Page 8 of The Edge of Summer
THREE
LUKE
Morningson the island are my favourite.
Quiet blankets the town, and my truck is the only vehicle on the road. The mornings hang on to the crisp chill from the night before, so when I roll my windows down, the fresh air sharpens my lungs.
On my way to the station, I make a point of driving down Main Street. At the end of the road, the lighthouse—and my family’s restaurant—looms. Beyond Dockside’s steady presence lie the calm waters of Lake Huron. As the day breaks and the town comes to life, so too will the lake. The water that once lapped at the rocky edge of the island will roll, as boats begin to dock at the marina, and the ferry makes more frequent trips back and forth to the mainland.
Some people might feel stuck living on an island—fenced in by water on all sides. I don’t share that particular sentiment. I like the insularity. Having grown up here, I know exactly what to expect. This town and its routines are nothing if not reliable. Everyone in my high schoolgraduating class couldn’t wait to get off the island. They were under the impression that things were better out there, and they had their sights set on a life beyond this shoreline. I left, too, but I always knew I would be back. A few short years away at college and then I moved home.
The familiarity is a comfort when a large part of my job is battling the unknown. There are aspects to fire that can be predictable, but every situation is wildly different and I never quite know what I’m sending my team into. In the other areas of my life, I do my best to keep careful control of the things I can. I know firsthand what happens when I don’t.
At the end of Main Street, I pull into a parking spot right in front of the one and only café. As I hop out of my truck, I watch the barista set the sandwich board up on the sidewalk. When she sees me, she greets me with a smile. The laugh lines around her dark eyes crinkle and the grey-streaked brunette strands of her bob wave.
“Morning, Chief Bowman!” Loretta calls.
I nod. “Morning.”
I hold the front door open for her and then follow her inside. We make idle conversation as she rounds the counter to start on my usual black coffee. It isn’t long before I’m back in my truck and on my way to work, the same as every other day. Predictable—just the way I like it.
With my window cracked and some old country song playing softly on the radio, I cruise down the street. Yellow and orange paint the sky as the sun continues its ascent.
As I’m coming up to a four-way stop, I look in my rear view mirror and notice a car behind me. Other than my truck, it seems to be the only one on the road. I take my footoff the accelerator and step gradually on the brake, rolling to a halt at the stop sign. The driver behind me doesn’t do the same.
I hardly feel the impact, but when I look again in my mirror, I can tell that the car is much too close to my bumper. I curse under my breath as I shift into park and throw my hazard lights on. The last thing I want to do this morning is deal with this, but I feel an obligation to at least make sure the other driver is alright.
I slide out of my truck and head to the back to assess the situation. The driver, a woman in her mid-twenties, still sits in her seat, mouth agape. Her hands grip the steering wheel at ten and two. She isn’t someone I recognize which means she isn’t from around here. She drives an Audi—some kind of sporty crossover. Her plates indicate she’s from out west.Tourist, it screams.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the amount of vacationers the island pulls in each summer. We’ve always been a destination for cottagers and the odd weekender, but about a decade ago, some travel blogger wrote a whole piece on the month she spent here. It went viral, and suddenly people began to flock to our shores. The growth since has been exponential. Both a blessing and a curse.
The woman shakes herself from her daze and finally steps out of the car. As she rounds the hood to inspect the damage for herself, I get an eyeful of the smooth, tempting skin of her legs not covered by her denim shorts.A goddamn curse indeed.
“Uh, hi,” she says with a small wave.
Before I can say anything, she spins away from me to takea longer look at the damage. When she bends at the waist, eyeing her bumper, I have to clench my jaw and turn away.
The woman just rear-ended me, for Christ’s sake. I should be focused on getting her insurance information, not admiring the long, graceful lines of her limbs. Still, I can’t stop myself from turning back and drinking in the sight of her again. This time, I notice more than just her legs. Long, dark brown hair held in a ponytail drapes over her back, but a few strands have come loose and now frame her face. A tight black t-shirt clings to her torso and chest, matching the black Vans she wears on her feet. I can just see the edge of black ink peeking out from the sleeve of her shirt.
She stands to her full height, putting her about half a foot shorter than my six feet. She places her hands on her hips, and I try to stop my eyes from wandering there, too.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” she says with a nod. “Just a little tap.”
Her words pull my focus from admiring her physical attributes. Instead, I find myself scowling. For some reason, what she said irks me. Her unaffected tone has my shoulders tensing. It’s true—this accident could have been worse. I’veseenworse. But the blasé way she dismisses this as a simple near-miss doesn’t sit quite right with me.
“Just alittle tap?” My words come out hardened with irritation. “Your headlight is busted.”
If I was in anything other than my truck, like the old Volkswagen Beetle my sister insists on driving, the back bumper would be a mess.
Her eyes widen, and the bone-deep weariness I see in her expression catches me by surprise. It gives me pause. Myannoyance shifts from a rolling boil to a slow simmer. The minute shaking I notice in her hands snuffs my irritation out altogether. In my head, I can hear Clara chastising me for being rude. My mother, too. They both think my delivery, at times, leaves something to be desired.
When I take note of the teenage boy in the passenger seat, and the wide-eyed young girl in the back, about Abbie’s age, I sigh. Then I let the tension fully run from my body. “Are you all okay?” I ask. My voice, hardly in use yet this morning, comes out gruff. “No one’s hurt?”
She shakes her head. “No, we’re fine.” Her teeth snag her bottom lip. I can’t seem to look away. “Are you?”
I nod jerkily. “Fine.”
The passenger door of her car opens and the teenager steps out. He tugs the hood off his head, revealing shaggy hair the same shade as the woman’s. They’re definitely related, then.
