Silken Tide Page 3

  Mark stood just feet from his father. Words seemed to escape him, but like the rising tide during a storm, every emotion possible flooded his being. Mark studied him for a few moments, as he had not seen him in years. He was a little older than Mark remembered, but time had been good to him. As his father’s lips turned upward into a smile, slight lines drew out from the corners of his brown eyes. The emergence of silver had begun to interweave with his dark disheveled hair and his goatee was more salt than pepper. Even though Mark was a thirty-five-year-old man and stood as tall as his father, he felt like a child next to him. Mark knew that any attempt to mask his vulnerability at this moment would be futile. Even after all these years, his father knew him too well and was the only person in the world who could strip Mark of his many disguises. If not for a few physical changes, Mark would have sworn that time had stopped and he was eighteen again. Eighteen again and explaining why his big plan to move to a huge city wasn’t a giant mistake.

  “Hi, Dad.” Mark reached out to shake his father’s hand.

  “Hi, son.” His father shook his hand firmly and then patted him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks again for letting me stay with you a little while.”

  “Don’t mention it. Throw your bag in the back.” Mark’s father dug into his pocket for his keys and started toward the driver’s side.

  Mark threw his duffle bag into the bed of the truck and circled around to the passenger door. By the time he had pulled himself into the truck and closed the heavy door behind him, his father had already started the engine. As they drove from the parking lot, the humid air rushed in through the opened windows of the truck. Mark looked at the train station in his rearview mirror until it disappeared out of sight.

  They traveled down a road that was flanked by woods thick with maple and pine trees. Except for the sparse glimmer of sunlight flickering through the leaves, the canopy of branches overhead created a shaded passageway. Telephone poles and power lines were merely another surface for vines to show off their magnificent ability to climb to extreme heights. Mark thought it was strange that he didn’t remember the verdancy of the roadway. But, he did recall every bend of this road. Every sharp turn. Every bump. This was the road leading into Silk Cove.

  “How long do you plan to stay?” His father’s Maine accent was as strong as the aroma of fresh air that seemed to emanate from his skin.

  “Probably until the end of the summer. If that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s fine with me. Take as long as you need, son.”

  Finally, the Chevy emerged from the tunnel of greenery and the dense vegetation gave way to guardrails on either side of the road. Mark glanced to his left and just across the rippling blue bay, Silk Cove came into view. Gambrel style houses and small bungalows sat nestled in the hills of the small town, and seemed to take on an orange glow in the late afternoon sun. Brightly colored buoys sprinkled the harbor and fishing boats danced in the gentle waves of the ocean. The water sparkled in the sunlight like diamonds, making it appear as if the fishermen were angling for gems. Mark was amazed at the simple beauty that was sprawled out before him and his heart seemed to swell with sentiment.

  “Didn’t think you would miss it, did you?” his father asked, as if he could read Mark’s mind.

  “It’s prettier than I remember.”

  “Sometimes we get so focused on getting out, that we forget to take a good look at what we’re leaving behind.”

  Mark looked at the floorboard of the truck.

  “Are you hungry?” his father asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” Mark said.

  “Good. We’ll stop at Bonnie’s.”

  They descended the hill into Silk Cove and Mark was immediately overcome with reminiscence. As they drove past the neighborhoods that Mark had roamed as a teenager, voices of old friends seemed to echo from the streets. Nostalgia oozed from the cracks in the sidewalks that lined the worn roads of the sleepy fishermen’s town. With every turn, memories resurfaced in Mark’s mind like rediscovered treasures plucked from the depths of the sea. Every road had a story. Every neighborhood told a rumor. Every house had a secret. And Mark knew them all.

  Mark’s reverie was broken when the Chevy came to a stop in the parking lot of Bonnie’s. Just like everything else in town, the diner looked like it had been ripped from the pages of Mark’s memory. The understated black and white sign that simply read “Bonnie’s” still hung over the green awning above the glass-plated door. The red siding was barely visible underneath dozens of buoys, proudly displayed by the anglers of Silk Cove. It appeared as if the fishermen were not only trying to stake their claim on the waters that Bonnie’s faced, but also on the restaurant itself. There was no need for neon signs to boast the delicious fare; the aroma of homemade clam chowder and fried fish floated on the breeze, enticing patrons from every corner of the small town.

  Dangling from a string on the door handle, a lone bell announced their entrance into the restaurant. As Mark scanned the inside of the empty diner, he was struck with yet another reminder of Silk Cove’s willingness to accept the simpler things in life. A Formica counter that stretched the length of the restaurant was lined with 1950’s bar stools. Leather booths sat to the sides of the door and other than a few pictures of fishing boats, there was no artwork adorning the wood paneled walls. Decorations seemed meaningless when the sea took center stage just beyond the large front window. Nothing had changed since he had last set foot in Bonnie’s eighteen years ago.

  Mark walked to the right and sat in a booth across from his father. In an attempt to avoid his father’s seemingly omniscient gaze, he sank deeper into his seat and looked out of the window. Even though he was not making eye contact, he could still feel his father’s eyes on him. His father may have been the best lobsterman in Silk Cove, but he was even better at fishing for answers from Mark in a single glance. He used to think that this skill was unique to his dad. He later realized this was an ability that every man acquired the very moment he became a father. Mark was granted temporary reprieve when plastic menus slid across the table and the waitress greeted them.

  “Hi, Jim. What can I…” The woman’s voice trailed off, as if her words had been stolen.

  Mark gazed up from his menu to find a young woman standing at the end of the table, holding a writing tablet in one hand and a pen in the other. She looked as if she was frozen in place and her hazel eyes sparkled with surprise.

  “Mark, is that you?” Her full lips turned upward into a smile.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, you are?” Mark narrowed his eyes.

  “It’s me, Jessica.”

  Mark’s menu fell from his hands onto the table. Surely this was not the Jessica he remembered. The Jessica he remembered was a few years younger than him and awkward. She had worn glasses and her red hair had usually draped the sides of her face, as if she were trying to hide from the world. But now, her auburn hair was tied behind her head in a loose knot revealing her beautifully delicate face. Where there was once a straight line from her shoulders to her thighs, there was now a small waistline cinched by a black apron. Her T-shirt stretched across the middle making way for her ample breasts underneath.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, Jessica. I guess I didn’t recognize you at first,” Mark said.

  “It’s okay. I’ve changed a little since you last saw me. Funny, you haven’t changed a bit.” Her green eyes seemed to smile as she spoke.

  Mark found himself not being able to take his eyes off her. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. She was beautiful, but he had been around hundreds of stunning women before and never once been left dumbfounded by any of them. Usually, when he encountered a gorgeous woman, he was the hunter. Now, Mark felt as if he was the one in the aim of the crossbow. Mark tried desperately to identify his emotions, but it was useless. He just found himself shifting in his seat and all Jessica was trying to do was take their order.

  “So, what can I get for you guys?” Jessica looked down at her table
t.

  “I’ll take a bowl of the clam chowder, Jess.” Mark’s father handed her the menu.

  “And for you, Mark?”

  “I’ll take the same,” he said.

  Jessica outstretched her hand. Mark froze. It wasn’t until his father snatched Mark’s menu from his hands and gave it to Jessica that Mark realized what she wanted. She grinned and walked away from the table. Mark watched after her. Her thin blue jeans seemed to hug the curves of her small bottom as she made her way toward the kitchen. After Jessica had disappeared through a set of swinging doors, Mark turned his attention back to his father. His father raised his eyebrows and reached across the table. He pushed the bottom of Mark’s chin upwards, closing his gaping mouth.

  “What were you saying, Dad?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything.” Mark’s father chuckled and took a sip from a glass of water.

  Mark took a deep breath and looked around him. The small diner was starting to fill with fishermen still in their gear, probably hungry from a long day on the boat. Mark barely had time to get his bearings before Jessica returned with two bowls of soup.

  “Here you go, guys. Do you need anything else before I run?” She wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Looks great, Jess.” Mark’s father unwrapped his spoon from his paper napkin.

  “Well, we’re starting to get busy. Sorry we couldn’t talk longer, Mark. It was nice seeing you again. See you soon, Jim.” She turned quickly and picked up her pace to the next booth.

  Mark kept his head down as he ate every bit of his clam chowder. He didn’t look up until he heard his father’s spoon clang against his empty bowl.

  “Well, it’s gonna be nice having you as an extra set of hands on the boat.” Mark’s father reminded him of his promise to help on the lobster boat during his stay.

  “Looking forward to it. I never really had the chance to help you much when I was young.”

  “And that’s the way I wanted it. But, I think you’re old enough now to handle what she can throw at you.” His father always spoke of the ocean as if it were a woman. To his father, the ocean wasn’t merely a mass of water. At times, she was his boss. Other times, she was a friend. Sometimes, she was a foe.

  Mark looked at him curiously. He could never understand why his dad never showed him the ropes aboard the boat when he as a boy. For a lot of Mark’s friends, working on the docks with their fathers was a rite of passage. Instead of teaching Mark how to bait lobster traps, his father pushed him to keep his nose in the books and get good grades. Mark always thought that had been his way of leading him toward a promising future. But as he sat across from his father in the booth, he couldn’t help but think that for all those years he may have been trying to chase Mark away from something. His father wiped his mouth with his napkin and raised his hand to call for the check. Mark reached in his back pocket for his wallet, but his father waved his hand back and forth.

  “I got it,” his father said.

  Mark watched as his father opened his wallet. Peeking from behind a layer of plastic inside his father’s billfold, Mark saw a picture of himself in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. He remembered sending that picture to his father along with a letter. That was two years ago. Mark thought of his own wallet. There were no pictures of his loved ones. There were just shiny cards laden with debt and women’s phone numbers, many of which he couldn’t even remember their faces. A wave of embarrassment struck Mark like the raging sea against the rocky shore.

  “I need some fresh air, Dad. I’ll meet you out at the truck.” Mark stood from the table and headed for the door.

  *

  Other than the sound of the Chevy’s tires rumbling over the rough roads, the ride was quiet on the way to Mark’s father’s house. Finally, they crested a hill and the white Victorian came into view. Built in the late 1800’s, his father’s house sat stately in a clearing at the top of the hill and overlooked the whole town of Silk Cove. Just like the trade of a fisherman had been passed down, the home had been in the family for years. The shutters that flanked each window were as green as the lush lawn that surrounded the home and the covered corner porch provided a fantastic view of the ocean. The truck came to a stop in the gravel driveway and Mark stepped out. He circled to the bed of the truck to retrieve his duffle bag before making his way toward the house. As he stood at the front door waiting for his father, he could hear the sound of rocks being battered by the sea at the bottom of a steep embankment at the edge of the property.

  “I have to load up the truck for tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you inside,” his father said.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Mark asked.

  “No, just go on in and make yourself at home. I’ll be right in.”

  Mark hesitated reaching for the handle of the door. A flimsy screen door was all that stood between him and another flood of memories. A flood of memories that had the potential to wash him from the front porch and into the sea below. Mark took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He grasped the handle and the screen door creaked as it opened. He stepped over the threshold into the kitchen and let the door close softly behind him.

  When Mark opened his eyes, an odd mixture of comfort and sadness filled his chest. Nothing had changed. The same wallpaper hung on the walls. The same table sat in the center of the room. It was as if everything had remained frozen in time, waiting for his return someday. He walked further into the house, stepping carefully as if the wood floor would fall out from beneath him at any moment. He stood in the middle of the kitchen and glanced around the room. The inside of the house was desperate for a woman’s touch, but a woman had not been inside these walls for some time. Not since his mother had left them thirty years ago. Mark shook his head. His mother wasn’t a thought he was willing to tackle at that moment. Not yet. It may have lacked the latest décor, but his father kept a clean and comfortable home. His father was simple and humble. Mark felt foolish and extravagant.

  After he made his way through the kitchen, Mark climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway. As if the house were announcing his homecoming, the floorboards groaned under Mark’s feet as he walked through the doorway of his old bedroom. Although the remnants of his youth no longer decorated the room, the same bureau sat against the wall. The same twin bed sat against the opposite wall. Mark dropped his duffle bag on the bed and looked in the beveled mirror hanging above the dresser. He studied his reflection for several moments. He thought that he was a changed man. The truth was that New York hadn’t changed him a bit. The things that he had left behind didn’t disappear. They simply sat there, patiently waiting for him to return. They sat in every dusty corner, in the shadows of every room. They spoke to him with every squeak of the floorboards, in every slam of the screen door. Suddenly, Mark’s father was in the doorway of his room.

  “Pink sky,” he said, pointing at the window. “Looks like it’s going to be a good day for fishing tomorrow.”

  Mark nodded.

  “We meet at the docks no later than 5:15. The boat won’t wait, so get some rest. You’re going to need it, son.”

  “Hey, Dad?” Mark managed the words before his father had the chance to leave his room.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks again.”

  His father paused in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. Instead of more words passing between the two, he pressed his lips together and nodded. He then tapped the doorjamb with his fingers and walked away.

  That evening and into the early morning, Mark tossed and turned in his bed. The aroma of the sea attached itself to everything in his room and his pillow was dampened by the humidity that sat heavy in the air. He tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the waves just under his window. But the more he listened, the more it sounded as if the sea were whispering to him. It was as if there were a thousand voices calling from beyond, waiting for a response. Some of the murmurs were impatient and taunting. Others we
re urging and inviting. Finally, Mark sat up in bed and looked out of his window. There was no one there. Just the early morning darkness and the rolling ocean. Mark rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch; it was 3:45 in the morning. He was not willing to go another round with insomnia. So he would do what he always did when he couldn’t sleep—walk. Mark put on a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He tied his sneakers and on his way out of the house, he tried to avoid the floorboards that creaked.

  Chapter 6

  Jessica descended the wooden stairs of her cottage and she walked down the overgrown pathway that led to her Ford pickup. The brush seemed to tug at her thin blue jeans, as if to beg her to stay for a few more minutes. But, it was nearly 3:30 a.m. and the fishermen would be in search of their morning coffee soon. She slid into the front seat of her truck and turned the ignition. She could hear the sound of loose gravel popping under the tires, as she backed out of her driveway and made her way to Bonnie’s.