Page 129 of Here & There

“Morning, Stu! How are you this fine…gray morning?” The sunrise isn’t much of one today under the heavy clouds. It’s more of a gradual lightening of the sky.

“You want something?”

“Actually I brought you something.” I hand him the breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil, along with the travel thermos.

“I already ate,” Stu says, opening his easel case. He spends some time twisting the legs on and getting it level, and I take the time to peer into his folder, where I can see the edge of a beautiful painting of Business Island.

“Do you only paint landscapes, Stu?” I set the sandwich and coffee down on a flat rock behind him.

He doesn’t answer me at first, just gives me a stern look under his grizzled eyebrow as he unfolds his lawn chair.

“I’m just asking, because I’ve only ever seen you paint Business Island. And sometimes the water over there.” I point to the open ocean to the right. The shapes of some of the bigger islands out there are visible far in the distance.

“Why are you spying on my paintings?” Stu asks. “They’re not for sale!”

Well, this is going great. I decide to change tack. “Okay, listen, Stu. I know you like everyone thinking you’re a big ole asshole because it means you don’t ever have to share how you really feel about things, and no one will know you’re actually a nice guy under all this.”

I don’t actually know this part is true, but going by Mac, who was only half the grump Stu is, it’s a well-educated guess.

“I also know that Business Island means something to you, because you’re out here dawn to dusk nearly every day of the year, painting the same island over and over again. And I know you’re of sound mind, because I see you watching everything that goes on around here.”

Stu’s eyes narrow, and he unclips his box of paints and brushes, ignoring me. But I see the way his hand trembles as he pulls out his paintbrush. I know he was married once. Mac tellsme he wasn’t always an asshole. That he became that way after his wife passed.

“I think that island has something to do with your wife, who was everything to you. I see you getting annoyed at children when they make noise as they pass by, but I also know it’s you who hangs up the lost mittens and boots you find on the boardwalk on the lost rock.”

There’s a big rock over by the Rusty Dinghy where everyone puts items that were left on the beach so their owners can find them. It’s a sweet little small-town thing. And I’m pretty sure Stu started it. I know for certain it’s him who puts most of the stuff up there because I see him pick them up on his walking breaks between paintings.

“What the hell is your point, Jones?”

I smile. He knows my name.

“My point is, I need your help.”

Thishe wasn’t expecting. I can tell because he lowers the brush he was about to hold up to his page.

“I don’t know if you know, but I’m making some changes to Mac’s bar.”

“Oh, I notice all the extra people round here all right.”

“Right. Well, you might also notice they’re not just tourists. They’re a mix of locals and tourists, and that’s what I want Mac’s bar to be. That’s whathewants it to be—a place where everyone feels welcome. Even grumpy old men.”

Stu scowls. “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“I figured out what it is that glues this town together. It’s the people. The tourists and the locals mix in a way I haven’t seen in other places. At least, most people mix.” I’m thinking of the ATV guys. “I’m pretty sure that’s due to a culture of welcome that Mac’s dad created when he was mayor for all those years. The locals welcome the tourists, and the tourists, for the most part,are in turn respectful of the locals. What I want to do is theme the bar to focus on the people.”

I can tell I’m at risk of losing him.

“I want to have portraits of some of the most memorable locals framed on the wall in the Dinghy, along with their stories printed underneath. You know, facts about them. How long they’ve lived here. What’s special about them.”

I’m going to hit Lana up for that part, since she’s the writer. I haven’t told her yet.

“I also want to have portraits of a few of the tourists who’ve passed through—the ones who’ve been good to this town, or made us laugh, or left a mark on people in some way. I want to name the drinks and some of the menu items after the people too. You know, like the Elizabeth—after Elizabeth who lives up at Widow’s Walk. I think she’d be a pomegranate salad. And Fred—she’d be the gruyere grilled cheese.”

“You are out of your mind, young lady,” Stu says.

Maybe a normal person would give up hope at that point, but I don’t. Because he hasn’t started painting again. He’s curious.

“I think your wife deserves a place on the wall too,” I say softly. “Marie, right? She was a schoolteacher?”

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