Bar Harbor
J.B. Hogan
“Listen, Lou,” Charlie Woodruff said, leaning back in his plush, brown leather New York City literary agent’s office chair, “I think you just need a break. You’ve been in the city too long. You should get out of town for a while, go somewhere quiet and calm. Re-energize your batteries. That’ll get the words flowing again.”
“I didn’t mean to stay here so long,” Lou Decker, possibly Charlie’s most promising new client, replied. “I was just supposed to come up to sign the book contracts and do a few readings and such. It’s turned out to be a month long ordeal.”
“Ordeal perhaps,” Charlie responded, “but a very successful one you must admit.”
“Well…” Lou began.
“Well, nothing,” Charlie interrupted. “Are you kidding? You’ve been the toast of the town. Radio, TV, literary get-togethers, you’re the hottest thing, a shining star.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Lou laughed. “I’m not exactly on the Times Best-Seller List yet.”
“But you will be,” Charlie insisted, “you will be. Next book: guaranteed best seller. All you have to do is get going on it.”
“Yeah, well,” Lou said, “that’s the problem then, isn’t it? I’m completely blocked. Nothing is happening. I can’t even come up with a new idea. Maybe I should go back to Wisconsin. Home is probably better.”
“Maybe,” Charlie allowed, “but hear me out. Have you ever been up to Maine? I mean along the coast?”
“No,” Lou admitted, “I never have. But I’ve always wanted to. People say Maine is a really beautiful place.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said, “and especially the coast. I’ll get you transpo up to Portland, you rent a car and drive up the coast to Bar Harbor. It’s really nice there. Stay a few days, turn off your phone, don’t check your e-mail, and see if being up there doesn’t get your juices flowing again.”
“Words, juices,” Lou laughed, “you’ll have me pouring out books like water from a drain pipe.”
“You’ll do it?” Charlie asked. Lou considered the idea for a few moments.
“Ah,” he said finally, “why the hell not? What have I got to lose?”
“That’s the spirit,” Charlie cheered his client. “That’s the ticket.”
⃰ * *
Lou liked Portland, Maine. It was a nice combination of old and new architecture, old and new history, and it was a coastal city after all. He had rented an inexpensive compact car after arriving at the airport and then checked into a conveniently located hotel not too far from downtown and the waterfront and quite near a mall where he picked up snacks and drinks to hold him for a couple of days. The weather turned out to be surprisingly cool for so early in September, in the Midwest it could still be quite hot around Labor Day, and so he bought a heavy pullover sweater for evenings and in anticipation of encountering even lower temperatures as he headed north up the coast.
On the day before the holiday, Lou took a self-guided tour of the town, walking around to some art and history museums and then stopping for a nice lunch at an open air restaurant. Late in the afternoon, he drove down to the port and took an inexpensive cruise around the bay, checking out the lovely homes on little islets jutting out into the water. It was all quite tranquil and relaxing, allowing him to take his mind off the stress of his recent sojourn in New York and to forget, at least for the moment, that his publishers were expecting another book from him in short order.
Tired but content, he returned to his hotel with plenty of time to pack his bags and get ready for the drive up the coast in the morning. Life wasn’t all that bad, he reminded himself, even if he was beginning to feel his nearly four decades on this earth and even if he found himself alone again after a longish, complex relationship with a woman he had once actually considered marrying.
Thinking of Carol, his ex-partner, caused him to sigh unbidden and to remember his agent Charlie’s final admonition when he, Lou, had visited him back in New York.
“Go off somewhere and write a story with a love interest,” Charlie had advised him, “that’ll get you off the schneid with the writing block. People like love stories. Reader’s like love stories. I know some magazine editors who would love to get a story from you like that. Besides, you can work out your memories that way. Isn’t that what you writers do? Turn your lives into art.”
“Something like that,” Lou had answered, not really thinking a love story was much up his alley these days or anything he had ever really been much interested in. They were always too mushy, too unrealistic. Lou liked to write what he called “realistic” fiction.
“Well, make it realistic,” Charlie had told him. “Just write something for a larger audience. Don’t pin yourself down. Don’t limit the potential size of your readership. It’s good business to reach as many people as possible.”
“Yeah,” Lou had laughed, doubting he was the guy for that kind of writing, “reach as many people as possible.”
⃰ * *
After having a light breakfast at a restaurant near the hotel, Lou drove his rental car to I-295 and headed out of Portland. It was a cool, but bright day with a high, deep blue sky – perfect for driving and seeing the beautiful Maine coast. Dropping off I-295 onto Highway 1, he took the exit to Freeport and spent the time to actually drive by the L. L. Bean store just because it was easy to find.
From Freeport he continued north through Brunswick and Camden and far up country until Highway 3 joined Highway 1, finally dropping south and easterly towards Bar Harbor. Near Bar Harbor he began looking for a place to stay and saw a couple of quaint travel courts but went on into town for a quick looksee. After a short walk around in what he took to be Bar Harbor’s downtown, he drove out to a pier he had seen advertised in a tourist brochure to check out prices and times for a whale watching trip he thought sounded like fun.
Stopping at a grocery for some basic food and snacking items and then at a liquor store for a decently priced bottle of Pinot Noir, he took the highway back out of town to find lodging for the night. A few miles out of Bar Harbor he found the Hideaway Courts, exactly the kind of place he was hoping for.
The Hideaway consisted of maybe ten or so little individual cabins, arranged in a kind of extended rectangle. Lou took one that was a little set off from the others in the lower left hand side of the court, closer to the highway but far enough away to not be disturbed by traffic noise.
Inside, the one-room cabin was pretty small. A single bed took up most of the right side as you entered and a chair across from it left only a walking space to get to the back of the room where the bathroom and shower were located. On the left as you came in, was a small desk and chair – perfect for writing Lou noted – and behind it a small kitchen with a little stove and refrigerator.
“Absolutely perfect,” Lou said, depositing the perishable groceries and drinks in the refrigerator. “Just ideal.”
After having a Swiss cheese sandwich with veggie beans for supper, Lou dug his laptop out of its carrying case, hooked up a small mouse he liked to use and then plugged the PC into a wall socket to save battery power. He had made some story notes on hotel paper back in Portland and found those, too, and entered them into Word.
“How people ever used to write by long hand or typewriter escapes me,” he told the quiet little cabin. “Thank God for laptops and word processing.”
“Huhp,” he said a couple of moments later, after entering most of his notes in a file. “Wine. Gotta have some wine. Can’t be a writer in a little cabin on the coast of Maine without some good vino.”
He went out to the kitchen and opened the bottle of Pinot Noir with a small corkscrew he always carried in his day backpack – just for moments like this. He opened the bottle carefully and set it on the counter to breathe. Looking in an overhead cabinet, he was pleased to find two small wine glasses and, while mentally thanking the court owners for such foresight, cleaned one of them. He then poured himself about a half glass of the fragrant Pinot and let that set for a moment as well. Finally, he took a nice drink of the wine, swirled it around in his mouth and let it slowly slide down his throat.
“Most excellent,” he said out loud, reloading the glass to nearly three-quarters full. “Time to get to work.”
⃰ * *
Lou woke early the following morning, before daylight, but he felt rested and relaxed. Lying there in the little cabin bed, he congratulated himself on picking such a great place to write. No internet access, no phone calls. Just right for work. He had only begun his new story, not much more than a decently detailed outline and a few opening paragraphs, but it felt like it might develop into something with some size and depth.
Art would imitate an imagined reality, he told himself. The protagonist was a budding author, Leonard Denman, a man not unlike himself. Leonard would travel to some exotic locales and meet Erin Beloit, a beautiful woman of means. They would become involved, physically and emotionally, with a searing, almost frightening passion. And the deeper the relationship became, the more Leonard realized that Erin was herself frightening, physically and emotionally. The affair, explosive to begin, would explode even worse upon its ending. There was danger here – real danger, destructive and life-threatening. That’s a good start, Lou told himself, rolling over on his side and drifting back to sleep.
After leisurely starting his day about seven-thirty, it was so light inside and out that he was unable to prolong his luxuriant sleep, Lou took a walk around the little travel court and then spent the rest of the morning sketching out his story and typing in a few paragraphs of its beginning. Lunch was a PB and J sandwich and by one o’clock he was driving back into Bar Harbor to give the place a more thorough checking out.
On his way into town, Lou saw a sign for Hull Cove and Acadia National Park so he turned off there and found their visitor center. Inside, he got a map of the park with directions to trails going up Mt. Cadillac. Driving on, he found a nice secluded trailhead and, leaving the car parked nearby, set off to see the mountain.
The trail was quite wooded at first, thick with brush and small trees, but it was cool and shady and climbed gradually so that it was a pleasant walk more than a strenuous hike. In a very short time, the trail rose a bit more steadily and soon Lou was coming out of the woods and onto the rocky, grassy slopes leading up to the top of the mountain. Out in the sunlight, it was warmer and he breathed in the clean, coastal air. The sky was almost empty of clouds and was a deep, deep blue.
About mid-way up the mountain, he stopped and stood on a flat, gray rock to look back. And there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. Blue and blue and more blue as far as the eye could see. To the horizon. The blue was lit up with occasional flashes of bright sunlight dancing across the tranquil sea in shimmering yellow patches. Lou took in a long, deep breath and sighed. It was an extraordinary place, a magnificent view. He stood there several minutes more admiring the sea and then headed back up the hill.
Maybe three-quarters of the way to the top he found another big gray rock, this one large enough and prominent enough to actually sit down on. Tossing his day bag down on the rock, Lou turned again towards the sea. Unbidden, the memory of a recently lost uncle came to mind. Sitting down by his bag, Lou used the moment to commune with the sea and to say a personal, inner farewell to his uncle, who had always been one of his favorites. He closed his eyes to the brightness of the shining sea and remained quiet for several moments.
When he felt the goodbye was over he opened his eyes again. Turning to look up the hill, he noticed that there was a parking area at the top and that there was a growing crowd of people there.
“That’s good enough,” he said out loud to himself. “Good enough for today.”
Picking up his bag, he hopped off the big rock and headed back down the trail away from the top of Cadillac Mountain. It would take him awhile to get to the car and he was getting hungry. It was time to head into town and check out Bar Harbor some more.
⃰ * *
“Could I just have a grilled cheese, French fries, and water?” Lou asked the waitress.
“Of course, sir,” the young woman smiled, “I’ll get that in for you and bring the water right away.”
“Thanks,” Lou smiled.
He had ducked into the little café after only a few minutes in town because he had simply gotten too hungry to do a full touristy run around the place. The restaurant, Di’s Place, seemed like it would be quiet and intimate and it didn’t disappoint. For a few moments he sat there quietly sipping the water his waitress brought and thinking about the next section of the story he was working on.
“Just visiting?” a woman’s voice from nearby suddenly broke into Lou’s literary reverie.
“I’m sorry?” he said, turning to face a small table just to his right.
“Forgive me,” the woman who had spoken to him said. “You looked like you might be a tourist.”
“Definitely a tourist,” Lou grinned, checking the woman out. She appeared to be in her mid to late 30s, very pretty and unadorned with fine, smooth features. Her soft brown hair fell fashionably to her shoulders and highlighted her softly angular face. “Is it that obvious?”
“The backpack and hiking shoes give you away,” the woman replied.
“Don’t the locals hike around here?” Lou asked.
“Not usually with airline baggage tickets on their packs,” the woman laughed.
“Got me there,” Lou said.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” the woman said, giving Lou a wink that surprised him with its familiarity.
“Oh, no,” Lou said, intrigued by the woman’s attitude. “Are you a local?” he thought to ask.
“Here comes your meal,” the woman said, pointing ahead to where Lou’s waitress was approaching with a tray of food.
“Yeah,” Lou said, nodding his head. “That’s some fast service.”
“Here you are, sir,” the waitress said, placing the sandwich and fries on the table in front of Lou. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” Lou said, spotting a bottle of catsup on his table. “I’m all set.”
As the waitress walked away, the woman next to Lou also rose.
“I’ll leave you to your food,” she said, with a pleasant smile.
“Well …” Lou began, part of him wishing the woman might stay a bit longer. “I’m … uh, Lou Decker.”
He reached out his hand. The woman took his hand in hers and held it gently but firmly.
“Erica Bell,” she said, “very pleased to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Lou replied.
“Well, have a nice meal, Lou Decker,” Erica said, turning to go.
“What’s good to do here?” Lou asked after her. “I mean for a tourist and all?”
“Whale watching,” Erica said, walking away. “Whale watching is always fun.”
“Thanks,” Lou spoke to her retreating figure. “Sounds like a plan.”
Erica waved a slender hand as she exited the front of the restaurant. Lou watched her turn right outside and disappear.
Erica Bell, he thought, biting into his grilled cheese and nibbling on a French fry. Erin Beloit. That’s pretty coincidental. What are the odds of that happening?
⃰ * *
Lou got up early the next morning, despite another relatively late night of wine drinking and writing, and headed back into Bar Harbor. It was easy to find the whale watching boats. The harbor was down at the end of Main Street and you could hardly miss the signs pointing you there.
It was another spectacular day: not a cloud to be seen, sunny, with a high, deep blue sky above – perfect for trying to spy the first whale spout as the captain told the eighty or so passengers while guiding the vessel out to sea. The only potential problem Lou saw with the day was that it was pretty much on the cool side. He was glad he had picked up the pullover but they had barely got away from the shore when he realized the sweater was not going to be heavy enough to repel the ocean wind.
From practically the moment the boat got into the open sea, Lou was watching the horizon for signs of whale. Despite the uncomfortable breeze, he found a space forward on the starboard side of the ship and took up station there. About forty-five minutes out of port, his body slightly shaking from the cold, Lou saw one of the most amazing sights of his life: the spout of a whale far in the distance, opposite where he stood, to the port side.
“Whale,” he cried out excitedly, not knowing whether he should go with ‘Thar she blows’ or not. “Whale. I see a spout!”
“Well done, sir,” a nearby crew member congratulated Lou, “good spotting. Whale off the port bow.”
Lou was thrilled as the captain steered the boat to port, right towards where the spout had appeared. He was about to burst with pride for having seen the first whale. To see better, he crossed over to the forward port side and stood near the railing in hopes of getting a really close up look at the whale.
In fact, when the boat finally reached the whale Lou was thrilled anew to see that there were actually three of the giant animals, two large and one smaller one. The captain carefully stayed as near to the whales as he could without disturbing them in order to give the passengers a great view of the creatures.
“I wonder what kind they are?” Lou asked a man to his right.
“I’m not sure,” the man said, “but I’m sure they’ll tell us in a minute.”
“They’re Right Whales,” Lou heard a familiar voice to his left say. “They’re very rare and seldom seen. They’re on the endangered species. We’re really lucky today.”
“Erica?” Lou asked, completely surprised. “I didn’t see you anywhere on the boat before. How …?”
“Wait,” Erica stopped his question with a raised hand, “the crew is about to tell us about the whales.”
Over the ship loudspeaker, a crew member did in fact identify the huge ocean-going mammals as very rare Right Whales and based on the similar size of the two larger ones and the presence of the calf, was confident that the bigger animals were both female. He went on to describe the callosities, the rough ugly patches of skin on their heads and near their mouths that allowed researchers to identify specific animals. Lou happily soaked in all the new information but was just as impressed by Erica’s dead on knowledge. In addition, her sudden appearance had all the hallmarks of a remarkable, and potentially enjoyable, serendipity.
“You nailed that,” Lou told Erica as the Right Whales began to move away from the boat, out toward less crowded waters.
“And you spotted them,” Erica replied.
“You heard that? Saw that?” Lou asked.
“That’s how I found you.”
“Pretty good luck, I’d say.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Erica said with an enigmatic smile. Lou just shook his head.
On the way back in, he and Erica never left each other’s side. They stayed by the rail, brisk as the air was, and chatted steadily about the beautiful sea, the magnificent whales, anything that came to mind. He told her he was a writer, in Maine to work on a story. She snuggled next to him as he talked, surprising him with her willingness to be so physical so shortly after meeting him. As if on cue, she linked her arm through his and leaned into him. He had to admit it felt really good to be with her, to feel her warm body next to his out there in the cold air of the deck.
Back in Bar Harbor, with the day of whale watching concluded successfully, they decided to grab a drink and a bite to eat at a bar and grill just down Main Street rather than go their separate ways just yet.
“Something to drink first?” their waitress asked.
“Yeah,” Lou told her, “a Sam Adams, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the young woman said, smiling sweetly.
“A beer man?” Erica asked, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Bring me a Chardonnay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress said.
“And don’t call me, ma’am,” Erica said. “I’m not your mother.”
“She was just being polite,” Lou suggested, after the girl had left for the drinks.
“Naturally, being a man, you fell for that,” Erica surprised Lou with her rather rancorous attitude towards the waitress. “She’s just working you for a tip.”
“Seems a bit harsh,” Lou said.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Erica said.
“Right,” Lou agreed, “let’s keep the day going well. It was too much fun, too enjoyable, for any minor disagreement. I’ll be ready to order something when she gets back for sure. I’m getting hungry.”
“I say we have an appetizer and then split something,” Erica said, in a tone that seemed to block any further discussion.
“Okay,” Lou acquiesced easily.
Erica ordered breaded mushrooms for their appetizer and a large hot veggie sandwich to share for the meal. That suited Lou fine and he ordered another beer to go along with the sandwich. Erica sipped her wine with the food and declined a second glass when the waitress asked.
“Well,” Lou said, patting his full stomach when they had finished the sandwich, “that was tasty. Nice choice.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Erica said, flashing her high voltage smile.
“You must’ve been here before,” Lou said, grinning. “You knew exactly what to get, like a local.”
“Is that some kind of attempt to figure out who I am, where I come from?” Erica said cooly.
“Oh, no, no,” Lou countered, “I just meant ….”
“If you’re going to get all personal,” Erica said, again surprising Lou with her attitude, “maybe it’s time for me to go.”
“No, please,” Lou said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just talking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, it’s getting late anyway,” Erica said, her body language indicating she was about to stand up.
“Wait,” Lou said, “just a second. I need to make a pit stop and pay for our food and stuff. I’ll walk you to your car, if you have to take off.”
Without waiting for a response, he headed for the restroom. When he came out, Erica was gone. He hurriedly paid for their meal and drinks and over-tipped the waitress to make up for Erica’s rudeness. Outside, he looked in both directions but there was no sign of his rather mysterious day’s partner. She had vanished into the heart of Bar Harbor somewhere. Gone without a trace. Shaking his head, Lou walked back to the harbor parking and drove his rental car out to the tourist court.
That night, sober and reflective, he wrote up the day’s experiences as fiction, describing them just as they had happened but attributing them to the Leonard Denman and Erin Beloit characters in his story. The irony and strangeness of the parallels between his personal life and his fictive world was not lost on him.
⃰ * *
Early next morning Lou drove back into Bar Harbor to spend some time just walking around, absorbing the feel, sound, and smell of the town. He stopped in touristy stores selling all manner of Maine and northeast memorabilia, chatted with salespeople and small business owners, did his best to get a feel for the personality of the place.
Like most towns that profited to a large extent from the tourist trade, Bar Harbor had that atmosphere of the transitory. Each day or so, the population of visitors would change over, leaving the small cadre of business folk to remain and replay the same jokes, friendly smiles, and local stories that they had just told to the previous group. Lou had seen it in towns from Show Low, Arizona to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and beyond.
You, the visitor, were the eternal outsider whose primary function was to provide a living for the townies, whose primary function was to act as if you were the first person to ever truly fit into their world and do so in less than twenty-four hours. Because Lou understood this symbiotic relationship he went along with it and always enjoyed himself and felt comfortable in tourist towns.
Around noon, in a good mood but ready to do something other than check out any more shops, Lou decided to find a place to have a drink and maybe a snack or meal of some kind. Without really paying attention, he found a little eatery and walked in. He immediately realized he had gone back to Di’s Place, where he had first met Erica. And sure enough there she was again, sitting at the same table as the first day. Given their peculiar last parting, Lou briefly considered turning right back around and leaving but before he could put that idea into action, Erica looked up and saw him.
“Lou,” she said enthusiastically, rising partway out of her chair.
“Stay seated,” he told her.
“Join me, will you please?” she asked sweetly. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“Well…” he hesitated.
“Please,” she repeated. Another of her brilliant smiles sealed the deal.
“Sure,” Lou said, “why the heck not?”
“I wanted to call you,” Erica said, after Lou had settled in and placed his food and drink order, “but I didn’t know where you were staying and we didn’t exchange phone numbers.”
“I turned my phone off,” Lou explained. “I’m trying to get past a small writer’s block I’ve had lately.”
“Oh,” Erica said, “I didn’t realize. I was under the impression your writing was going well.”
“It’s going better lately,” he said, smiling. “When people don’t just run out and leave me in the lurch.”
“I’m sorry I ran away from you yesterday,” Erica apologized. “I behaved badly, I know.”
“It’s okay,” Lou said, “it actually helped me write later.”
“I doubt that,” Erica countered.
“No, really,” Lou insisted, as his food arrived at the table, “it really did.”
“Whatever,” Erica said, “I’m glad to see you again.”
“Yeah,” Lou concurred, “me, too.”
Later, after the meal, they took Lou’s car and drove around Acadia National Park. Lou showed Erica where he had gone into the park on his hike and then they continued on up to the parking lot at the top of Cadillac Mountain.
The afternoon was cool but bright and sunny, just like the previous days Lou had been in Bar Harbor. He and Erica, arms around each other’s waists, walked across the parking lot and out onto the large gray rocks dotting the side of Cadillac Mountain all the way down to where the woods started at the bottom of the hill. And spread out to the horizon beyond the land was the great, shimmering Atlantic Ocean.
“Majestic, isn’t it?” Erica said.
“Totally,” Lou agreed. “Absolutely magnificent.”
“Are you glad you came to Bar Harbor?” Erica asked, looking into his eyes.
“Yes,” Lou said simply.
“So am I,” Erica said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
Lou smiled and pulled her tightly against his side. She slipped a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Nice and tight,” she teased. He put his left hand on her bottom in response.
“Likewise I’m sure,” he said. Erica laughed.
“You’re a bad boy,” she told him.
“Always,” he said in a husky whisper, “all the time.”
“I’d better be careful, then,” Erica said, her face close to Lou’s.
“Maybe you should,” he replied.
“Maybe I don’t want to be careful,” she said, putting her arms around his waist and moving up close to his chest.
“Maybe I don’t want you to, either,” he said, pulling her body against his.
“You’re calling the shots,” she said compliantly.
“You want to come back with me to my little cabin?” he asked.
“I’d love to,” she answered.
On the way back to Lou’s place, they stopped off for snacks and a couple of bottles of wine. Erica continued to surprise Lou with her seemingly easy acquiescence. It was a side of her that he had not picked up on before nor expected – at least to this point.
After a few glasses of wine, however, that all changed. Erica again became the aggressor and practically pushed Lou into bed. She climbed on top of him. Removed both of their clothes. Went after him wildly. And it was incredible sex. Athletic, energetic, unrestrained, no holds barred intercourse. It was sex like he imagined it might be with some semi-crazed, totally free woman like Angelina Jolie – rough, steady, pleasurable to the extreme, and with that edge of danger not knowing what might happen next.
Later, exhausted, Lou lay in bed watching Erica sleep the sleep of the unconcerned. Her breath was shallow and soft and she seemed completely at ease as she slept. Looking over her near perfect body, a stray thought flitted across his mind. From some place, some odd corner of his mind, it occurred to him that she seemed not quite real lying there so peacefully. Who was she? Could this be real? Was it really happening to him?
With a sigh, he laid his head on the pillow, and put his arms up around the back of his head. He thought of his story, waiting for him there in the laptop, waiting for him to bring it to life again. To make something out of nothing, to convert experience and idea into literature.
As he closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep, he wondered if in fact he was on the right track with his work. Was he marshaling creativity and reality into a dramatic whole, or was he in fact simply blurring the fine distinction that existed between the actual world and fiction? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was only thing that did.
⃰ * *
When Lou opened his eyes next, the morning sun had penetrated the cabin in long yellow fingers of light. Squinting against the brightness, he turned over to find Erica gone.
“Erica,” he called out, sliding from the bed to an upright position – maybe a little too quickly. “Ooh,” he groaned, grabbing his head and sitting back down on the edge of the bed.
When the pain subsided, he stood up again, but much more slowly.
“Erica?”
He realized, then, given the size of the little cabin, that there was no way she was still there. He wasn’t sure he was as bothered by that fact as he would have expected himself to be. In the short time she’d been part of his life, her behavior, while highly stimulating on several levels, had been rather erratic to say the least. But there was something about her, besides her intrinsic beauty, that intrigued him, made him want to be in her presence even if that meant dealing with the complexities of her nature.
Reluctantly he accepted the fact that she had gone for the moment and that he would have to go in search of her again if he wanted them to remain in contact. Downing a tall glass of juice to jumpstart his morning and delay his hunger before having breakfast, he found a dry, clean towel and headed for the shower.
He let the water run until it was comfortably hot and then stood there for a good while just letting it warm up his body and ease the pain in his head. He knew he had to go into town and find Erica but he would take his time. He was pretty sure he knew how to find her. She hadn’t made it all that difficult so far.
⃰ * *
Lou didn’t drive into town until around ten-thirty. He didn’t want to seem overanxious or eager, which he assumed would get him nowhere with Erica. Even though he still had a bit of a hangover after cleaning up and eating and was not particularly inspired to write, he still managed to work a little bit on his manuscript before heading into Bar Harbor. All the way in, he had this nagging sensation that the story was getting away from him, that his real-life involvement with Erica was finding its way into his fiction – altering and informing it in a way he had not intended.
Despite his confidence that he would be able to locate her easily and quickly in town, she in fact turned out to be a rather more elusive quarry than he had expected. He tried Di’s Place, down by the whale watching harbor, along the rows of tourist shops – nothing. It was altogether possible, he reasoned, that she had simply disappeared, gone back to where she came from – wherever that might be.
He was considering returning to the cabin when an idea flitted across his mind: Cadillac Mountain. It was just a hunch, but how could he go wrong whether Erica was there or not. There were few places he’d seen with such an inspiring view. At the very least, returning to its summit might provide him with more psychic energy for writing.
By the time he reached the parking lot at the top of the mountain, it was pushing noon and the sun was high and bright. The blue bay beyond shimmered and sparkled, ephemeral patches of gold dancing upon the still water. Lou parked the car and climbed out to get a better view of the land and sea. Stepping onto one of the ubiquitous gray flat rocks, he took a long, slow look around the area. Just to his left, not more than twenty yards away, he saw Erica. After a moment, she turned and saw him.
“Are you stalking me?” she asked loudly.
“Well … no,” Lou answered, looking around to see if anyone else at the top might be watching or listening to them.
“Could fool me,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Lou asked, walking over to her. She gave him a haughty look.
“You’re going to tell me you’re not pursuing me?”
“I was looking for you, sure. I don’t know that that’s the same as pursuing. You did just sort of disappear on me this morning.”
“You fell asleep. I left.”
“How did you get here?” Lou asked, looking for a way to redirect the conversation.
“And that is your business, how?” she questioned.
“Never mind,” Lou said.
“I got a ride with a friend, if you must know,” Erica remarked.
“Is he, or she, still here?” Lou asked, looking around.
“It took you long enough to find me,” Erica said. “I thought after last night you would be a little more attentive.”
“I … I don’t know what to say to that,” Lou admitted, shaking his head.
“Oh, you big dummy,” Erica said, suddenly smiling and putting her arms around Lou’s waist. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I’m completely confused,” Lou said. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to get.”
“Of course you don’t, silly,” Erica laughed, “that’s what I’m for.”
“If you say so,” Lou sighed.
“I’m hungry,” Erica announced. Lou looked at her without understanding. “Food,” she added, “you know, that stuff that keeps us going, allows us to work and get things done?”
“Alright,” Lou said agreeably, “whatever.”
“You have your car?”
“I do.”
“Then take me into town and buy me lunch.”
“I’m at your service.”
“Of course you are. That’s how this thing works.”
⃰ * *
After a quiet lunch, Lou drove them back to his cabin where they repeated the previous night’s sexual athletics. This time, however, they didn’t bother to have even a half glass of wine as a psychic warm up. What they shared this day was straightforward, unadulterated, and highly exhilarating – at least for Lou. But when it was over, Erica seemed uneasy, agitated, unable to lie still.
“Are you okay?” Lou asked, sprawled on top of the bed covers.
“I’m fine,” Erica replied, but she hopped out of bed and began rigorously putting her clothes back on. He watched her silently. “What?” she said brusquely.
“Nothing,” he replied meekly.
“No,” she challenged, “you were about to say something. What was it?”
“No I wasn’t,” he insisted. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
There was an icy silence while she finished dressing. Lou began putting on his clothes as well.
“You’re using me,” Erica said, breaking the quiet spell. “You’re turning our passion into a story. You don’t give a damn about me; you just want to use me to create your lousy fiction.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“Don’t try to BS me,” she shot back. “I saw your story.”
“You were on my laptop,” he asked incredulously. “When? This morning while I was asleep?”
“Don’t try to avoid your responsibility,” she told him. “You can’t get off that easy.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Lou asked. “I don’t understand what you are talking about?”
“Liar,” she said bluntly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Hell, you’re putting everything I say in your damned story. All you want me for is more material for your story. Admit it.”
“It’s not like that at all,” Lou countered. “I swear.”
“You writers are all the same,” Erica said, “you don’t care about anybody or anything unless you can use it in your work.”
“I’m not that way,” Lou insisted.
“Please,” Erica laughed.
“I promise,” Lou swore, “and I’ll prove it.”
He reached out for her but she pulled away.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I need you,” he said, “you have to know that.”
“I know what you want from me,” Erica said, walking to the door of the cabin. “You always want it.”
“Wait…” Lou began, but Erica was gone, shutting the door behind her. Gone. As simply as that.
Lou stood still for several moments just staring at the closed door. He didn’t know if Erica was really gone or not. Sometimes he wondered if she truly existed, despite their intense physical relationship. It was all so strong, so sudden and so fast, he doubted its reality.
“Oh, hell,” he sighed, slumping down in the little desk chair.
He lifted the cover on his laptop and hit the power button. The system booted up in less than a minute. As soon as he could open MS Word he was back working on his story. Erica be damned.
In the clear light of the following morning, after a refreshing shower and a light breakfast, Lou was in a more conciliatory frame of mind. Erica had her points about their relationship. He did tend to use his own experience and his observations about life as the basis for writing, but he wasn’t cold and calculating about it.
He lived his relationships, his successes and failures, his hopes, his conflicts, his loves. It was just that as a writer, all of it was fair game to be turned into fiction. That was what a writer did, was. He still cared about people, places, life but he had to maintain a distance from them – authorial distance. It wasn’t an easy thing, but it came with the territory.
Mid-morning he went into town in search of Erica yet again. Instinctively, he headed towards Di’s Place. He found a parking spot about a block away from the restaurant and walked slowly and calmly towards it. Just as he was about to jaywalk across the narrow street to Di’s, he saw Erica. She was coming up the sidewalk – arm in arm with another man. Lou froze where he was.
Neither Erica nor her new beau were paying any attention to their surroundings. They were completely into each other. She had her arm through his and they were smiling and laughing as if they’d known each other for years. Lou sized the guy up quickly. Another writer, he thought, or an artist. One looking for that shot of inspiration or a muse that would provide the wind through his metaphorical Aeolian Harp.
It was all so familiar to Lou that the anger initially welling up in him simply dissipated into the air of the new reality. He understood Erica’s throwing him over, understood how this worked. The man she was with was today’s best catch just as he, Lou, had been the best catch each of the last days. That’s how life was – you were the latest and the greatest and then you were yesterday’s news.
He started to turn around and head back to the car but stopped when he saw Erica look in his direction. He wished he had kept going for she looked right at him, through him. It was like they had never known each other at all. Like it had all been a dream, or in his imagination.
She and the younger guy went through the door into Di’s place and disappeared. Was that how it always worked with her, Lou wondered? Did she just pop up in your life, in your mind maybe, and then when she had used you – or you had used her – it was all over?
Over. Definitely over. He certainly knew that now. But he still felt that odd mix of sensations when he finished a story, a poem, a book: elation tempered by a feeling of emptiness. A hole where the energy and drive had been. The way probably everyone felt when they reached a goal, or completed a difficult task. It was great while it was happening but when it was over there was that ambiguous sense of pleasure and hollowness.
Lou took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. That was all there was to it. It had come and gone. He had had his moment and now it was time to move one. He turned away from Di’s Place and walked to the rental car. On the way back to the cabin, he picked up a really good bottle of wine and some tasty treats.
He would finish his story tonight. It would be done then and he would move on from Erica Bell. He would complete the story of Erin Beloit and Leonard Denman and maybe that would give him some distance from himself as well, and satisfy the New York literary people all at the same time. Workers in fiction were rare birds and he himself was perhaps a rare one among them. Who knew? It was just what you did.
The following morning, sober and maybe a little bit humbler, he packed up his laptop and bags and drove back down the coast. He already had a new idea for a completely different kind of story. He thought Charlie, his agent, might approve of it even though it didn’t involve a woman or a relationship.
It would be something not so connected to his own personal experience. He thought he would like to do a story like that. It wouldn’t be nearly so hard, so dangerous to write as the personal kind. Yeah, he could definitely write something born of his imagination. He might even be able to make it into another book. He knew his publishers would like that.
“I didn’t mean to stay here so long,” Lou Decker, possibly Charlie’s most promising new client, replied. “I was just supposed to come up to sign the book contracts and do a few readings and such. It’s turned out to be a month long ordeal.”
“Ordeal perhaps,” Charlie responded, “but a very successful one you must admit.”
“Well…” Lou began.
“Well, nothing,” Charlie interrupted. “Are you kidding? You’ve been the toast of the town. Radio, TV, literary get-togethers, you’re the hottest thing, a shining star.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Lou laughed. “I’m not exactly on the Times Best-Seller List yet.”
“But you will be,” Charlie insisted, “you will be. Next book: guaranteed best seller. All you have to do is get going on it.”
“Yeah, well,” Lou said, “that’s the problem then, isn’t it? I’m completely blocked. Nothing is happening. I can’t even come up with a new idea. Maybe I should go back to Wisconsin. Home is probably better.”
“Maybe,” Charlie allowed, “but hear me out. Have you ever been up to Maine? I mean along the coast?”
“No,” Lou admitted, “I never have. But I’ve always wanted to. People say Maine is a really beautiful place.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said, “and especially the coast. I’ll get you transpo up to Portland, you rent a car and drive up the coast to Bar Harbor. It’s really nice there. Stay a few days, turn off your phone, don’t check your e-mail, and see if being up there doesn’t get your juices flowing again.”
“Words, juices,” Lou laughed, “you’ll have me pouring out books like water from a drain pipe.”
“You’ll do it?” Charlie asked. Lou considered the idea for a few moments.
“Ah,” he said finally, “why the hell not? What have I got to lose?”
“That’s the spirit,” Charlie cheered his client. “That’s the ticket.”
⃰ * *
Lou liked Portland, Maine. It was a nice combination of old and new architecture, old and new history, and it was a coastal city after all. He had rented an inexpensive compact car after arriving at the airport and then checked into a conveniently located hotel not too far from downtown and the waterfront and quite near a mall where he picked up snacks and drinks to hold him for a couple of days. The weather turned out to be surprisingly cool for so early in September, in the Midwest it could still be quite hot around Labor Day, and so he bought a heavy pullover sweater for evenings and in anticipation of encountering even lower temperatures as he headed north up the coast.
On the day before the holiday, Lou took a self-guided tour of the town, walking around to some art and history museums and then stopping for a nice lunch at an open air restaurant. Late in the afternoon, he drove down to the port and took an inexpensive cruise around the bay, checking out the lovely homes on little islets jutting out into the water. It was all quite tranquil and relaxing, allowing him to take his mind off the stress of his recent sojourn in New York and to forget, at least for the moment, that his publishers were expecting another book from him in short order.
Tired but content, he returned to his hotel with plenty of time to pack his bags and get ready for the drive up the coast in the morning. Life wasn’t all that bad, he reminded himself, even if he was beginning to feel his nearly four decades on this earth and even if he found himself alone again after a longish, complex relationship with a woman he had once actually considered marrying.
Thinking of Carol, his ex-partner, caused him to sigh unbidden and to remember his agent Charlie’s final admonition when he, Lou, had visited him back in New York.
“Go off somewhere and write a story with a love interest,” Charlie had advised him, “that’ll get you off the schneid with the writing block. People like love stories. Reader’s like love stories. I know some magazine editors who would love to get a story from you like that. Besides, you can work out your memories that way. Isn’t that what you writers do? Turn your lives into art.”
“Something like that,” Lou had answered, not really thinking a love story was much up his alley these days or anything he had ever really been much interested in. They were always too mushy, too unrealistic. Lou liked to write what he called “realistic” fiction.
“Well, make it realistic,” Charlie had told him. “Just write something for a larger audience. Don’t pin yourself down. Don’t limit the potential size of your readership. It’s good business to reach as many people as possible.”
“Yeah,” Lou had laughed, doubting he was the guy for that kind of writing, “reach as many people as possible.”
⃰ * *
After having a light breakfast at a restaurant near the hotel, Lou drove his rental car to I-295 and headed out of Portland. It was a cool, but bright day with a high, deep blue sky – perfect for driving and seeing the beautiful Maine coast. Dropping off I-295 onto Highway 1, he took the exit to Freeport and spent the time to actually drive by the L. L. Bean store just because it was easy to find.
From Freeport he continued north through Brunswick and Camden and far up country until Highway 3 joined Highway 1, finally dropping south and easterly towards Bar Harbor. Near Bar Harbor he began looking for a place to stay and saw a couple of quaint travel courts but went on into town for a quick looksee. After a short walk around in what he took to be Bar Harbor’s downtown, he drove out to a pier he had seen advertised in a tourist brochure to check out prices and times for a whale watching trip he thought sounded like fun.
Stopping at a grocery for some basic food and snacking items and then at a liquor store for a decently priced bottle of Pinot Noir, he took the highway back out of town to find lodging for the night. A few miles out of Bar Harbor he found the Hideaway Courts, exactly the kind of place he was hoping for.
The Hideaway consisted of maybe ten or so little individual cabins, arranged in a kind of extended rectangle. Lou took one that was a little set off from the others in the lower left hand side of the court, closer to the highway but far enough away to not be disturbed by traffic noise.
Inside, the one-room cabin was pretty small. A single bed took up most of the right side as you entered and a chair across from it left only a walking space to get to the back of the room where the bathroom and shower were located. On the left as you came in, was a small desk and chair – perfect for writing Lou noted – and behind it a small kitchen with a little stove and refrigerator.
“Absolutely perfect,” Lou said, depositing the perishable groceries and drinks in the refrigerator. “Just ideal.”
After having a Swiss cheese sandwich with veggie beans for supper, Lou dug his laptop out of its carrying case, hooked up a small mouse he liked to use and then plugged the PC into a wall socket to save battery power. He had made some story notes on hotel paper back in Portland and found those, too, and entered them into Word.
“How people ever used to write by long hand or typewriter escapes me,” he told the quiet little cabin. “Thank God for laptops and word processing.”
“Huhp,” he said a couple of moments later, after entering most of his notes in a file. “Wine. Gotta have some wine. Can’t be a writer in a little cabin on the coast of Maine without some good vino.”
He went out to the kitchen and opened the bottle of Pinot Noir with a small corkscrew he always carried in his day backpack – just for moments like this. He opened the bottle carefully and set it on the counter to breathe. Looking in an overhead cabinet, he was pleased to find two small wine glasses and, while mentally thanking the court owners for such foresight, cleaned one of them. He then poured himself about a half glass of the fragrant Pinot and let that set for a moment as well. Finally, he took a nice drink of the wine, swirled it around in his mouth and let it slowly slide down his throat.
“Most excellent,” he said out loud, reloading the glass to nearly three-quarters full. “Time to get to work.”
⃰ * *
Lou woke early the following morning, before daylight, but he felt rested and relaxed. Lying there in the little cabin bed, he congratulated himself on picking such a great place to write. No internet access, no phone calls. Just right for work. He had only begun his new story, not much more than a decently detailed outline and a few opening paragraphs, but it felt like it might develop into something with some size and depth.
Art would imitate an imagined reality, he told himself. The protagonist was a budding author, Leonard Denman, a man not unlike himself. Leonard would travel to some exotic locales and meet Erin Beloit, a beautiful woman of means. They would become involved, physically and emotionally, with a searing, almost frightening passion. And the deeper the relationship became, the more Leonard realized that Erin was herself frightening, physically and emotionally. The affair, explosive to begin, would explode even worse upon its ending. There was danger here – real danger, destructive and life-threatening. That’s a good start, Lou told himself, rolling over on his side and drifting back to sleep.
After leisurely starting his day about seven-thirty, it was so light inside and out that he was unable to prolong his luxuriant sleep, Lou took a walk around the little travel court and then spent the rest of the morning sketching out his story and typing in a few paragraphs of its beginning. Lunch was a PB and J sandwich and by one o’clock he was driving back into Bar Harbor to give the place a more thorough checking out.
On his way into town, Lou saw a sign for Hull Cove and Acadia National Park so he turned off there and found their visitor center. Inside, he got a map of the park with directions to trails going up Mt. Cadillac. Driving on, he found a nice secluded trailhead and, leaving the car parked nearby, set off to see the mountain.
The trail was quite wooded at first, thick with brush and small trees, but it was cool and shady and climbed gradually so that it was a pleasant walk more than a strenuous hike. In a very short time, the trail rose a bit more steadily and soon Lou was coming out of the woods and onto the rocky, grassy slopes leading up to the top of the mountain. Out in the sunlight, it was warmer and he breathed in the clean, coastal air. The sky was almost empty of clouds and was a deep, deep blue.
About mid-way up the mountain, he stopped and stood on a flat, gray rock to look back. And there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. Blue and blue and more blue as far as the eye could see. To the horizon. The blue was lit up with occasional flashes of bright sunlight dancing across the tranquil sea in shimmering yellow patches. Lou took in a long, deep breath and sighed. It was an extraordinary place, a magnificent view. He stood there several minutes more admiring the sea and then headed back up the hill.
Maybe three-quarters of the way to the top he found another big gray rock, this one large enough and prominent enough to actually sit down on. Tossing his day bag down on the rock, Lou turned again towards the sea. Unbidden, the memory of a recently lost uncle came to mind. Sitting down by his bag, Lou used the moment to commune with the sea and to say a personal, inner farewell to his uncle, who had always been one of his favorites. He closed his eyes to the brightness of the shining sea and remained quiet for several moments.
When he felt the goodbye was over he opened his eyes again. Turning to look up the hill, he noticed that there was a parking area at the top and that there was a growing crowd of people there.
“That’s good enough,” he said out loud to himself. “Good enough for today.”
Picking up his bag, he hopped off the big rock and headed back down the trail away from the top of Cadillac Mountain. It would take him awhile to get to the car and he was getting hungry. It was time to head into town and check out Bar Harbor some more.
⃰ * *
“Could I just have a grilled cheese, French fries, and water?” Lou asked the waitress.
“Of course, sir,” the young woman smiled, “I’ll get that in for you and bring the water right away.”
“Thanks,” Lou smiled.
He had ducked into the little café after only a few minutes in town because he had simply gotten too hungry to do a full touristy run around the place. The restaurant, Di’s Place, seemed like it would be quiet and intimate and it didn’t disappoint. For a few moments he sat there quietly sipping the water his waitress brought and thinking about the next section of the story he was working on.
“Just visiting?” a woman’s voice from nearby suddenly broke into Lou’s literary reverie.
“I’m sorry?” he said, turning to face a small table just to his right.
“Forgive me,” the woman who had spoken to him said. “You looked like you might be a tourist.”
“Definitely a tourist,” Lou grinned, checking the woman out. She appeared to be in her mid to late 30s, very pretty and unadorned with fine, smooth features. Her soft brown hair fell fashionably to her shoulders and highlighted her softly angular face. “Is it that obvious?”
“The backpack and hiking shoes give you away,” the woman replied.
“Don’t the locals hike around here?” Lou asked.
“Not usually with airline baggage tickets on their packs,” the woman laughed.
“Got me there,” Lou said.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” the woman said, giving Lou a wink that surprised him with its familiarity.
“Oh, no,” Lou said, intrigued by the woman’s attitude. “Are you a local?” he thought to ask.
“Here comes your meal,” the woman said, pointing ahead to where Lou’s waitress was approaching with a tray of food.
“Yeah,” Lou said, nodding his head. “That’s some fast service.”
“Here you are, sir,” the waitress said, placing the sandwich and fries on the table in front of Lou. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” Lou said, spotting a bottle of catsup on his table. “I’m all set.”
As the waitress walked away, the woman next to Lou also rose.
“I’ll leave you to your food,” she said, with a pleasant smile.
“Well …” Lou began, part of him wishing the woman might stay a bit longer. “I’m … uh, Lou Decker.”
He reached out his hand. The woman took his hand in hers and held it gently but firmly.
“Erica Bell,” she said, “very pleased to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Lou replied.
“Well, have a nice meal, Lou Decker,” Erica said, turning to go.
“What’s good to do here?” Lou asked after her. “I mean for a tourist and all?”
“Whale watching,” Erica said, walking away. “Whale watching is always fun.”
“Thanks,” Lou spoke to her retreating figure. “Sounds like a plan.”
Erica waved a slender hand as she exited the front of the restaurant. Lou watched her turn right outside and disappear.
Erica Bell, he thought, biting into his grilled cheese and nibbling on a French fry. Erin Beloit. That’s pretty coincidental. What are the odds of that happening?
⃰ * *
Lou got up early the next morning, despite another relatively late night of wine drinking and writing, and headed back into Bar Harbor. It was easy to find the whale watching boats. The harbor was down at the end of Main Street and you could hardly miss the signs pointing you there.
It was another spectacular day: not a cloud to be seen, sunny, with a high, deep blue sky above – perfect for trying to spy the first whale spout as the captain told the eighty or so passengers while guiding the vessel out to sea. The only potential problem Lou saw with the day was that it was pretty much on the cool side. He was glad he had picked up the pullover but they had barely got away from the shore when he realized the sweater was not going to be heavy enough to repel the ocean wind.
From practically the moment the boat got into the open sea, Lou was watching the horizon for signs of whale. Despite the uncomfortable breeze, he found a space forward on the starboard side of the ship and took up station there. About forty-five minutes out of port, his body slightly shaking from the cold, Lou saw one of the most amazing sights of his life: the spout of a whale far in the distance, opposite where he stood, to the port side.
“Whale,” he cried out excitedly, not knowing whether he should go with ‘Thar she blows’ or not. “Whale. I see a spout!”
“Well done, sir,” a nearby crew member congratulated Lou, “good spotting. Whale off the port bow.”
Lou was thrilled as the captain steered the boat to port, right towards where the spout had appeared. He was about to burst with pride for having seen the first whale. To see better, he crossed over to the forward port side and stood near the railing in hopes of getting a really close up look at the whale.
In fact, when the boat finally reached the whale Lou was thrilled anew to see that there were actually three of the giant animals, two large and one smaller one. The captain carefully stayed as near to the whales as he could without disturbing them in order to give the passengers a great view of the creatures.
“I wonder what kind they are?” Lou asked a man to his right.
“I’m not sure,” the man said, “but I’m sure they’ll tell us in a minute.”
“They’re Right Whales,” Lou heard a familiar voice to his left say. “They’re very rare and seldom seen. They’re on the endangered species. We’re really lucky today.”
“Erica?” Lou asked, completely surprised. “I didn’t see you anywhere on the boat before. How …?”
“Wait,” Erica stopped his question with a raised hand, “the crew is about to tell us about the whales.”
Over the ship loudspeaker, a crew member did in fact identify the huge ocean-going mammals as very rare Right Whales and based on the similar size of the two larger ones and the presence of the calf, was confident that the bigger animals were both female. He went on to describe the callosities, the rough ugly patches of skin on their heads and near their mouths that allowed researchers to identify specific animals. Lou happily soaked in all the new information but was just as impressed by Erica’s dead on knowledge. In addition, her sudden appearance had all the hallmarks of a remarkable, and potentially enjoyable, serendipity.
“You nailed that,” Lou told Erica as the Right Whales began to move away from the boat, out toward less crowded waters.
“And you spotted them,” Erica replied.
“You heard that? Saw that?” Lou asked.
“That’s how I found you.”
“Pretty good luck, I’d say.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Erica said with an enigmatic smile. Lou just shook his head.
On the way back in, he and Erica never left each other’s side. They stayed by the rail, brisk as the air was, and chatted steadily about the beautiful sea, the magnificent whales, anything that came to mind. He told her he was a writer, in Maine to work on a story. She snuggled next to him as he talked, surprising him with her willingness to be so physical so shortly after meeting him. As if on cue, she linked her arm through his and leaned into him. He had to admit it felt really good to be with her, to feel her warm body next to his out there in the cold air of the deck.
Back in Bar Harbor, with the day of whale watching concluded successfully, they decided to grab a drink and a bite to eat at a bar and grill just down Main Street rather than go their separate ways just yet.
“Something to drink first?” their waitress asked.
“Yeah,” Lou told her, “a Sam Adams, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the young woman said, smiling sweetly.
“A beer man?” Erica asked, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Bring me a Chardonnay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress said.
“And don’t call me, ma’am,” Erica said. “I’m not your mother.”
“She was just being polite,” Lou suggested, after the girl had left for the drinks.
“Naturally, being a man, you fell for that,” Erica surprised Lou with her rather rancorous attitude towards the waitress. “She’s just working you for a tip.”
“Seems a bit harsh,” Lou said.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Erica said.
“Right,” Lou agreed, “let’s keep the day going well. It was too much fun, too enjoyable, for any minor disagreement. I’ll be ready to order something when she gets back for sure. I’m getting hungry.”
“I say we have an appetizer and then split something,” Erica said, in a tone that seemed to block any further discussion.
“Okay,” Lou acquiesced easily.
Erica ordered breaded mushrooms for their appetizer and a large hot veggie sandwich to share for the meal. That suited Lou fine and he ordered another beer to go along with the sandwich. Erica sipped her wine with the food and declined a second glass when the waitress asked.
“Well,” Lou said, patting his full stomach when they had finished the sandwich, “that was tasty. Nice choice.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Erica said, flashing her high voltage smile.
“You must’ve been here before,” Lou said, grinning. “You knew exactly what to get, like a local.”
“Is that some kind of attempt to figure out who I am, where I come from?” Erica said cooly.
“Oh, no, no,” Lou countered, “I just meant ….”
“If you’re going to get all personal,” Erica said, again surprising Lou with her attitude, “maybe it’s time for me to go.”
“No, please,” Lou said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just talking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well, it’s getting late anyway,” Erica said, her body language indicating she was about to stand up.
“Wait,” Lou said, “just a second. I need to make a pit stop and pay for our food and stuff. I’ll walk you to your car, if you have to take off.”
Without waiting for a response, he headed for the restroom. When he came out, Erica was gone. He hurriedly paid for their meal and drinks and over-tipped the waitress to make up for Erica’s rudeness. Outside, he looked in both directions but there was no sign of his rather mysterious day’s partner. She had vanished into the heart of Bar Harbor somewhere. Gone without a trace. Shaking his head, Lou walked back to the harbor parking and drove his rental car out to the tourist court.
That night, sober and reflective, he wrote up the day’s experiences as fiction, describing them just as they had happened but attributing them to the Leonard Denman and Erin Beloit characters in his story. The irony and strangeness of the parallels between his personal life and his fictive world was not lost on him.
⃰ * *
Early next morning Lou drove back into Bar Harbor to spend some time just walking around, absorbing the feel, sound, and smell of the town. He stopped in touristy stores selling all manner of Maine and northeast memorabilia, chatted with salespeople and small business owners, did his best to get a feel for the personality of the place.
Like most towns that profited to a large extent from the tourist trade, Bar Harbor had that atmosphere of the transitory. Each day or so, the population of visitors would change over, leaving the small cadre of business folk to remain and replay the same jokes, friendly smiles, and local stories that they had just told to the previous group. Lou had seen it in towns from Show Low, Arizona to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and beyond.
You, the visitor, were the eternal outsider whose primary function was to provide a living for the townies, whose primary function was to act as if you were the first person to ever truly fit into their world and do so in less than twenty-four hours. Because Lou understood this symbiotic relationship he went along with it and always enjoyed himself and felt comfortable in tourist towns.
Around noon, in a good mood but ready to do something other than check out any more shops, Lou decided to find a place to have a drink and maybe a snack or meal of some kind. Without really paying attention, he found a little eatery and walked in. He immediately realized he had gone back to Di’s Place, where he had first met Erica. And sure enough there she was again, sitting at the same table as the first day. Given their peculiar last parting, Lou briefly considered turning right back around and leaving but before he could put that idea into action, Erica looked up and saw him.
“Lou,” she said enthusiastically, rising partway out of her chair.
“Stay seated,” he told her.
“Join me, will you please?” she asked sweetly. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“Well…” he hesitated.
“Please,” she repeated. Another of her brilliant smiles sealed the deal.
“Sure,” Lou said, “why the heck not?”
“I wanted to call you,” Erica said, after Lou had settled in and placed his food and drink order, “but I didn’t know where you were staying and we didn’t exchange phone numbers.”
“I turned my phone off,” Lou explained. “I’m trying to get past a small writer’s block I’ve had lately.”
“Oh,” Erica said, “I didn’t realize. I was under the impression your writing was going well.”
“It’s going better lately,” he said, smiling. “When people don’t just run out and leave me in the lurch.”
“I’m sorry I ran away from you yesterday,” Erica apologized. “I behaved badly, I know.”
“It’s okay,” Lou said, “it actually helped me write later.”
“I doubt that,” Erica countered.
“No, really,” Lou insisted, as his food arrived at the table, “it really did.”
“Whatever,” Erica said, “I’m glad to see you again.”
“Yeah,” Lou concurred, “me, too.”
Later, after the meal, they took Lou’s car and drove around Acadia National Park. Lou showed Erica where he had gone into the park on his hike and then they continued on up to the parking lot at the top of Cadillac Mountain.
The afternoon was cool but bright and sunny, just like the previous days Lou had been in Bar Harbor. He and Erica, arms around each other’s waists, walked across the parking lot and out onto the large gray rocks dotting the side of Cadillac Mountain all the way down to where the woods started at the bottom of the hill. And spread out to the horizon beyond the land was the great, shimmering Atlantic Ocean.
“Majestic, isn’t it?” Erica said.
“Totally,” Lou agreed. “Absolutely magnificent.”
“Are you glad you came to Bar Harbor?” Erica asked, looking into his eyes.
“Yes,” Lou said simply.
“So am I,” Erica said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
Lou smiled and pulled her tightly against his side. She slipped a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Nice and tight,” she teased. He put his left hand on her bottom in response.
“Likewise I’m sure,” he said. Erica laughed.
“You’re a bad boy,” she told him.
“Always,” he said in a husky whisper, “all the time.”
“I’d better be careful, then,” Erica said, her face close to Lou’s.
“Maybe you should,” he replied.
“Maybe I don’t want to be careful,” she said, putting her arms around his waist and moving up close to his chest.
“Maybe I don’t want you to, either,” he said, pulling her body against his.
“You’re calling the shots,” she said compliantly.
“You want to come back with me to my little cabin?” he asked.
“I’d love to,” she answered.
On the way back to Lou’s place, they stopped off for snacks and a couple of bottles of wine. Erica continued to surprise Lou with her seemingly easy acquiescence. It was a side of her that he had not picked up on before nor expected – at least to this point.
After a few glasses of wine, however, that all changed. Erica again became the aggressor and practically pushed Lou into bed. She climbed on top of him. Removed both of their clothes. Went after him wildly. And it was incredible sex. Athletic, energetic, unrestrained, no holds barred intercourse. It was sex like he imagined it might be with some semi-crazed, totally free woman like Angelina Jolie – rough, steady, pleasurable to the extreme, and with that edge of danger not knowing what might happen next.
Later, exhausted, Lou lay in bed watching Erica sleep the sleep of the unconcerned. Her breath was shallow and soft and she seemed completely at ease as she slept. Looking over her near perfect body, a stray thought flitted across his mind. From some place, some odd corner of his mind, it occurred to him that she seemed not quite real lying there so peacefully. Who was she? Could this be real? Was it really happening to him?
With a sigh, he laid his head on the pillow, and put his arms up around the back of his head. He thought of his story, waiting for him there in the laptop, waiting for him to bring it to life again. To make something out of nothing, to convert experience and idea into literature.
As he closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep, he wondered if in fact he was on the right track with his work. Was he marshaling creativity and reality into a dramatic whole, or was he in fact simply blurring the fine distinction that existed between the actual world and fiction? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was only thing that did.
⃰ * *
When Lou opened his eyes next, the morning sun had penetrated the cabin in long yellow fingers of light. Squinting against the brightness, he turned over to find Erica gone.
“Erica,” he called out, sliding from the bed to an upright position – maybe a little too quickly. “Ooh,” he groaned, grabbing his head and sitting back down on the edge of the bed.
When the pain subsided, he stood up again, but much more slowly.
“Erica?”
He realized, then, given the size of the little cabin, that there was no way she was still there. He wasn’t sure he was as bothered by that fact as he would have expected himself to be. In the short time she’d been part of his life, her behavior, while highly stimulating on several levels, had been rather erratic to say the least. But there was something about her, besides her intrinsic beauty, that intrigued him, made him want to be in her presence even if that meant dealing with the complexities of her nature.
Reluctantly he accepted the fact that she had gone for the moment and that he would have to go in search of her again if he wanted them to remain in contact. Downing a tall glass of juice to jumpstart his morning and delay his hunger before having breakfast, he found a dry, clean towel and headed for the shower.
He let the water run until it was comfortably hot and then stood there for a good while just letting it warm up his body and ease the pain in his head. He knew he had to go into town and find Erica but he would take his time. He was pretty sure he knew how to find her. She hadn’t made it all that difficult so far.
⃰ * *
Lou didn’t drive into town until around ten-thirty. He didn’t want to seem overanxious or eager, which he assumed would get him nowhere with Erica. Even though he still had a bit of a hangover after cleaning up and eating and was not particularly inspired to write, he still managed to work a little bit on his manuscript before heading into Bar Harbor. All the way in, he had this nagging sensation that the story was getting away from him, that his real-life involvement with Erica was finding its way into his fiction – altering and informing it in a way he had not intended.
Despite his confidence that he would be able to locate her easily and quickly in town, she in fact turned out to be a rather more elusive quarry than he had expected. He tried Di’s Place, down by the whale watching harbor, along the rows of tourist shops – nothing. It was altogether possible, he reasoned, that she had simply disappeared, gone back to where she came from – wherever that might be.
He was considering returning to the cabin when an idea flitted across his mind: Cadillac Mountain. It was just a hunch, but how could he go wrong whether Erica was there or not. There were few places he’d seen with such an inspiring view. At the very least, returning to its summit might provide him with more psychic energy for writing.
By the time he reached the parking lot at the top of the mountain, it was pushing noon and the sun was high and bright. The blue bay beyond shimmered and sparkled, ephemeral patches of gold dancing upon the still water. Lou parked the car and climbed out to get a better view of the land and sea. Stepping onto one of the ubiquitous gray flat rocks, he took a long, slow look around the area. Just to his left, not more than twenty yards away, he saw Erica. After a moment, she turned and saw him.
“Are you stalking me?” she asked loudly.
“Well … no,” Lou answered, looking around to see if anyone else at the top might be watching or listening to them.
“Could fool me,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Lou asked, walking over to her. She gave him a haughty look.
“You’re going to tell me you’re not pursuing me?”
“I was looking for you, sure. I don’t know that that’s the same as pursuing. You did just sort of disappear on me this morning.”
“You fell asleep. I left.”
“How did you get here?” Lou asked, looking for a way to redirect the conversation.
“And that is your business, how?” she questioned.
“Never mind,” Lou said.
“I got a ride with a friend, if you must know,” Erica remarked.
“Is he, or she, still here?” Lou asked, looking around.
“It took you long enough to find me,” Erica said. “I thought after last night you would be a little more attentive.”
“I … I don’t know what to say to that,” Lou admitted, shaking his head.
“Oh, you big dummy,” Erica said, suddenly smiling and putting her arms around Lou’s waist. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I’m completely confused,” Lou said. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to get.”
“Of course you don’t, silly,” Erica laughed, “that’s what I’m for.”
“If you say so,” Lou sighed.
“I’m hungry,” Erica announced. Lou looked at her without understanding. “Food,” she added, “you know, that stuff that keeps us going, allows us to work and get things done?”
“Alright,” Lou said agreeably, “whatever.”
“You have your car?”
“I do.”
“Then take me into town and buy me lunch.”
“I’m at your service.”
“Of course you are. That’s how this thing works.”
⃰ * *
After a quiet lunch, Lou drove them back to his cabin where they repeated the previous night’s sexual athletics. This time, however, they didn’t bother to have even a half glass of wine as a psychic warm up. What they shared this day was straightforward, unadulterated, and highly exhilarating – at least for Lou. But when it was over, Erica seemed uneasy, agitated, unable to lie still.
“Are you okay?” Lou asked, sprawled on top of the bed covers.
“I’m fine,” Erica replied, but she hopped out of bed and began rigorously putting her clothes back on. He watched her silently. “What?” she said brusquely.
“Nothing,” he replied meekly.
“No,” she challenged, “you were about to say something. What was it?”
“No I wasn’t,” he insisted. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
There was an icy silence while she finished dressing. Lou began putting on his clothes as well.
“You’re using me,” Erica said, breaking the quiet spell. “You’re turning our passion into a story. You don’t give a damn about me; you just want to use me to create your lousy fiction.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“Don’t try to BS me,” she shot back. “I saw your story.”
“You were on my laptop,” he asked incredulously. “When? This morning while I was asleep?”
“Don’t try to avoid your responsibility,” she told him. “You can’t get off that easy.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Lou asked. “I don’t understand what you are talking about?”
“Liar,” she said bluntly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Hell, you’re putting everything I say in your damned story. All you want me for is more material for your story. Admit it.”
“It’s not like that at all,” Lou countered. “I swear.”
“You writers are all the same,” Erica said, “you don’t care about anybody or anything unless you can use it in your work.”
“I’m not that way,” Lou insisted.
“Please,” Erica laughed.
“I promise,” Lou swore, “and I’ll prove it.”
He reached out for her but she pulled away.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I need you,” he said, “you have to know that.”
“I know what you want from me,” Erica said, walking to the door of the cabin. “You always want it.”
“Wait…” Lou began, but Erica was gone, shutting the door behind her. Gone. As simply as that.
Lou stood still for several moments just staring at the closed door. He didn’t know if Erica was really gone or not. Sometimes he wondered if she truly existed, despite their intense physical relationship. It was all so strong, so sudden and so fast, he doubted its reality.
“Oh, hell,” he sighed, slumping down in the little desk chair.
He lifted the cover on his laptop and hit the power button. The system booted up in less than a minute. As soon as he could open MS Word he was back working on his story. Erica be damned.
In the clear light of the following morning, after a refreshing shower and a light breakfast, Lou was in a more conciliatory frame of mind. Erica had her points about their relationship. He did tend to use his own experience and his observations about life as the basis for writing, but he wasn’t cold and calculating about it.
He lived his relationships, his successes and failures, his hopes, his conflicts, his loves. It was just that as a writer, all of it was fair game to be turned into fiction. That was what a writer did, was. He still cared about people, places, life but he had to maintain a distance from them – authorial distance. It wasn’t an easy thing, but it came with the territory.
Mid-morning he went into town in search of Erica yet again. Instinctively, he headed towards Di’s Place. He found a parking spot about a block away from the restaurant and walked slowly and calmly towards it. Just as he was about to jaywalk across the narrow street to Di’s, he saw Erica. She was coming up the sidewalk – arm in arm with another man. Lou froze where he was.
Neither Erica nor her new beau were paying any attention to their surroundings. They were completely into each other. She had her arm through his and they were smiling and laughing as if they’d known each other for years. Lou sized the guy up quickly. Another writer, he thought, or an artist. One looking for that shot of inspiration or a muse that would provide the wind through his metaphorical Aeolian Harp.
It was all so familiar to Lou that the anger initially welling up in him simply dissipated into the air of the new reality. He understood Erica’s throwing him over, understood how this worked. The man she was with was today’s best catch just as he, Lou, had been the best catch each of the last days. That’s how life was – you were the latest and the greatest and then you were yesterday’s news.
He started to turn around and head back to the car but stopped when he saw Erica look in his direction. He wished he had kept going for she looked right at him, through him. It was like they had never known each other at all. Like it had all been a dream, or in his imagination.
She and the younger guy went through the door into Di’s place and disappeared. Was that how it always worked with her, Lou wondered? Did she just pop up in your life, in your mind maybe, and then when she had used you – or you had used her – it was all over?
Over. Definitely over. He certainly knew that now. But he still felt that odd mix of sensations when he finished a story, a poem, a book: elation tempered by a feeling of emptiness. A hole where the energy and drive had been. The way probably everyone felt when they reached a goal, or completed a difficult task. It was great while it was happening but when it was over there was that ambiguous sense of pleasure and hollowness.
Lou took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. That was all there was to it. It had come and gone. He had had his moment and now it was time to move one. He turned away from Di’s Place and walked to the rental car. On the way back to the cabin, he picked up a really good bottle of wine and some tasty treats.
He would finish his story tonight. It would be done then and he would move on from Erica Bell. He would complete the story of Erin Beloit and Leonard Denman and maybe that would give him some distance from himself as well, and satisfy the New York literary people all at the same time. Workers in fiction were rare birds and he himself was perhaps a rare one among them. Who knew? It was just what you did.
The following morning, sober and maybe a little bit humbler, he packed up his laptop and bags and drove back down the coast. He already had a new idea for a completely different kind of story. He thought Charlie, his agent, might approve of it even though it didn’t involve a woman or a relationship.
It would be something not so connected to his own personal experience. He thought he would like to do a story like that. It wouldn’t be nearly so hard, so dangerous to write as the personal kind. Yeah, he could definitely write something born of his imagination. He might even be able to make it into another book. He knew his publishers would like that.
