Learning to Fall (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

The Pier

While I was fairly certain a chilled glass of white zinfandel did not meet the requirements of getting ‘crunked’, it was the best I could do.

As we almost always did, Whitney and I managed to set our opposing views aside and find middle ground. After going back and forth in the car, we’d agreed to one bar, two drinks, and three hours. It would be just long enough to sate Whitney’s need for social interaction, and short enough to have me back home and in my office before nine. All things considered (including Whitney’s track record for magically talking me into things I didn’t want to do) it was a near perfect compromise.

We stopped at the house to drop off the car and change out of our work clothes. Built in the late eighteen hundreds, our cozy two bedroom Cape Cod rental came complete with old hardwood floors, blue shutters, and a leaky roof.

At twelve hundred a month (utilities
not
included) it definitely strained our shoestring budget, but compared to the other houses in the neighborhood - most of them bigger, all of them in better condition - it was nothing short of a bargain. Camden may have been a tiny coastal village, but it definitely wasn’t a poor one. Originally a factory town that had been world renowned for producing massive schooners, its natural beauty and accessibility to the ocean eventually began to attract the wealthy and privileged who built enormous summer homes overlooking the harbor. Businesses soon followed, and Camden was now a hodgepodge of old money and new where five star restaurants and pricey art galleries rubbed shoulders with lobster shacks and t-shirt stores.

In the summer the village doubled in size as tourists poured in from every state, only to depart like clockwork at the end of August. In a few weeks the peepers (a second, smaller wave of outsiders drawn by the indisputable beauty of a New England autumn) would arrive, but until then it was only locals and college students. Having been raised just outside a similar tourist town, I liked the quiet and the solitude that came at the end of a bustling season. It felt like the first kiss of cool fall air after a hot, muggy summer.

“Mo, are you ready yet? Come on! Hurry up.”

I startled at the sound of Whitney’s voice, sharp with impatience and building excitement. When we were in college we had gone out nearly every weekend (or at least Whitney had), but since we’d moved to Camden we’d done little more than pop in for a quick drink before hurrying home. Understanding how important my new career was, Whitney had been more than patient with me leading up to the first day of classes.

Now it was my turn to be patient with her.       

We came out of our bedrooms at the exact same time and stopped in the hallway. Whitney pursed her lips as she did a quick, thorough scan of my chunky green sweater and dark blue jeans I’d tucked into a pair of knee high leather boots. As was my habit, I had left my hair alone. It touched my shoulders, a thick, heavy mass of uninspiring brown. Over the years I had tried a few different styles, but nothing ever stuck. I dutifully went in for a trim every eight weeks, and even though I flipped through the magazines and earmarked half a dozen models who showcased cuts ranging from glossy layers to spiky pixies, I always found myself saying the exact same thing when my hairdresser asked what I wanted:
just the split ends, please
.

My face received similar treatment. A few flicks of mascara, a sweep of blush, and a dab of lip gloss completed my entire makeup routine. Given that I didn’t exactly have a perfectly clear complexion I probably should have put on more, but I’d never understood the sense in drowning your pores in foundation. No matter what the commercials claimed, slathering a layer of thick goop on your face wasn’t good for your skin. In my experience the more foundation you put on, the worse the breakout. The worse the breakout, the more foundation you put on. And so the cycle went.

I didn’t mind enhancing my features - mascara to make my lashes look a little darker, blush to make my cheeks a little rosier, gloss to make my lips a little shinier - but any more than that and I was seriously out of my depth.

Much to Whitney’s everlasting dismay.

“What the hell are you
wearing
?” she wailed, throwing her hands up in the air. Rings glittered on every finger. Gold hoops swung from her ears, half covered by her tousled mane of dark hair. She’d used liquid eyeliner to give herself cateyes, and even I could appreciate the effect was nothing short of sexy. Then again, Whitney never did anything in half measures. If
I
dared to show up at the bar wearing black leather leggings, ice pick heels, and a sheer red top I would have stuck out like a sore thumb, but somehow Whitney made her outfit look daring instead of desperate.

She always did.

“We’re going to a bar,” she said as we made our way to the front door. “Not a convent.”

My fingers skimmed along the hem of my sweater before I grabbed my jacket - a practical L.L. Bean fleece - and shrugged it on. “I’m comfortable. Besides, this is Camden. Not New York City.”

Forgoing a jacket despite the dropping temperature, Whitney wrapped a dark scarf around her neck and held open the door. “It is what you make it. Come on, Mother Teresa. Let’s go.”

* * * *

The walk to The Pier was a short one. A two-story bar with a cozy atmosphere and a great view of the harbor, it was the hotspot for locals. Which, I thought with a giddy surge of excitement as I sipped my wine, I officially was now. Maybe not born and bred, but a local nevertheless.

I may have only just moved to Camden, but I already felt more comfortable in this small oceanside village than I ever had in Pennsylvania. Here the people were genuine. They didn’t know who my mother was, or who my father had been. For the first time in my life there was no one looking over my shoulder in silent judgement, and except for the pressure I put on myself to succeed there was no looming sense of expectation. I
belonged
here. I’d felt it in my bones from the first moment I stepped out of the car and tasted the ocean on my tongue. Unlike Massachusetts, Maine wasn’t somewhere I was staying while I prepared for the next big step in my life. Camden, Maine - Stonewall College -
was
the next big step. The most important one I’d ever taken…and the only one that had ever truly been mine.

Lifting my wine glass, I used it disguise my smile as I watched Whitney parade boldly across the bar towards two guys playing pool. She always managed to fit in wherever she was, whether it be a college dorm or a tiny bar where she knew absolutely no one. I’d always envied her confidence, particularly around the opposite sex, and could only shake my head in silent amazement as she cut into the game and, within seconds, had a pool stick in one hand and a free drink in the other. The music pumping through the speakers - a combination of blues and old rock - muffled their conversation, but Whitney’s coy smile and the men’s answering grins spoke volumes.

My best friend flirted like she breathed: effortlessly and without thought. Wooing handsome men came as second nature to her as Shakespeare’s metaphors did to me. Over the years she’d had a handful of boyfriends, although none of them ever made it past the six month mark. By her own claim Whitney was a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” type of girl. No man, no matter their looks, status, or wealth, had the ability to keep her interest for long.

As for myself, I’d only ever had one serious boyfriend. Justin and I had dated for three years during college. Our breakup perfectly summed up our entire relationship: amicable and predictable. I had no regrets, and even still thought of him from time to time. The last I heard he was CEO of a Fortune 500 company and lived in Connecticut with his wife and two-year-old daughter.  

Following Whitney’s urging, I’d tried dating again last summer. Tried… and failed miserably. I simply didn’t know what to say to men, and while awkward equaled charming in the land of sitcoms and romantic comedies, in real life it wasn't nearly as attractive.

At some point I would tackle dating like I had every other obstacle in my life: with a cool, collected mind and a well orchestrated plan. I would find a man of higher education who I shared similar interests with. Perhaps we would meet online, or through mutual co-workers. He would be handsome but not hot, amusing but not outrageous, committed to working but not a workaholic. After approximately two years of dating we would become engaged. Whitney would be my maid-of-honor. We would buy a house within ten miles of Stonewall and together we’d work towards achieving a self-sustaining lifestyle that met both of our needs. When the time was right we would have two children, preferably one boy and one girl. Of course I wasn’t so foolish as to assume I had control over their gender, but as for the rest…   

Taking another sip of wine, I let my gaze slowly wander across the crowd. The Pier was surprisingly full for a Tuesday. Nearly every table was occupied and the only empty seat at the bar was the one next to mine. Men and women were smiling. Laughing. Flirting.

They make it look so easy
, I thought with a familiar twinge of jealousy.

Whitney with her two boy-toys.

The woman and her boyfriend/husband cuddled up in the corner.

The group of friends giggling over a pitcher of amber colored beer.

I may have held a master’s degree from Harvard, but social interaction was a life class I’d managed to fail time and time again. No matter the situation, no matter how hard I tried to blend in, I was always ‘that girl’. The one everyone felt a little bit sorry for. The one whose name was difficult to remember. The one who constantly lingered on the edge of a conversation, but was never a part of it. Not really.

Even now, surrounded by three dozen people, I sat in complete seclusion, as though there was an invisible wall of ice separating me from everyone else.

Ice Queen
.

The moniker that had followed me through high school and college whispered in my ear and I visibly flinched, nails digging tiny crescent moons into my palm as my hand tightened around the delicate stem of my wine glass.

Ice Queen.

Frigid.

Prude.

“Stop it,” I said aloud, causing the bartender to turn and raise an eyebrow. He walked over, a burly man in his fifties sporting a crew cut and carrying a dishrag. Slapping the dishrag down, he braced his hands against the edge of the bar and leaned towards me. 

“Another?” he said, nodding towards my glass. “You look like you could use it.”

“No, I still have some…” I trailed off as I glanced down and realized I’d finished my wine. “Sure. I was drinking the white-”

“White Zin. Not hard to remember, given that nearly everyone else is drinking beer.” He whisked my empty glass away and replaced it with a clean one. Taking a bottle out of the mini fridge he poured the wine without looking, filling my glass exactly three quarters before popping the cork back in the bottle and returning it to the fridge. “You know, I had you pegged for a tourist but this is your third time here.”

“Yes.” More pleased than I should have been that the bartender remembered me, I extended my right hand. “Imogen Finley. I moved to Camden two weeks ago. My roommate and I are renting a house on Fitch Lane.”

The bartender’s grip was firm. He gave my hand two hard shakes before releasing it. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Finley. Name’s Richard Moore, but you just go ahead and call me Dick. Everyone does.” His grin deepened the laugh lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Even when I don’t ask them to.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Dick was first associated with Richard in the thirteenth century. Many people believe it originated from the penis given that Richard means hard ruler, but that correlation was not used until the eighteen nineties as a British army slang word. It actually came about through writing. Rhyming was quite common at the time, and eventually Richard was shortened to Rich, then Rick, and finally Dick. In the sixteenth century Dick became synonymous with ‘lad’ and ‘man’, and by the time Shakespeare wrote
Henry IV
it was quite firmly established as an every man’s name.” 

Dick blinked at me. “No shit.”

Embarrassed by my impromptu lecture - something I tended to do when I felt nervous or out of place -  I bit my lip and took a deep gulp of wine. “I’m sorry. I do that sometimes. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

“Do I look bored? Hell, that’s the most fascinating thing I’ve heard all day. What are you, a history teacher or something?”

“A professor, actually. An English professor at Stonewall.”

Dick blinked again. “Now you really are shittin’ me. A professor?” He scratched the back of his neck. “You can’t be a year or two older than my daughter, and she’s still in college. Went out to California to study environmental science. Never been away from home for more than a weekend. My wife thought she’d move back before the end of the first semester, but she’s been there for three years now. We see her at Christmas and three weeks every summer. She just went back on Friday.”

“She sounds very independent and motivated. You must be proud.”
And sad
, I thought as I noticed the faintest glint of moisture in Dick’s eyes.
Just a little bit sad that his daughter is all grown up and living her own life two thousand miles away.