I’ll Be in Bar Harbor

Unable to be still, I buzzed between my grown twins, Zoe and Zach, my husband Miles, and the airline ticket counter like a fly on a dessert tray. “Here are some more luggage tags.” I thrust a handful at Zoe, my eldest. “You should put one on your backpack.” “Mom, you’re driving me nuts,” she said, waving as if to shoo me away. “Why don’t you wait for us at the gate?” “We’ll be right behind you. You’ve got a book, haven’t you?” Zach barely looked up from the guidebook he was studying. “You’ll be fine,” Miles placed an arm around my shoulders, bent his dark head to mine and kissed my pixie haircut as he inched the bags forward with his foot. Not used to feeling out of control, I slung my leather tote over my shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” I mimicked, with a stiff grin as I turned and headed for Philadelphia International’s security check. Once through security, I was too agitated to sit. I paced the terminal, finally stopping at a coffee kiosk for a latte. Then I staked out a group of chairs near Zoe’s gate with Southwest Airlines and opened my book. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. The chapter of my life that was ending demanded my attention. Today, Miles and I would become empty nesters. The twins had selected local universities for their undergraduate work, allowing me to remain involved in their young adult lives. Zoe’s sorority needed an advisor and Zach and his friends frequently crashed at home on weekends to “study” and do laundry. I hadn’t dealt with letting them go — and I wasn’t prepared to do so now. Zoe was joining Tiani, a sorority sister, in Pasadena, California where the two were enrolled in graduate work at Art Center College of Design. “Tiani’s found the cutest apartment,” she’d told me a few days before. “It’s within walking distance of Art Center and the Rose Bowl. Her mom is helping her decorate.” So it would be “Tiani’s mom” now, and not me who shared her new experiences. Of course, I’d been “Mom Chrissy” while Tiani was in the sorority, but turnabout didn’t feel like fair play. “Umm, my favorite.” Miles helped himself to my latte and folded himself into a chair next to mine while the twins settled opposite. As if the past two weeks hadn’t been stressful enough, Zoe had insisted on her rights as a young adult to take risks and save money. Waiting for her name to be called as a standby passenger, she and Zach engaged in one of their favorite pastimes — one-upping each other over their career choices. I wanted to freeze-frame this moment when our family was still together, Miles and I admiring the twin’s sparring one last time. “Zoe Baron,” came the indifferent invitation. She was up in a shot. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Bye, Twin Two. Love you. Kiss, kiss.” “Call us when you get there,” My voice trailed away as her backpack disappeared down the jet way. “Well, shall we get a quick bite to eat before heading over to the British Airways terminal?” Miles lifted his eyebrows at Zach, inviting him to make his own decisions. “That’d be great, Dad.” Zach stood and shouldered his messenger bag. “I don’t think I’ll be getting dinner on a red-eye to Heathrow.” Zach’s destination was Oxford University where he was enrolled in the Trinity term. Like many Tolkien wannabes, he fancied a degree in Medieval Studies was the way to kick off his career. He was going alone, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before he gathered a flock of friends.
“What will you guys do when I’m gone?” Zach was making small talk, but I wasn’t prepared to answer his question. I hadn’t thought, didn’t want to think, that far ahead. “Clean your room? Box up your stuff? Where would I start?” “I have an idea. How about a second honeymoon?” Miles broke in. I communicated my interest by bunching my sweater together at the throat. “Sure, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “No, seriously, honey,” he countered. “We should take a vacation. Maybe we’d remember why we fell in love in the first place. But I’ve got meetings in Chicago next week and a proposal to finish before I can help make plans. Why don’t you take some time off, though?” “Time off from what? I’m not doing much at the moment.” “Time off from planning celebrations, organizing schedules, being the brains behind the scenes to help two special young people reach their goals.” “Dad, you’re embarrassing me,” Zach warned as the dressing from his Philly cheese steak dripped down his chin. I wanted to reach over and wipe it off — be a mother for a little while longer. “How about Bar Harbor?” Miles pursued his train of thought as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “What about Bar Harbor?” “Yeah, Mom, that’s where you always said we could find you if you needed to decompress. You deserve a few days off.”
“Seriously,” Miles raised a hand, anticipating my objections. “You don’t really want to start packing up the kids’ rooms, do you? And I’ll be out of town for a few days. How about it? We can ‘start over’ as a couple when you get back.” “Leave my stuff until Christmas, Mom. I’ll help then. Why not Bar Harbor?” I felt like I was the one leaving the nest. I didn’t know if I could fly.

* * *

I’ll be in Bar Harbor. It had been my comeback ever since Miles and I honeymooned there while in our mid-twenties. We’d enjoyed a leisurely stay at the Porcupine View Inn, basking in the local color and exploring Acadia National Park. On our last morning, we’d hiked out to Bar Island at low tide. As we stood at the top of the island looking out over Frenchman’s Bay, gnats and the smell of insect repellant couldn’t destroy the beauty of the sunrise. Together, yet separate, we sat on the rocks and drank in the absolute peace of the setting. That’s when I first got the idea.
I could come back here any time. It’s a perfect place to sit while one’s soul restores itself. After that, “Bar Harbor” became a state of mind. I viewed reliving those few minutes at the top of Bar Island at dawn as the antidote to any personal stress I could conjure. I’d never planned to go back, but it was a good mental destination. Life happened, as they say. Miles and I, a quintessential Yuppie couple who’d advanced to DINKY status, got pregnant. That our lives changed was an understatement. Zach and Zoe were our Apollo and Artemis. For the next 21 years I needed the wisdom of Zeus to balance and nurture their divergent interests. Zach became our meditative writer and Zoe our Sierra Club disciple. To fully experience motherhood, I left my corporate Marcom position and began working freelance out of the house. Thank God for the e-commuting — it made my “mommy track” career possible.

* * *

By the time we got Zach to his gate and I’d kissed him goodnight for possibly the last time, I’d agreed to a Bar Harbor vacation. It seemed like an avoidance strategy — I still perceived that the “real work” was to be done at home — but I had go get the guys off my back. Later that weekend, while Miles prepped for Chicago, I half-heartedly packed what I hoped would be a week’s worth of entertainment. I’d have my laptop, of course, and some novels I hadn’t finished. For good measure, I threw in my journals — I hadn’t written in them since the twins were born — and my hiking boots. Feeling as prepared as possible, I called the Porcupine View Inn and reserved our honeymoon room for old-time’s sake.
On Sunday morning Miles and I did our own version of flying in opposite directions. “It’ll be an adventure,” Miles said with his football-player hug. “Call me when you get there.” We kissed goodbye in the shopping mall of Philly International and headed for our respective terminals.

* * *

The homey exterior of the Inn, now called the Porcupine View Inn and Conference Center, brought back fresh memories as I drove up and parked my rental. Once inside, though, the remodel shocked my senses. The historical regency of the place was gone, swallowed by twenty-first century minimalism. The burgundies and brocades of the interior décor were replaced with white and chrome. Entering my room, I had the feeling of hiking under white-out conditions. The linens were obviously new, and the depth of Eider down in the duvet intended to communicate luxury, but the overall effect was chilly rather than warm. I unpacked quickly and left a message for Miles, who wasn’t picking up his phone at the moment. Then I pulled a white throw off the white snowdrift of a couch and headed for my personal porch. On our honeymoon, I’d snuggled against Miles in this porch swing watching the tide creep up the shore. The throw I pulled around me now was a poor substitute for his embrace. Where had the time gone? It had flown by so fast there was little time to reflect. I guessed I was here to think about stuff like that. The only definite plans I had were to hike to the top of Bar Island every morning and take a nap every afternoon. Trusting that exercise and sleep would reshape my perspective, I began to relax. Dusk gently dimmed the Porcupine Islands before the late spring chill nudged me inside.

* * *

The sound of water in the down spout outside my window Monday morning told me the hike was off. I dressed leisurely in black cropped pants, a pink camisole, and a rose camp shirt that complimented my dark hair. I splashed tinted moisturizer on my face and headed for the breakfast buffet. The room was a beehive of activity and I realized that many people were wearing conference name tags. I reached around buzzing participants to fill my plate with a bran muffin and fruit. Balancing a glass of orange juice and my silverware in the other hand, I selected a corner table away from the drone. I’d just opened USA Today when a shadow fell across the page.
“Is this seat free?”
I looked up to meet the steel-grey eyes of a forty-something conference attendee. “Gregg” sprawled across his nametag in confident block letters, matching his demeanor. Looking past him, I saw most tables filled. “Sure,” I said, pushing the chair out with my foot. I looked back at the paper, not expecting to start a conversation.
“Which sessions are you registered for?”
“I’m not with the conference.”
“Vacation?”
“Sort of. I’m working on a writing project.”
“Happy hour’s at five. Care to take a break and meet me there?”
“Uh, no.” I took a sip of orange juice with my left hand so Gregg could see my wedding ring.
“Might as well enjoy your bit of freedom.” He gave me his best Used Car Salesman grin.
Wrapping my muffin in a napkin, I muttered a hurried “Excuse me.” I’d finish breakfast in my room.
“See you around.” Gregg’s words followed me as I fled the dining area with the urgency of a queen bee starting a new hive.
With a shaking hand, I opened the door to my room and slipped inside. Just great. I’d managed to attract a parasite my first morning away from home. It brought back memories of the days I’d attended trade shows for my former employer. Show attendees routinely paired up and I’d fended off my share of pseudo suitors. So why was this morning’s encounter so surprising? I’d kept my hair colored because I didn’t want to be mistaken for the twins’ grandmother. And maybe the investment I’d made in anti-aging creams was paying off. Still, it galled me that Gregg assumed any woman travelling alone was open to illicit rendezvous. It looked like this vacation would be less idyllic than the last. The view was still beautiful, but now I had to contend with Mr. Too-Hot-To-Handle. I didn’t think he was dangerous — I just resented being put in a position where I had to spend the energy to keep him at bay.

* * *

I was sitting at the desk with my laptop when my phone rang. “What’s up?” I asked, recognizing Miles’ number. “Hey, I called you.” “Yes, but I talked first.” “We’re on lunch break. They’ve set out a Fajita bar and I’m waiting for the line to go down.” “If you eat that stuff you’ll have to spend an extra hour on the treadmill tonight.” “If they eat that stuff, they’ll fall asleep during my presentation. Any suggestions for keeping my potential clients awake?” “After you show that slide about mutual success factors, ask everyone to stand up and sing the Barney theme song.” I began singing, “I love you. You love me. We’re a great big family.” Miles made emergency vehicle siren noises to let me know he’d stopped listening. “What about yourself?” “You should have been here. Someone tried to pick me up at breakfast.” “What were you doing at breakfast? I thought you were going to hike.” “Rained out.” “Is he as handsome as I am?” “Miles! I didn’t spend one nanosecond sizing him up! I’m not shopping. The only thing that registered was ‘not Miles.’ Got it?” “Chrissy, Chrissy,” Miles laughed, “I’m sure you can handle it. Just don’t let the attention go to your head.” “Well, it was flattering in a twisted sort of way.” “What about this afternoon? Still got a nap on the schedule?” “Not tired.” “What then.” “I’m going through my old journals looking at the lists of goals I used to make. Maybe I’ll make a new list.” “Reviewing the person you were before the kids came? “Reviewing the person I was before I got married. I started journaling when I was a sophomore in college, remember. I had some interesting ambitions back then.” “Hope they’re inspirational. Hey, Hon, I’ve got to pick up some lunch and head back in. Call you tonight?” “Any time. I’ve got two words for you.” “What are they?” “Balance Bar.” “I love you, too. Kiss, kiss.” “Kiss, kiss.” I closed the phone and flipped to the next section of my sophomore journal, careful not to tear the notebook pages now yellowing with age. “Write one poem a week.” Not a bad goal, but I couldn’t sustain it once my creative writing class ended. I still wrote and my last printed poem was published when Zach was editor of the high school’s literary magazine. He’d made me use a pseudonym. I don’t count the stuff I put on poetry.com. It’s an electronic vanity press IMHO, and I can’t hold it up to my friends as a big accomplishment. “Learn a team sport.” This goal didn’t even get off the paper. Athletic I am not. I can’t even remember why I wrote it. I probably thought it would impress some guy. I learned to like hiking after I met Miles, but that was many years later. “Plan an overseas vacation.” Miles and I went to Rome for our honeymoon, so I guess I achieved that one. Visiting Rome was a fantasy born in high school Latin class. Miles and I joked that he made my dreams come true in more ways than one. I picked up the journal I’d started after moving to Philadelphia for my “big city” job with the pharmaceutical company. “Finish decorating the apartment.” I’d done that. Thank God for Scandinavian-style furniture and bean-bag chairs. “Entertain once a month.” I’d done that, too. I loved to cook and my friends seemed to love to eat. That’s how I’d snagged Miles. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” as they say. I stacked the notebooks and stared at a blank computer screen. I liked the old images of writers better — the ones where crumpled sheets of paper surrounded someone bowed over a manual typewriter. I couldn’t even say I’d created a mess on my way to doing something brilliant. I closed Word and lowered the screen on my laptop, unsure of how to proceed.
Suddenly, I decided to walk downtown for a berry smoothie. The fresh air might arouse my muse. Long ago I’d stopped believing in writer’s block. There were only ideas, and incubation, and insights. Of course, some incubation periods were longer than others, but I could be in denial about that, couldn’t I? Grabbing my camp shirt off the back of the desk chair, I headed out.

* * *

Tuesday at dawn I started for Bar Island, expecting to repeat the past. On that first trek, Miles and I could have been a cover couple for L. L. Bean Outdoors. Youthfully slim and decked out in the latest gear, we strode confidently up the rocky trail to Overlook Point. Now, I stepped onto the shell-encrusted gravel bar shrouded in an over-sized hoodie, my fingers cupped together in the chest pocket to ward off the chill. When I reached the point, I sat down on “my” rock to catch my breath. Being winded was an unwelcome reminder of mid-life weight gain. I wasn’t “fat” by twenty-first century standards, and it didn’t impede my activities in suburbia, but it didn’t wear well with outdoor activity. Across the water the sun’s first rays mixed with the fog making a William Turner painting of the shoreline. A distant buoy clanged and somewhere in town an engine started. I waited as long as I dared for the fog to clear, but Cadillac Mountain never emerged. I headed back without my view or my “Bar Harbor” feeling.
By the time I reached Bridge Street my fingers were stiff from cold and swelling. I hurried up the incline toward Main Street, anxious to get back to the Inn. Only a shower could warm me up, and I lingered in the steam long after lathering. I donned the Inn’s plush bathrobe, and was reaching for the hair dryer when the phone rang.
“Chrissy,” I answered, not recognizing the number.
“Mom, it’s me, Zoe.”
“Zoe! I’m thrilled to hear from you. How’s it going out there? Did you get the classes you wanted? What’s your apartment like?”
“One thing at a time, Mom,” Zoe laughed. “Things are fine. And Tiani’s going to take me down to the OC. We’re going to check out the art studios in Laguna Beach and . . .”
“Hold it, one thing at a time, remember?”
“So, Mom, what are you doing in Bar Harbor? Are things okay with Dad?” Concern edged her voice.
“Things are fine, Zoe. It was a hectic couple of months with you and Zach finishing your Bachelors’ and getting ready to move half a world apart. Your dad didn’t want me wandering around in an empty house while he’s pitching a new client in Chicago. That’s all.”
“Are you sure, Mom? Some couples break up because they can’t handle an empty nest.”
“Honey, our nest was empty for a long time before you kids were born. I assure you, we’ll be fine. Wait a minute, what are you doing up so early?”
“Okay, then, well, the reason I called is that Tiani and I are interviewing with Calty for internships. We’re working on our portfolios, and . . .”
“What’s a Calty?” I interrupted.
“Calty Design Research. It’s Toyota’s design studio. They do exterior designs. I’d be working on hybrid concept cars, learning clay modeling, things like that.”
She was off and all I could do was listen. By the time she was ready to hang up, my hair was frizzed and I was starving. Breakfast service had ended during Zoe’s call. If I wanted something I’d have to walk downtown. Maybe I’d window shop, too. I needed some ideas for souvenirs.

* * *

I was scrolling through my e-mail looking for interesting messages when I saw Jody’s name. She was with an employment agency that occasionally sent me work. I double-clicked it and read:
How about a six-month contract with a home health/hospice agency? They’re looking for someone to write a series of patient education brochures about their products and services. I told them I knew someone with healthcare experience and they were very interested. You could probably even up your rates on this one. It’s a growing business since we’re all getting older. hahaha. Call me.
Good ole Jody. She’d brought me a steady stream of work over the years. I started to click Reply, but caught myself.
Wait for the muse. Let it incubate. Maybe mention it to Miles.
If I’d learned anything from my freelance experience it was that these projects were all consuming. I’d had to reign myself in many times to balance work and motherhood. If I got going on one again, I wouldn’t have time to move anything out to the garage — not even the kitchen trash.
I opened my Goals document and sat staring at the screen. What were people my age supposed to worry about? Toxins in the environment? Aging gracefully? According to one source, I was still in my prime income-earning years. If that were true, I should keep working, right? With the kids out of town, I was finally free of having to plan around their schedules. I could merge back into the fast lane, couldn’t I? Power suits. Power lunches. Cranky clients. It sounded about as appetizing as fried liver and onions with succotash. But if I didn’t work, what would I do? Keeping house for Miles wasn’t that time-consuming. Maybe I could volunteer, but where? Suddenly, a plain, old-fashioned mid-life crisis sounded more appealing. Why not just scream at a few people and get it over with? At least, I could blame my hormones, or lack of them as the case may be.
I closed my laptop and moved to the window. After yesterday’s rain, the pale afternoon sun felt like Palm Beach. I felt lured outside again, following Pan’s melody, a longing that leads but alludes. This time I headed for a used bookstore that had caught my attention as I passed it yesterday.
Once inside, I could have been anywhere. The smell of damp musty bindings, the worn overstuffed chairs, the silent readers — book in one hand, water bottle in the other — was a scene replicated across middle-America. I skimmed the covers of the books on a “Summer Reading” display table by the front door. Laurie R. King, Elizabeth Berg, Adriana Trigiani, Kristen Hannah. I’d read several of the titles, but I was tired of hen-lit novels about women in mid-life who thought their lives were over. Of course their crises precipitated self knowledge and they found creative ways to begin again. Quite frankly, life for most of us isn’t that melodramatic. But as a member of the fifty-something club, I had to answer a few questions for myself. I was possibly five years away from becoming a grandmother and ten or more from early retirement. It seemed like a long time to do nothing, yet what did I want to do? I could while it away, one six-month contract a time. Before I knew it, Miles and I would be in the rockers at Coconut Grove. Is that what I wanted? Maybe it was time for that scream . . .

* * *

I left the bookstore during afternoon low tide, planning to take the beach path back to the Inn. The only problem was I wasn’t prepared to clamber over the rocks. My sandal slipped without warning, and I listed to the right like a drunken sailor. As I tried to break the fall, I sliced the heel of my right hand on a rock and twisted my right ankle. Lying face-first in the gravel, it took me a second to catch my breath.
Feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t help, so I shifted to a kneeling position and rinsed the blood off my hand in a tide pool. Then I dug through my pockets for a tissue to use as a temporary bandage. I straightened myself and gingerly fingered my cheek — it stung but wasn’t bleeding — probably an abrasion. I eased myself into a stand and slipped out of my sandals. Toes and skin were a better match against algae than genuine leather any day. The pain in my ankle put me off balance as I edged crab-like along the gravelly beach. Back at the Inn, a worried desk clerk became my Florence Nightingale. I must have looked a mess because she kept asking if there was someone she could call. I said “No,” I was vacationing alone and just needed to get back to my room. I slipped into the Inn’s plush robe and ordered room service for dinner.

* * *

After talking with Miles that evening, I sat with an ice bag over my ankle, reading for a while. I must have dozed for a few minutes, because the next time I looked at the clock it was 11:00 p.m. I got ready for bed, but decided to check on Zach before retiring. Going to my laptop, I accessed his blog to see if there were any new posts. Sure enough, there was a picture of him with some kids I didn’t know posing in front of a pub. “Inklings 2.0” the caption read. Presumably the pub was The Eagle and Child, but the sign was cut off. I assumed then that these were his new writer friends. Their aspirations seemed as high as his.
Just then, my phone buzzed. I checked the text to see a familiar “zonlinez,” Zach’s cue that he was in “Second Life.” I opened a new tab and pulled down “Second Life” from my Favorites. Soon, I was in Zach’s Coffee Shop with Zach and three avatars I didn’t recognize.
“You didn’t tell me you had company! I would have changed my avatar!”
“Like fixing your hair before going to the hairdresser?” Zach asked.
“Of course!” I wailed.
“What are you doing up so late?”
“What are you doing up so early?”
Our conversation went on like this for a few minutes until I yawned. That is, my avatar yawned, and I excused myself. I’d met Zach’s new friends, all in Oxford for graduate research, and matched each avatar with a name and a face in the blog photo. I could tell Zach was in a new world and worrying about Mom was a thing of the past. In a way, his absence of questions was a relief.
I crawled into my snow cave of a bed and lay still until the Eider down slowly returned my body heat.

* * *

My alarm rang at 6:00 a.m. Wednesday morning and when I rolled over to turn it off yesterday afternoon’s bruises rose up as one in rebellion. I averted their mutiny by settling back under the duvet. No hike today. Maybe I’d revert to my other means of restoration — napping. Two hours later I entered the breakfast bar, dragging my foot like Igor. I realized my ankle was swollen and I supposed I should wrap it up. That would mean driving to the supermarket west of town for some first-aid supplies. I started to feel like a housewife again, running chores when I should be doing something else, like writing.
Just then a familiar shadow crossed my table.
“This seat taken?”
I looked up at Gregg, willing him to go away, but my lips twitched at the shocked look on his face.
“What did you do to yourself?”
“I fell on the shore trail. It’s a little rocky out there.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I need an ankle support and maybe some first-aid supplies. I’ll drive to the shopping center after breakfast and pick some things up.”
I got up from the table, hoping he’d take a hint, but I winced as I stepped on my right foot. I knew then that if I survived the trip to the store I’d have to stay off it for a couple of days.
“You can’t drive with an injury like that!” Gregg exclaimed, seeming truly concerned at this point. “I’ll take you. My first session isn’t until ten. We can be back by then.”
I met his gaze and relented. “Under two conditions.”
“Which are?”
“You’ll refer to me as Miss Daisy and I’ll sit in the back seat.”

* * *

I sat in the porch swing with my makeshift office and assessed my situation. My ankle was wrapped in a black Velcro support and propped up on the porch railing. Florence Nightingale had just draped a bag of ice over it and set a cup of tea on the porch swing beside me. My laptop was balanced on my good knee. I couldn’t move without dumping everything. I opened my e-journal and began to type.
“One hike.” Foggy and no brilliant insights.
“One nap.” Restful but no brilliant insights.
“One personal mishap.” Not in the plan, but maybe I can use it as a metaphor for something down the road. I’ll let my muse work on it.
I closed the laptop and leaned back on the cushions. If I held my tea, I could swing a little bit. The weather was warmer than it had been all week, and the breeze made me feel drowsy. I’d have to amend my journal to say “two naps.” Later.

* * *

Exhausted by the solitude, I limped over to the game room after dinner. The Inn’s ADHD activity director had organized a casino night. “What will it be?” he asked, hastily pulling out a chair for me. “We have blackjack, dominoes, and bingo.”
“I’ll try the blackjack,” I said, glancing over the other participants. Across the table sat a couple in their mid-sixties. They were wearing identical “MCWVA” tee shirts. Another couple, lost in each other’s eyes seemed to be honeymooners. There was a smattering of conference attendees, but Gregg wasn’t among them. That was a good thing.
Mr. Attention-Deficit made us introduce ourselves and got us started on the games. He flourished his hand over a row of prizes. It looked like he’d robbed the hotel gift shop to come up with his assortment of trash and trinkets — a water bottle, a yo-yo, a Frisbee — all with the Inn’s logo on them. “I’m going for the custom imprinted M&Ms,” I told the MCWVA couple, now known as Glenn and Gwen, as I read my cards and asked for another hit.
“Twenty-one! What does ‘ma cow va’ stand for?” I asked, turning to Gwen.
“Miata Club of West Virginia. We were in a car rally in Jersey and decided to come north a little. Maine is so beautiful this time of year.”
“We’re in our golden years, you know,” Glenn added. “We have all the time in the world. How long are you here for?”
“A couple more days.”
“Your husband doesn’t like card games?”
“Oh, he’s in Chicago. I came to Bar Harbor for a few days to decompress. Our kids just left home for grad school.”
Glenn and Gwen gave each other a knowing, sad look. Gwen reached over and patted my hand. “That’s okay honey,” she soothed. “You enjoy your time here and then you go back and take care of your man.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, as strains of “Stand by Your Man” swooped into my head.

* * *

I won the M&Ms and ripped into the bag with my teeth on the way back to the room. Of course, that’s when the phone rang. I flipped it open as I slid my key card into the slot.
“Hi Hon,” came the familiar voice.
“Hi to you, too. How’s it going?”
“Good as near as I can tell. We’re putting together a reply to their latest concerns now. Then there’s a breakfast meeting tomorrow morning. That should wrap it up.”
“Get some sleep.”
“I’ll try, but it depends on how many numbers we have to crunch. How’s your ankle?”
“Not bad. Swelling’s down, but I’m keeping it wrapped up. I can get around.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Any big plans for tomorrow?”
“Not big plans. I want to check out the town a little more.”
“Be careful.”
“Of course.”
“Listen, Hon, tomorrow I’ll be pretty tied up trying to close this deal. You can always leave me a message on the cell. Be careful, okay?”
“I will. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
When I closed the phone I realized I was still standing in the hallway. I was lonely, I admitted to myself. Bar Harbor was beautiful, and I was lonely. I didn’t know if staying home would have been a better choice. At least I would have been lonely in familiar surroundings. But here? Well, at least the housework phantoms weren’t haunting me.

* * *

I couldn’t hike, so Thursday morning I took OJ and a granola bar out to the main deck, determined to work a couple of hours before sightseeing. I opened my laptop and started typing.
“Love Miles.” Good goal and one Gregg’s actions reminded me not to take for granted.
“Stay in touch with the kids.” Good goal, but would they want to stay in touch with me? Their minds were so full of new experiences right now, I wondered if they’d have time for us “old folks.” I wanted them to come home occasionally for reasons other than nostalgia or obligation, but I wondered what the draw would be. I wanted them to like talking with me — think of me as a friend — but maybe that was a fantasy.
“Work.” What kind of work? I knew I needed some type of stimulation outside of the house, but did it have to be what I was doing now? Working freelance I sometimes felt like Pecos Bill trying to break the cyclone.
“Be involved in service of some kind.” My PTA days were definitely over. Design Center didn’t have sororities and Zach and his friends wouldn’t be hinting for a home-cooked meal. I could find something, though. It might be fun checking out different opportunities.
“What are you working on?” Gwen’s voice made me jump.
“Oh,” I grabbed my chest and caught my breath. “You startled me.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling out a chair without being invited. “Glenn fell asleep watching CNN and I wanted to get out a little. The weather is so nice and the view is breathtaking.”
“It is,” I admitted. I hadn’t looked up from my screen for nearly an hour.
“So, what are you writing?”
I wondered if I should be offended at Gwen’s impertinence, but suddenly I felt talkative. “A new list of personal goals,” I replied. “I haven’t had time to write one for a long time.”
“That’s so brave.” Gwen sat poised on the edge of her chair like a China doll. “Everyone should have goals.”
“Look,” I said, sensing Gwen needed companionship, “why don’t we walk down town for a pastry? There are lots of choices along Main Street.”
“I’d love that.” Gwen brightened visibly. “Just let me get my cane and leave Glenn a note.”
With Gwen’s arthritis and my bum ankle, we inched down Main Street like The Little Engine that Could. We stopped at the first bakery that looked promising. “Why don’t we split a sticky bun?” Gwen asked as we eyed an assortment of breakfast breads that should have been marketed as desserts.
“Sounds good.”
Soon we were sitting in a snug corner with steaming latte’s and a roll dripping with caramel and pecans. Gwen carefully sawed it in half before asking, “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a writer,” I said. “Mostly business. I trained as an English teacher but I’ve never taught. A pharmaceutical company did recruiting on my college campus while I was student teaching. Among other things, they were looking for people to write product brochures. The call of the city and later, the seduction of the salary kept me in the field. It was also something I could do from home after the twins were born.”
“But didn’t you miss the students?” Gwen sounded incredulous. “I taught for 40 years and loved every minute of it. Of course, my field was science. Keeping up with the subject was fun, too. I’d revise my lesson plans based on recent discoveries. Kept me young.”
“You’re as young as you feel,” I said, and then could have kicked myself for being so trite. “I don’t know about missing the students,” I tried again. “I liked watching my twins gain new skills and being involved with their clubs and stuff.”
“That’s the spirit of teaching.” Gwen was glowing now. I could tell retirement wasn’t challenging enough for her. “Ever thought of going back to it?”
“No,” I said. “It would be a pretty big leap. Credentialing requirements have changed, and everything.”
“It’s never too late to do something different with your life.”
Now, I wanted to kick Gwen for being trite. “What about yourself?” I asked. “How about doing some after school tutoring or something?”
“I haven’t looked into it.” She looked sadder than I’d seen her so far. “Glenn was so anxious to zip around the country in his little car. Second childhood, I guess. But I think the excitement is wearing off. It makes him more tired than he likes to admit.”
“So, you’ll think about it when you get home?”
“I could.” Gwen cheered up a bit. “And you’ll let me know what your new goals are?”
“We could be pen-pals.”
“I’d like that.”
I didn’t ask about her children. There was an aura about her that said it was a boundary I shouldn’t cross. I wondered if I’d just become a surrogate younger sister. Never mind, though. We had to get back to the Inn. The sun had disappeared behind a rain cloud.

* * *

I decided to eat dinner in the coffee shop to avoid the conference crowd. As I walked past the front desk, Ms. Nightingale looked up eagerly. I thought she was going to ask me how I was, but her manner surprised me.
“Mrs. Baron,” she grinned conspiratorially. “I was just about to call you. There’s a guest for you in the fireside room.”
“Oh, but I’m not expecting anyone.”
“He wanted to surprise you.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, glancing toward the wingback chair that faced the fireplace.
I could see a brunette head above the chair-back and a single, long-stemmed red rose lying on the side table.
“Gregg, really,” I started. “This is going too far . . .”
I stopped mid sentence as Miles rose from the chair, picked up the rose and headed toward me. “Oh, so his name is Gregg, is it,” he started to tease. Then his face went white as my duvet and he quickened his pace. “What happened, Chrissy? You look terrible.”
“Nice to see you, too,” I choked out in surprise. “I told you I fell.”
“Yes, but,” he traced the abrasion on my cheek with his thumb, “I didn’t expect that you’d banged yourself up this badly.”
I reached up and clasped his hand in mine, speechless for a moment. “How did you get here?”
“I flew. Then I drove.”
“I mean, how did you get away from the meeting?”
“Drafted up the major points last night and handed them off to Sean at breakfast. He’ll polish it up and e-mail me the final draft.”
“So Sean’s working overtime and you’re playing hooky with me?”
“He’s young. Anyway, I was lonely.”
“He’s you at that age. Eager to please, anxious to get ahead.”
“Yes, but he’s also good. I couldn’t have left the final contract with anyone else.”
“Miles.”
“Yes.”
“Make sure he doesn’t neglect his family.”
“I can’t make him have boundaries, Chrissy, but I’ll try to model balance. And speaking of work/life balance, how about some dinner? Those airline peanuts are long gone.”
“Oh, of course. I’ve forgotten my manners. This way.” I turned and led Miles toward The Fishwife dinner restaurant. Suddenly, I wanted Gregg to see us together. Edging past a group of men in the hallway by the bar, I said “Excuse me” loud enough to draw their attention. Gregg and three others looked up. I made eye contact with Gregg as we passed and he turned a deep burgundy. He would have matched the Inn’s old décor perfectly.
Glenn and Gwen were at the hostess desk when we reached The Fishwife and Gwen waved us over. I introduced Miles and soon we were at a table for four, eating steamed clams on the half shell and chatting like seagulls squabbling over scraps. Gwen looked up long enough to catch my eye.
“You did the right thing, Chrissy,” she mouthed over the din, as if I’d just reconciled with Miles after months of separation.
“I know,” I mouthed back.

* * *

Miles and I lay facing each other in the snow cave that had taken on the characteristics of a tropical rainforest. With an arm draped over my waist, he nuzzled the top of my head.
“I hope I didn’t seem too anxious.”
“Not at all. Nothing like absence to stoke the embers of desire.” I kneaded the soft spot at the base of his skull. “I thought you would be exhausted, what with the flight and the drive and all.”
“Not any more. I’m with you.”
We fell asleep, tangled like modern dancers. I slept soundly until my bruises told me to roll over.

* * *

Miles and I sat at a round table in the bay window of a restored Victorian, looking out over the town and harbor. It was Friday morning and Miles had driven us “out” for breakfast. Several other couples staying at the B&B sat nearby, savoring their coffee and talking quietly so as not to disturb the prim atmosphere of the parlor turned breakfast room. Our waitress, Missy, whisked in with a tray balanced on her fingertips. She served my Belgian waffle piled high with strawberries and blueberries topped with a dollop of real whipped cream. Then, she set Miles’ Eggs Benedict before him before offering her editorial. “The blueberries aren’t from Maine,” she said, as if correcting a misunderstanding. “The Maine blues aren’t in yet. The Hollandaise is made with pasteurized eggs. Can I get you anything else?”
“Uh, no, thank you,” I stammered, stunned by her need to deconstruct our order.
Miles, with more class, replied, “Thanks, Missy. I’ll wave if we need anything.”
Missy winked at him and departed. We ate in silence for a few minutes before Miles spoke again.
“So, you’ve started a writing project?”
“Oh, it’s not really a project,” I equivocated. “I used to be a great list-maker. Going through my journals I realize I was pretty demanding of my younger self.”
“And now?”
“Now, I feel guilty about not having a personal mission statement and a sheet or two of roles and goals.”
“You’ve really bought into living a purposeful life, haven’t you?” Miles flashed his boyish grin before sobering. “Guilty enough that you want to work on it today?”
“Heck, no.”
“So where are you headed with your new list? Are we talking mid-term correction or political coup?”
“Mid-term correction, I guess. I have to decide what to do about work.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, Jody e-mailed. She has another free-lance gig if I want it. I haven’t called her yet. I don’t know if I want to get back on the roller-coaster.”
“I thought you were looking for another project.”
“I was, but talking with Gwen made me think about something. Maybe I’d like to teach English.”
“High school?” Miles’ eyebrows shot up and he nearly choked on his bite of eggs and English muffin. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, no. I got my credential, remember, but I’ve never taught. I’d have to look into more training. Stuff like that.”
“So, you’re semi-serious,” Miles washed down his muffin with a swig of coffee. “Not through nurturing yet?
“Guess not. Anyhow, I’m curious enough to check it out. Teaching’s a job that isn’t going away. It could be more creative and more stable than free-lancing.”
“Pays less. What about creative writing?”
“Pays even less.” I sucked whipped cream from the tip of my spoon. “Anyway, that’s Zach’s dream. He’ll be our best-selling author.”
“Chrissy, you know you don’t have to work, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I need the intellectual stimulation.”
“As long as you put it that way. I wouldn’t want to live with a bored wife!”
“As long as you didn’t say ‘boring’ wife.” I flicked my napkin at him like a shower towel.
“So, if you don’t need to work today, how about seeing if Glenn and Gwen would like to go over to Acadia? I think Glenn needs another excuse to drive his Miata with the top down. And they shouldn’t leave without seeing the view from the top of Cadillac Mountain.”
“They’d love it,” I agreed.
“Missy,” Miles waved at Miss Anxious to Set the Customer Straight. “We’ll take the rest of this To-Go.”
As I looked at my plate, I realized I’d systematically denuded the waffle by eating all of the berries and whipped cream. The waffle itself was still perfectly intact. Missy frowned when she saw it.
“Lunch,” was all I could say to defend myself.

* * *

“So, what shall we do about vacation?” asked Miles as we huddled on the porch swing that evening at dusk.
“How about Hawaii at Christmas?”
“But the kids are coming home for Christmas.”
“They think they’re coming,” I shifted position to look into Miles’ eyes. “But I’ll bet you a Mai-Tai in the Tiki Room that Zach decides to tour the continent for “inspiration” and Zoe heads for Mammoth to ski. They’re gone, honey, more gone than they know. Maybe we can look forward to the Christmas after that.”
For the first time, Miles looked wistful and I knew he missed the kids as much as I did. He gave me a soft smile before replying. “Well, in that case, I hear there’s a new resort at Waikiki.”
“Waikiki sounds nice. But if we went to Waikiki I might have to change my mantra from ‘I’ll be in Bar Harbor’ to ‘I’ll be in Waikiki.’”
“It’s a risk I’ll take.” Miles pulled me into an embrace and kissed me on the lips. “Who knows what the next 25 years will bring?”
“Who knows?” I murmured, looping my arms around his neck.
For now, being with Miles in Bar Harbor was enough.