My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (14 page)

The island fathers and mothers have very strict guidelines to keep all that is St. Gabriel old, or at least looking old, which has stirred more than a few hot St. Gabe debates. But all of the restrictions have kept the island what it is, a place that transports a person back in time a hundred years, beginning the moment they step off the ferry and walk down the dock onto Main Street.

Modern clothing, music, and food are all readily available on the island but the bones of the place—preservation, preservation, preservation. This comforts me. Knowing that I’m not going to walk around the corner and see the side of a mountain being leveled to put up the next superstore, and I won’t have to watch the cute little house on the corner be torn down to put in a Gas-n-Go, gives me a sense of time and place that sets the pulse of life at just the right pace for me.

I wouldn’t be on the island for the Cherry Festival held at the end of July, but my extended stay had allowed me to participate in St. Gabriel’s Independence Day festivities. A band was playing a patriotic medley in the gazebo, families and sweeties were spread out on blankets, and older folks sat in folding chairs, all watching the fireworks that were being launched from the top of Fort Hill.

I was flat on my back, taking in the succession of the booms and bursts exploding directly over the park. I laced my fingers through the blades of grass that was the thick, cushy kind, the kind that gives a little when you walk on it.

“Good view?” asked James who was looking down at me, his six feet plus looked exaggerated from my vantage point.

“The best view. It’s the only way to watch fireworks you know? Or look at a tree or a cloud.”

“Absolutely, who doesn’t know that?”

“No one that matters.”

“Can I join you?”

“Sure.”

James lay next to me, leaving a safe couple of feet between us. He sprawled flat out, the toes of his shoes pointing out to the sides, his hands clasped on his stomach.

When the last spark of the finale had fizzled out in the sky, James took me to Masa de Cielo, a Mexican bakery, where we had hot chocolate made with cream and eggs and split a Cremas de Fresca, a flaky pastry filled with fluffy cream cheese and strawberries.

“There’s been something I’ve wanted to ask you since I first met you,” I told James.

“What’s that?”

“Gary Rogers?”

“Hmm. You want to know why we’re friends.”

“I’m just curious.”

“Our families are friends. We went to the same schools. And Gary’s parents traveled a lot when we were kids, so he spent most of every summer here on the island with my family. I know he’s kind of over the top but it’s just one of those friendships that’s a given, I guess.”

“Well, I think it’s admirable that you haven’t given it back.”

We laughed.

“So what do you do when you’re not being James Alexander of the St. Gabriel Alexanders?”

“You mean for a living?”

“I guess or whatever.”

“I help run the properties on the island that my family owns. My brother is the wheeler dealer. I manage the restaurants mostly. And I play in a band.”

“A band, really, where do you play?”

“On the island sometimes and in small clubs in Chicago.”

“What instrument do you play?”

“Bass.”

“Bass guitar?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

James laughed. “Of course, why do you say that?”

“Well, you don’t have the lips of a horn player and you’re too tall to be a drummer.”

“Really.”

“Absolutely, I know these things.”

He flashed his knee-weakening smile.

“What else?” I asked.

“It’s my turn to interrogate you.”

“I’m not done. What else?”

“That’s it.” James sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

Then I sat back, crossed my arms, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow and said, “What else?”

“And I fly,” he added.

“Airplanes?”

“No, I have great wing span.” He flapped his arms out to the side.

I laughed. “When did you learn?”

“I was eighteen. I wanted to be able to fly back and forth from Chicago to the island.”

“Understandable. And where do you live?” I was being pushy but James didn’t really seem to mind.

“Since I separated from Laura, I live in Chicago in the winter and summers here on the island. I have an apartment downtown.”

“Who lives in the big Alexander House on Mission Hill? I saw it marked on the tourist map they gave out on the ferry.”

“My mom, most of the year, and other family and friends stay there when they’re visiting the island. Most of my family lives in Chicago and travels back and forth in the summer.”

“Did your family really try to buy The Lake Lodge?”

“My brother did a couple of years ago. He wanted to use it for dorms for the summer workers and storage for the businesses. But he couldn’t settle on a price with the owner. Not surprising, my brother’s a cheapskate. I’m sure he was trying to steal it. He’s not really very popular on the island. He tends to prioritize the bottom line. He gives all of the Alexanders a bad name.”

“Do you know who owns it? The caretaker wasn’t a wealth of information.”

“It’s in a trust, a family out of Indiana, I think.” James got a tense look on his face and bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Cammy, I wouldn’t try to tell you what to do, but that property is a real project. Nothing’s been updated for years. Plumbing, electrical, it’s probably all original, from the 20s. And it’s on the other side of the island, so far from downtown where most of the tourists are.”

“That’s what I love about it. I know people wouldn’t be coming in droves. I’m not looking to get rich, but I think there are people who would appreciate the peace and quiet. And James, like the island, there’s just something about it, the whole property that feels so right to me.”

“You know that some people really do believe it’s haunted?”

“Yes, but I don’t believe in that stuff. Do you?”

“No, but rumors like that could hurt business.”

“I hear all that you’re saying but none of it worries me. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t.”

“So, you’re seriously thinking about it?”

“I am.”

“What are they asking for it?”

“We didn’t quite get that hammered out. I still have a house I would need to sell. And I have moments when I have doubts. I really believe it could be successful. I just don’t know if I have what it would take to make it successful. I could lose everything.”

“Cammy…” James reached across the table and put his hand on top of mine. “…if you decide to do it, I have no doubt you’ll be successful.”

When James lifted his hand, I looked at the wedding ring on my finger, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw James watching me look at it. And I decided it was time to let go.

Before we said goodnight, James and I stood talking in front of Hausterman’s Bakery and he asked me, “Are you going to the parade tomorrow?”

I love a parade. And it doesn’t have to be a good one, although, I do rate them. I love that people take time out of their busy lives to dress up, make floats and walk or ride down the road, waving at total strangers and total strangers wave back. I love that there is dancing and music right in the middle of the street. I love that children, who have expensive toys and electronics cluttering their bedrooms, get excited when a piece of penny candy is tossed to them from a float.

I’ve never been to a really big, professional one like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, it’s on my list, but I have never passed up an opportunity to watch a procession that is gathering to celebrate.

“Yes, I was planning on it.”

“I’m having a barbeque. I’d like you to come and meet some of my family and friends. We’ll watch the parade from the balcony of my apartment.”

“I want to watch from the street, squished in the crowd. Hopefully, I’ll get kicked in the head by a child who’s perched on their father’s shoulders.”

“That does sound like fun. Can I join you?”

“If you want to take the risk.”

“I think I should. If you get knocked out, I’ll be there to drag you to safety so that you don’t get trampled.”

“That would be very gentlemanly of you.”

“Then after the parade, maybe you’ll come upstairs and eat something.”

“Will your mom be there?”

“Possibly.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

“You have friends?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“I meant on the island.”

“Yes, I do. Can I bring her?”

“Her? Oh, yes, you can bring a friend.”

Friends

“That’s the Hill Crowd you’re talking about. You realize that?” was Sara’s response when I asked her to go to James’ barbeque with me.

“The Hill Crowd?”

“The rich who live in the homes on Mission Hill.”

“James lives in an apartment downtown,” I told her.

“I’ll pass.”

“Why, Sara Strauss, you are a snob.”

“No, I just know who my friends are and it’s not the Hill Crowd. Listen, girl, you don’t have to live on this island very long to learn there are Tourists, Summers, Gabies, and the Hill Crowd, most of which are Summers, and we all keep our distance. It’s just the way it is.”

“Okay, back up, missy. What’s a Summer?”

“Residents, who are mostly rich and live here for just the summer.”

“So, what if I told you I was rich, would you hold it against me?”

“It’s not that they’re rich. It’s that they act like they own the place even though it’s the Gabies who really call the island home. We’re not here just to make a buck or vacation for a few weeks or months out of the year. So, you’re rich, huh?”

“No, I’m not. Come with me, please. James is very nice. You’ll like him. I promise.”

“I should keep the bakery open until nine.”

“I thought about that. But remember what you told me would be fun to try? Put the day-old baked goods on a table outside in front of the bakery with an on-your-honor pay system, and see what happens. We’ll put what’s left from the day’s baking on a table with a sign and a can for the money. Then we’ll close up around six and see what happens. I’ll pay for whatever is missing and doesn’t get paid for.”

“What if the whole can of money goes missing?”

“I’ll cover it. It’ll be fun. Let’s try it.”

Crowds gathered on the sidewalk
waiting for the start of the parade. I met James in front of Meaks Deli. Inside we loaded up on lemonade and deep-fried pickles. You read that right, deep-fried pickles.

We were walking down the sidewalk toward the park when James stopped and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He walked over to a young man who was scraping a pile of manure from the street and shoveling it into a hand cart. James said something to him and then shook his hand.

When he came back, I asked, “Do you know him?”

“I do now.”

“Really.” I looked up at him with skepticism.

“Yes, really, I was saying hi.”

Just as the procession came down Fort Hill and turned the corner onto Main Street, we found a place to watch the parade under the shade of a maple that bordered the park. I gave the parade a score of an eight. There were several long gaps. I don’t like parade gaps—they weaken the momentum.

My favorite entry was a group of a dozen boys and girls, ages maybe five to sixteen or so, who were rolling along on Heelys (shoes with little wheels in the soles). A boom box and speakers were in the rear basket of the three-wheeled bicycle that was being pedaled ahead of them. The group did their rolling, twirling dance routines to the music. I bet you won’t ever see that in New York City on the third Thursday in November.

After the parade I walked back to the bakery, and Sara and I set up our experiment on the sidewalk. We covered a card table with a red and white checked cloth, filled two baskets with all of the pastries that we had wrapped in plastic wrap, and made a sign that read,
Priced as marked. Leave your money on-your-honor
. Next to the sign, we left an empty coffee can with an opening cut into the lid.

When Sara and I arrived at the open door of James’ apartment, there were at least twenty people mingling, but I didn’t see James. Some of the partygoers looked up. I saw some smirks and then they went back to their conversations. Maybe Sara was right.

Sara tilted her head towards me but kept her eyes on the gathering as if she was afraid they might attack, and she didn’t want to be caught off guard. “This is going to be fun,” she said.

A woman walked in from the balcony, carrying two large platters full of food. Her face lit up when she saw us standing in the doorway, and she set the plates down on a buffet and walked across the room with her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Diana, James’ sister. You must be Cammy.”