Torchlight (13 page)

Suddenly she opened her eyes. Catching him still staring, she smiled impishly, then closed her eyes again, grinning from ear to ear.

Ben blushed a deep red and looked back to see if Mike had been watching.

He had.

“What are you lookin’ at?” Ben called back.

“Well, what do you expect?” said the boy, smiling. “You’re sittin’ right in front of me.”

Confronted with blunt logic, Ben looked away, careful not to let his eyes rest on the captain again for too long. “Tara, I noticed your CB is out again.”

“Again? Man, I just had that fixed.”

“I want you to promise me you’ll get it fixed when we get back. It’s dangerous. I don’t like the idea of you out on the water with no way to radio home.”

“Why, Ben, are you saying you care for me?”

“Well, of course I care about you!” He scowled and rose. “You’ll get it fixed then?”

Tara grinned at him. “Yes, Ben. I’ll get it fixed.”

“Land ho!” Tara cried an hour later, sighting Egg Island among several other land masses. Beside Maine’s shoreline were hundreds of islands, ranging from outcroppings that succumbed to each storm’s waves to high lands covered with thick forests. Egg Island was one of the larger islands, roughly three miles around.

“There’s a natural harbor on the southwest side,” Tara called to Mike over the wind.

He nodded, acknowledging her directions. Within ten minutes, they had entered the quieter waters of the small bay. Ben waited until the last possible minute to weigh anchor, carefully watching the seabed rising beneath them. When it began to rise quickly, he released the weight as Tara pulled down the sail to slow their progress. After thirty feet of line uncoiled and submerged behind them, the anchor pulled the
Sea Maiden
firmly to a stop.

“Ben, could you set out the dinghy?”

“Sure.”

“Mike, grab the backpacks.”

“Aye, aye.”

Together Mike and Tara climbed into the small rowboat while Ben set the oars into the sockets. They were only a hundred feet from shore, and Ben’s strong arms brought them there quickly. Mike climbed out and pulled them up onto the pebbly beach.

“Where to?” Tara asked.

Ben took a field guide from his waterproof jacket. “Says here if we walk fifty feet north, we’ll hit a trail.”

Mike was off. “Sure enough!” he called. “It’s kinda hidden—like a secret path!” He parted the thick, blossoming branches of two young maples and disappeared, with his father and Tara following closely behind.

They climbed silently for fifteen minutes, keeping their eyes on the steep trail that rose sharply from the beach below. When they reached the crest of one particularly steep hill, they paused to catch their breath. Mike’s young lungs recovered faster than Ben’s and Tara’s, and he was off again quickly.

“Over here!” he called.

Tara rolled her eyes. “Let’s make him carry
all
the backpacks next time to even the race.”

“Sounds good.”

Tara reached Mike first and gasped at what she saw when she emerged into the clearing. It had been years since she had been to the top of the island, and she had forgotten how gorgeous the view was. The sea spread out before them, and dark reefs spotted the sea. The sky was a brilliant blue, and fluffy white clouds blew over them, caught in the spring winds. The mainland appeared as a shadow on the horizon, seven miles distant.

“Cool, huh?” Mike said.

“Very cool,” Tara said. “Well done, God!”

“Looks like a good place for lunch,” Ben said.

Mike’s stomach rumbled as if in response, and he grinned.

The threesome ate heartily, enjoying the picture-perfect picnic Tara had packed—fried soft-shell crabs Ben had gathered the day before, fresh apples, and pine-nut salad. They feasted heartily, carefully saving room for the grand finale, Mike’s favorite: Indian pudding.

They talked about how everything must have looked to the first settlers and to the Indians before them.

“Why’d they name it Egg Island, Dad?”

“Well, for years, mainlanders came collecting eggs from the migrating seabirds. It wasn’t too long before the seabird population severely dropped because of the heavy egging. People even hunted the birds for their feathers.”

“Doesn’t look too bad now,” Mike said, watching a gull sail out from the cliff beside them and hover over the
Sea Maiden
far below.

“That’s because they finally put a stop to the egging,” Ben said.

As Tara opened the dessert’s container, smells of cornmeal, molasses, ginger, and cinnamon wafted into the cool air.

“Indian pudding! Tara, you’re the greatest.”

“Well, I figured it was a special occasion and all—you know.”

“If only we had ice cream,” Mike said, licking his lips.

“Voilà!” Tara said with a smile as she dipped into the third backpack for a thermos container.

“No wonder it took all three to pack a lunch,” Ben said. “I’m not complaining, mind you.”

“You better not, Dad. This is the best meal I’ve eaten in weeks!”

“Hey! You’ve been eating three times a week at my place,” Tara said.

“No offense, Tara. This is way cooler than any restaurant.”

“True,” she agreed, looking to the view before them and feeling happy to be alive.

While their food settled, Tara and Mike listened as Ben read about the island’s history. Then the three set out on a walk around the perimeter. Because the Nature Conservancy had preserved the island for day visitors only, buildings were not allowed. The island had been left as a natural northeastern Eden, with sights around every bend.

Mike led the way along the damp, narrow trail. Several times, Tara and Ben reached out to steady each other when the terrain became particularly rough. Along the beach at the northwestern tip of the island, they came to Crab Cove, a small inlet that bustled with migrating seabirds who came to feast on the delicacies they found there.

“Look!” Mike shouted.

Ben and Tara saw what he had spotted immediately. Among the sandpipers, plovers, oystercatchers, and gulls were several pairs of puffins. Years earlier, ornithologists had conscientiously reestablished the rare birds on the island. Since the animals had a tendency to breed on the islands on which they were born, the puffin population on Egg Island had grown exponentially.

Among the rough outcroppings of granite, Ben paused at a rock cairn that marked the trail. He smiled at Tara, his eyes crinkling in genuine pleasure. “I haven’t seen Mike this happy in years.”

“It feels good to me, too. Thanks for inviting me to come along.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ben moved off again before she could press him on his comment. The trail climbed as they passed Crab Cove, then entered the
Cathedral Woods at the northeastern tip of the island. A thick stand of hundred-year-old red spruce shot upward above the damp, mossy forest floor. Their sturdy trunks cut the ocean wind to a gentle breeze. The result was a scene of such serenity that they agreed it felt like a cathedral.

“I almost feel like getting down on my knees,” Ben’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I know what you mean,” Tara responded.

Mike led the way south on the trail, less appreciative of the trees than were his companions. Eventually the forest opened up into a beautiful, verdant meadow. Mike’s sudden appearance surprised three white-tailed deer. They raised their graceful heads and froze, ears taut, as they scanned the meadow for sounds and movement.

“How’d they get here?” Mike asked in a hushed voice.

“Probably swam or were brought here by settlers,” his father whispered.

“What’s up?” Tara asked as she emerged from the forest. The deer caught sight of them and bounded off to safety.

“Oops. Guess I blew it, huh?”

Mike rolled his eyes and moved off again while Ben simply smiled.

On the southeast end of the island, they found the broken remains of a lighthouse that had been battered to bits by the surf long ago. “Probably warned off Boston whalers coming this way,” Ben theorized.

“I’m glad Torchlight’s lamp fared better,” Tara said. The thought of it took her mind to Julia and Trevor. Would Julia ever see Trevor the way Tara longed for Ben to see her? They belonged together—Julia
and Trevor, just as she and Ben belonged together. But she was wearing Miles’s ring. Would she really go through with it?
I suppose she just might
, Tara mused,
just like Ben may never make more of a move than this.
She sighed.
There’s always friendship.
But the thought of it left her disgruntled and irritable. She wanted love. She wanted a family, a husband, a baby of her own. “Come on,” she suddenly said to the men. “Let’s go home.”

They looked at her in surprise, but she ignored them. If Ben wasn’t going to do more than put an arm around her, if he couldn’t say
I love you
, then she’d just have to take drastic measures.

T
he following week Ben, Mike, and Tara invited Julia and Trevor to go kayaking after the early church service. Julia agreed, shaking off the awkward feeling of going with Trevor, as if they were a couple. They met up with the others at Tara’s restaurant. It was a bright, sunny day, much like the weekend before, but even warmer. Summer was coming fast.

The men piled into one car, the women into another, and they headed south to the docks where the
Sea Maiden
was moored. They stopped in front of a sea kayak rental shop with a sign that read
ATLANTIS
and scrambled out of their vehicles.

Inside, they looked at the pictures, brochures, and sea-kayaking paraphernalia that filled the walls. “I’ve never been in one of these before,” Julia said. “Do I need a lesson or something?”

“Nah,” the clerk said. His young face was tanned already by his afternoons on the water, under the late spring sun. “I’ll explain when we get out there. Just follow your instincts. There’s nothing like it.”

“I’m game.”

They finished the paperwork and followed the young man out to Atlantis’s dock behind the shop. There, twenty kayaks in varying colors were tied in individual slips.

“Now these aren’t the kind of kayaks that tip over easily,” their young instructor began.

“That’s a relief,” Tara piped up.

He continued. “Still, take the spray skirt, wrap it around your torso like this”—he demonstrated—“then hop in and attach it to the lip of the kayak’s cockpit. There’s a pull cord here for emergencies,” he said, lifting his up for them to see. “You’ll stay lots warmer that way.”

They chose their boats and, after stowing their lunches inside and climbing in without incident, were off. Mike whooped with glee as he whipped his double-paddle through the water and gathered speed. His companions were not far behind. They left the shallow bay and headed south to Acadia National Park. The day was hot and windless, unusual for spring.

As Julia cut through the ocean swells, she thought about that morning’s church service. The sanctuary was a quaint, refurbished building that had originally been erected in the early 1800s. It was the quintessential Northeast church: white clapboard, with the original bell still in the steeple, calling townsfolk to the services. The pulpit had been built to resemble a ship’s prow—which had been common in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries among the seafaring communities. Julia remembered attending with her grandparents as a small girl, holding her grandmother’s hand and listening to her grandfather belt out hymns.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Trevor’s resonant voice caught her unaware. She had been paddling silently, alone.

“Actually, I was just thinking about church.”

“What’d you think?” He slowed his stroke to match Julia’s pace.

“It was great. That story of the prodigal son always gets me, but today … today I could almost see God with his arms reaching out for me. I’ve been caught up in my own things—moving, working on Torchlight. I forget too easily that my priority should be my faith.”

Trevor nodded. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the constant prodigal—always coming home to the fatted calf, and then going to spend my inheritance again. It’s a good thing our God is a God of grace.”

Julia nodded. “It feels good to come home again. It’s where I want to stay.” She smiled at the man who by example had helped remind her of her priorities again. If he hadn’t gone to church the week before, it would have been months before she had been moved to attend. Even with Tara urging her to do so.

The kayaks slid through the water with little effort. Trevor held his head high and leaned forward.
He is so at ease with himself, he commands respect from everyone with whom he comes into contact. He has a quiet dignity, a constant, strong presence. My friends like him, the men at the house respect him, and …

He began to stroke faster, and Julia broke her thoughts to keep pace with him. Trevor grinned at her as each paddle dug to the port side, then starboard; port, starboard. The rhythm lulled her into a more relaxed state of mind. “This was just what I needed,” she said to Trevor as they slowed their pace again.

“Me, too. Feels great, huh?”

“Wonderful.”

He enjoyed seeing her out, away from Torchlight. Her blond hair flew as she stroked forward, and her face was a healthy pink from the spring sun and exercise. Her movements were graceful, and Trevor wondered how she would dance.
Confident, free, and easy
, he guessed.

They darted alongside Schoodic Point where broad, storm-washed ledges reflected the late morning sun. After pausing for a break and a snack, they set off across the water to Mount Desert Island, the heart of the park.

Tourists were few and far between, and it seemed as if the five friends had commandeered the park as their own private paradise. They lunched in the saltwater fjord of Frenchman Sound, riding the gentle swells that ventured inward from the sea. On either side, granite cliffs tinged with pink climbed dramatically upward. In some places the rocks had been worn smooth. Other areas were rough and foreboding. Stands of birch, beech, oak, and maple broke up the dark, dense spruce and fir that lined the shore.