Is it the night I spent at Joe Parker’s estate when the car wouldn’t start? I told you nothing happened.”

     “I’m over that episode.”

     “On another matter, why did you wave your closed hand during our argument, like you were going to punch me? You acted like a Stephen King character that night. What specifically fuels your anger?”

     “Let’s do this. It’s a long weekend. Take time, think long and deep. You know the answer. Let’s enjoy the view.”

     The conversation turned to antiques. Alana formerly worked as a Sotheby appraiser and she now used her charm to befriend wealthy Maine natives. After gaining their confidence, she would consign their heirlooms and historical documents to her Lower-Manhattan connections. Her constant smile, hazel eyes and well-fitting dresses helped open more than a few doors.

     “I’m going to write a book about Maine antiques, “said Alana. “I’ve pitched the idea and my literary friend likes it. We talked for three hours the other night at the Brass Rail. He wants me to write a proposal.”