Page 46 of Stony Point Summer
“Exactly. And you can mend some fences, get the year back on track. See everybody again, before the summer’s over. Shit, it’s August already.”
“At Foley’s, you say?”
“You bet. Just like old times.”
Shane takes another long breath. He stands, too, and pushes in the chair at his kitchen table before walking to his front door—which is open to the night outside. Leaning against the doorjamb, he listens to Neil.
“Should be a party for the books. You can crash at our place afterward, stay the weekend.”
“All right.” That’s all Shane says. Two words. The docks aren’t far off, and a bell buoy clangs then, in the distance. If ever someone looked like he could use a little magic in his life, Shane does. His difficult year shows on his face. In the shadows there. In the fatigue.
“Seriously? So you’ll make the trip?”
“Yeah. I’m game,” Shane tells Neil on the phone. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
Maybe those wordsdidwork some magic—Wouldn’t miss it. Because in the days leading up to that Foley’s bash, there’s a lightness in Shane’s step on the lobster boat. And at home, he whistles while packing his duffel for the overnight at Stony Point. Tosses in a pair of jeans, a couple of tees, a button-down. Some toiletries. Pauses when he passes a mirror. Takes a gander at himself, dragging a hand down his jaw.
Still, sometimes he hesitates. Waffles. Tosses his things in the truck, but doesn’t leave Rockport. Goes back inside his shingled harbor house. Looks around. Makes a sandwich. Has lunch alone out on his deck facing the distant docks. The harbor water is deep blue and calm. Lobster boats are moored there.
Maybe it’s some hope that does it.
That finally gets Shane to check his watch later on, grab his keys, lock up the house and go. Because on the long ride from Maine to Connecticut, he even rehearses what he’ll say to his brother, Kyle. To Maris. As though this might work. As though Neil was right, they’ll all mend some fences.
Shane whispers various phrases on the drive.
To Kyle:No hard feelings, man. I get it. Been a rough road, for both of us.
In a minute, he tells himself, “Nah. Maybe just a big hug, a hearty slap on the back, a laughing,What was all that shit? It’s done now.”
A few highway miles later, different phrases are uttered. A different tone. Softer. These words for Maris:Maris. So great to see you. You look amazing. Things okay?
Shane’s quiet, then, driving through New England. Highway mile markers pass; the broken centerlines on the pavement blur. Green surrounds him, the mountains and hillside lush with summer trees. He puts on the radio and finds a slow tune as he nears Connecticut.
“Yeah,” Shane says to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. “Me and Maris will have a dance. Break the ice. Clear the air. Try again, maybe.”
Checking the rearview mirror, he passes a slower car in front of him. “It’s good, all good,” he says while closing the miles. “It’ll be all right.”
* * *
Though this long day began with uncertainty hours ago, Shane’s looking forward to not only an ice-cold brew, but even more so, to drinks with the really good company of his old beach friends.
But after all his hesitation—including a couple of roadside stops along the way—Shane’s late. Driving down Shore Road, the sun’s already set. He passes bait shacks closed up for the night, and folks lined up outside ice-cream stand take-out windows, and moonlit marshes where dune grasses whisper. The closer he gets to Stony Point, the happier he seems. Turning under the stone train trestle, he slows his pickup and stops on the other side.
“Where you headed?” the guard there asks while jotting his license plate number on a clipboard.
“I’m a guest tonight,” Shane tells him. “Staying with the Barlows.”
The guard waves him in. “Okay, you’re good.”
Slowly, Shane cruises the sandy beach roads. He passes bungalows on stone foundations; shingled shanties; grand beach colonials. Soft lamplight shines in windows, with folks visiting on a Friday night. Finally he pulls into the parking lot at the beach, shuts off the engine and just sits for a few minutes. Moored rowboats and pleasure boats creak against the pilings in the nearby boat basin. The long boardwalk beyond frames the distant skyline. The salt air is sweet.
“Okay, let’s do this,” he tells himself, putting on his newsboy cap and getting out of the truck. Stretching some kinks from his back after hours on the highway, he first walks across that boardwalk. His shoes press against the sandy planks. It all seems to calm him. A haze hangs in the August air, blurring the moon. At the far end of the boardwalk, he descends several stairs to a narrow beach road and walks the few blocks to Foley’s.
But something happens as he nears.
When Foley’s big cottage comes into view, Shane slows his step. He moves close to the curb, too, walking in dark shadow. The deck of the old hangout is illuminated with twinkle lights. Tiny bulbs drape from the railings and outline the metal-framed sliding windows. Those sparkling lights cast a misty glow on the old place—which rises like a shabby silhouette against the night. Shane slows even more, then stops—out of view—beneath a large tree right outside the joint. Springsteen’sGlory Daysis playing on the jukebox inside the back room. The music carries on the sultry summer air. So do his beach friends’ raucous voices, singing along.
