The Topsail Accord (21 page)
“
The clinic, the lifeguards, the playground,” he says.
The clinic, the lifeguards, the playground,” he says.
“
Have you kept any of my secrets?” she asks Bill.
Have you kept any of my secrets?” she asks Bill.
“
All the rest,” he answers.
All the rest,” he answers.
“
Okay,” she says. She pats his arm.
Okay,” she says. She pats his arm.
“
Thank you,” Shannon repeats. She shakes their hands again and hugs Joe’s sister.
Thank you,” Shannon repeats. She shakes their hands again and hugs Joe’s sister.
“
I see you named the kayak put-in Caitlin’s Cove,” Karen says.
I see you named the kayak put-in Caitlin’s Cove,” Karen says.
“
Yes,” Shannon answers.
Yes,” Shannon answers.
“
Thank you.”
Thank you.”
November
Dear Shannon,
Congratulations on the publication of your paper. Yes I Googled you (again) and this time it included a link to your paper. I won’t pretend to understand the science, but I did understand the premise. And, I can see that you were accurate in predicting that there would be some resistance to your position.
Fall has been glorious here by the shore. The beach is deserted, just the way I like it, and just the way I’ll bet you like it too. I know it is wishful thinking, but it would be nice to walk the deserted beach with you.
I went surfing a few more times, took some more lessons. I get it. I get the connection people feel with the ocean. I get it one way while sitting on the board outside the break waiting for a nice wave and then I get it a different way when the wave picks you up and puts all that power behind you. I get it another way when the ocean decides that it is going to hold you down for an extra second or two just because it can.
The water is still warm enough to surf once in a while now, but I’ve been looking for warm weather places to surf in the winter. Not January. I’m going to be here the whole month of January. And I’m going to have a cup of coffee ready for you every morning in January. Just in case.
So, I miss seeing you and I miss talking to you and I miss getting to know you.
I’d like to get to know you.
Don’t forget I’ll have your coffee ready for you in January.
Joe
p.s., Karen told me about Caitlin’s Cove. And the kayaks for the patients. Thank you.
Shannon
The first of the November storms has come racing down from Canada pushing half of Lake Erie ahead of it. Pushing the lake so hard that the waves and swells break high over the break wall sending plumes of spray high into the afternoon air. It is Edmund Fitzgerald day and with the storm the local radio stations have been playing the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot over and over, even the AM talk radio and traffic stations.
Shannon is perched in the circular room at the top of the small lighthouse in her new home at the Coast Guard station. The gun metal grey lake is mixing with the muddy brown from the river and the oil sheen from the port in a confusion of colors and in a jumble of peaks and foams and blowing spray.
High above the harbor, looking out over Lake Erie, Shannon feels the wind and waves working on the shore and on her new home. A dozen feet of concrete separates the lake side of her home from the harbor, and millions of tons of rock in the break wall separate the harbor from the Lake.
She is nestled in her favorite quilt and is reading a ghost story. A story about a whaling ship that sank in Long Island Sound and about a man who sees it and about a woman who believes in her man and how they fight the dark, evil forces.
Joe’s two letters are tucked into the book. She pulls the pages out and starts to read them again...
December
Dear Shannon,
I hope this letter finds you well.
You will be here next month because you love it here and because you know if you want to be left alone you will be left alone. I will have your coffee ready here, but won’t bring it by your beach house without an invitation. Also, I will be parking at the public access and running south and east from there so I won’t be passing by your beach house. I’m letting you know these things so that you know you can have North Topsail for yourself just like you did during all those years before you met me, during all those years when we must have been sharing our love for that beach together, even though we were unaware of each other. How is it possible that we never met?
Of course I would be surprised and delighted and honored if you would stop in for a coffee, and maybe to sit and talk. Also, on January 15
th
there is a fund raiser in Wilmington and I would like you to attend. You can come with me, meet me there, or just attend. It is a black tie affair, so if you are thinking about attending you may wish to bring something appropriate. There will be a ticket waiting for you. The link to the event is provided below.
th
there is a fund raiser in Wilmington and I would like you to attend. You can come with me, meet me there, or just attend. It is a black tie affair, so if you are thinking about attending you may wish to bring something appropriate. There will be a ticket waiting for you. The link to the event is provided below.
I read an article about your lighthouse and the renovations. I can picture you there both from the article and from what Karen and Bill and the others told me about the park. I love that you made a park so that anyone who wants to be near the water can be. Not only have you provided access for these people, but you have, perhaps unconsciously, insured that you always have people around you who love the water. A brand new hundred acre lakefront park where there used to be a dump. What a remarkable thing for you to do.
Congratulations. I often think about you and me after our surf lesson, about you and me in the lighthouse. It was a magical moment. Please don’t let it be our last.
I remember your order so your coffee will be ready.
If you arrive before nine it will be black, if you arrive after nine it will have some cream in it. Joe.
Shannon
I am almost there, almost to my cottage. It is early evening on January 3
rd
and I have just arrived in Topsail from Ohio after a remarkably smooth twelve hour drive. All the Starbucks were still where they were supposed to be, and all the gas stations were where they were supposed to be. My car and stomach have behaved the way they are supposed to behave. No men made lurid suggestions to me while I stood in line for coffee, no men offered to pump my gas. I was invisible, the way I usually am. No-one noticed me, not even in my new car.
rd
and I have just arrived in Topsail from Ohio after a remarkably smooth twelve hour drive. All the Starbucks were still where they were supposed to be, and all the gas stations were where they were supposed to be. My car and stomach have behaved the way they are supposed to behave. No men made lurid suggestions to me while I stood in line for coffee, no men offered to pump my gas. I was invisible, the way I usually am. No-one noticed me, not even in my new car.
I am going to stop at his coffee shop before going to the beach house. Am going to tell him that I am here, that I got his letters, and that I will be in for coffee in the morning and to talk.
I park, get out, and stretch in the cool North Carolina evening, which is such a contrast to the ice and snow I left behind. Living at the edge of Lake Erie I feel constantly connected to the water and the sky and the seasons in a way that living even a mile back from the shore does not produce.
Here in the parking lot, still a mile from the water, I smell the ocean, even here so far from the coast. I drink in the southern evening, let it seep into my pores. I breathe in the salt air, let it clean away the stale air from my car. I stretch my neck left, then right, then step stiffly into the warm coffee shop.
Shannon and Joe
“
Happy New Year,” she says.
Happy New Year,” she says.
“
Happy New Year,” he answers. He is surprised to see her.
Happy New Year,” he answers. He is surprised to see her.
She looks tired, lovely, and tired.
“
Your regular?” he asks, trying not to stare, trying not to believe that she has just walked into his coffee shop.
Your regular?” he asks, trying not to stare, trying not to believe that she has just walked into his coffee shop.
“
A decaf. I’m grungy and tired and strung out from the road. Just a tasty decaf, with extra cream, and a touch of sugar.”
A decaf. I’m grungy and tired and strung out from the road. Just a tasty decaf, with extra cream, and a touch of sugar.”
“
Okay,” he answers.
Okay,” he answers.
“
But if you truly think it’s a good idea, if you truly want to talk, you can bring one to the beach house tomorrow, at eight, and we can walk. To the pier and back. No running tomorrow, not after that ride.” She stretches her neck from side to side.
But if you truly think it’s a good idea, if you truly want to talk, you can bring one to the beach house tomorrow, at eight, and we can walk. To the pier and back. No running tomorrow, not after that ride.” She stretches her neck from side to side.
“
I don’t know Shannon,” he says. “It’s been months. And I haven’t heard anything from you since you left. Not even after Danny visited. Not since that last day when I saw you and I told you about Colleen and our daughter. And then nothing until you walk into my coffee shop tonight. Are you sure you want me to?”
I don’t know Shannon,” he says. “It’s been months. And I haven’t heard anything from you since you left. Not even after Danny visited. Not since that last day when I saw you and I told you about Colleen and our daughter. And then nothing until you walk into my coffee shop tonight. Are you sure you want me to?”
“
I got your letters,” she says. “They were nice letters.”
I got your letters,” she says. “They were nice letters.”
“
But you didn’t write back,” Joe says.
But you didn’t write back,” Joe says.
“
You didn’t ask me to. I wasn’t going to assume you wanted me to. I wasn’t going to ‘owe’ you a letter. And I was thinking,” Shannon says.
You didn’t ask me to. I wasn’t going to assume you wanted me to. I wasn’t going to ‘owe’ you a letter. And I was thinking,” Shannon says.
“
I still don’t know,” Joe says.
I still don’t know,” Joe says.
“
It’s your choice,” she says. “But, it’s only to the pier and back. It’s only coffee. It would be good to talk,” she says. “Even if you want to tell me to leave you alone.”
It’s your choice,” she says. “But, it’s only to the pier and back. It’s only coffee. It would be good to talk,” she says. “Even if you want to tell me to leave you alone.”
He decides.
“
What time?” he asks.
What time?” he asks.
“
Eight,” she says.
Eight,” she says.
“
Deal,” he answers.
Deal,” he answers.
She pours half her cup of coffee onto the floor.
“
To seal the deal,” she says.
To seal the deal,” she says.
Joe laughs.
Shannon
I pull into the drive at my cottage. I love this cottage. I have loved it since the moment I saw it from the upper deck of my beach house. Loved how it nestled into Alligator Bay. Loved its private boardwalk through the marsh to the bay. Loved its deep porches that lurk below tin roofs. Loved its unobstructed views of both the bay and the ocean.
I loved it the first time I walked through it and saw the old wooden floors, the floor to ceiling windows, the small island in the kitchen, the way the morning sun flooded in from the east and the way the evening sun retreated out to the west. Loved how quiet it was, at the end of the hundred yard drive from the dune to the edge of the marsh.
I can see it from my beach house, but I think that it is the only house on the island from which you can see the cottage. And the beach house is one of the only houses you can see from the cottage.
I bought it using a straw man, a fiction, a third company owned by a second company owned by a first company. I never want anyone to be able to find me here. Not my sister, not Joe, not the kids, not anyone, certainly not my ex. This is my place. Mine alone. I think I was right to engage in all the subterfuge, especially with even Bill the cop spilling my secrets.
Growing up with all my brothers and sisters there were few places you could ever be alone. And you had to go searching for those places. When my dad divided up his property, it got easier, but it was still a chore. Even when I was alone, someone always knew where I was and how to get in touch with me in just a few moments. That’s apart, but it’s not alone.
This cottage, my cottage, is where I am completely and utterly, by choice, alone. I love it like I love nowhere else on the planet. I cannot imagine anyplace like it. I have privacy in my new home in the abandoned Coast Guard station in Cleveland, and I know I can have privacy on my walks on the beaches, even when my sister is with me. But this place is my refuge. It is part of the bargain I have made with life and with my geologist brain that will not turn off and with my purely by chance fortune and with everything. This month is for me. For years I have spent the entire month speaking only when necessary, like to the cashier at the grocery store, or to a waiter at the Green Turtle.
I will not invite Joe here.
I will meet him tomorrow at the beach house.
I will get up early, go over to the beach house and wait for him on the porch out back. Will wait for him in my North Carolina winter clothes, which are my Ohio fall clothes augmented with a wind layer. Sometimes in winter the wind blows cold on Topsail. Though sometimes it is sweet and has a touch of warmth and the promise of spring in it, even in January.
My things are precisely where I left them. I am eternally grateful that the elderly woman who cleans and dusts for me is so precise. Sometimes a book or pen will be a quarter of an inch out of place, but I can live within that epsilon.
I have never met her, but know who she is. I doubt she knows who I am. I suppose she could figure it out if she went through my books and papers. But I doubt she would do that. She was recommended as being very “discreet”. Apparently she also cleans the green roofed house for the One Tree Hill people. I wonder what she thinks about cleaning a cottage that is visited for only four or five or six weeks a year? I am sure she likes collecting her check, and I’ll bet that she wonders about the name of the company on the check. But I doubt she wonders very deeply, just as long as she keeps this easy job. Easy so long as she is precise and discreet.
I don’t know why I am so secretive about the ownership, and about having intermediaries between me and the workers and cleaners who work on and clean my cottage. Am I that much of a hermit? Do I really need to insure that not one single person on the planet knows exactly where I am? What if something happened to me here? It might be weeks before anyone found me. I accept that as part of the luxury of being alone.
My sister knows, of course, that I am at “the cottage”, although she does not know the address. She knows I will reply to an email, or answer a voice mail message, but not always right away, and sometimes not for days. She says she worries about me here. She also knows that Bill the cop could find me in an emergency.
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