Page 47 of Stony Point Summer
That’s all Shane seems to want back, their glory days. And maybe it’ll happen. After being away for months, maybe he and his friends could all talk clearly now. Even his brother might. Yes, Shane finally looks ready.
The gang seems like it’s ready, too. With all that music, and laughter, the good times are a-rollin’, definitely. The brews must be flowing; the conversation, loose. Someone inside is rat-a-tatting drumsticks to Springsteen’s song. Shane looks up from the shadows and nods his head in beat to the music … as if it’s a tune that brings back sweet memories. As though he’s picturing his friends, the couples paired off—some sitting in a window booth, others hanging out on the old wooden dance floor near the jukebox. No doubt Shane would like to have a cold brew, too. Maybe give someone, some familiar friend, a twirl on that dance floor.
But what Shane didn’t seem to count on was seeing two particular people standing outside on Foley’s deck. The girl’s in her early twenties; the guy, mid. Leaning on the railing, they each hold a drink of some sort, swirling the ice cubes in their red cups as they talk.Theirvoices carry to Shane, too, as he stands unseen below the upper-level deck. And it’s those two peopleoutsidethat stop him from walking up those stairs to the back room. Because as soon as he spots them, he freezes in the darkness. The two people are still talking, the guy asking some question—what, it’s hard to tell with all that partying racket. So Shane steps closer, head tipped.
“Well, well,” the guy on the deck is saying, throwing a casual look at the girl next to him. “Maris Carrington. Hear you’re about to take on the fashion world?”
“Tuesday, in Boston. First day on the job. I’ll be cutting patterns and doing a little sketching.” She tucks her hair back and looks at the guy. “And what about you, Jason Barlow? What does life have in store for you?”
This Maris, standing close and sipping her drink, nods as Jason mentions grad school classes at Yale, and remodeling jobs, and working with his brother. She smiles easy while listening. Touches his arm.
Dropping his head, Shane listens longer as the two talk about summer memories. Finally, it looks like he’s about to call out their names. He lifts off his newsboy cap, puts it in his back pocket and takes slow strides across the gravel parking lot, toward the deck stairs.
But a slow song begins now on the jukebox inside. And while walking toward the staircase, Shane watches things change between those two people on that upper-level deck.
Watches Jason Barlow put out his hand for a dance with Maris Carrington.
The sight stops Shane, right there in the shadows. The darkness gives him enough cover to watch the dance, unnoticed. On the deck, Jason holds Maris close. His fingers touch her long brown hair, skim her tanned shoulders. After a few bars of the song, Maris rests her head on Jason’s shoulder. There’s an intimacy to their dance, and a sadness at the same time. A finality, at this last hurrah.
As the dance goes on, slowly and privately, Shane apparently changes his mind about crashing this party and starts walking away.
But he stops and turns back again. Just in time, too, to see Jason’s hands cradle Maris’ face, his thumb stroking her cheek before he leans in and kisses her in the moonlight.
Still Shane watches. Just long enough toseeenough. To get him to shake his head, as though wondering what the hell he’d been thinking coming here.
The jukebox plays on, the slow song drifting out like a wisp of sea fog—soft, wavering.
Shane listens, and watches the couple for a touch or two longer. Watches Maris loop her hands around Jason’s waist. Watches Jason kiss her once, then again, stroking her hair, whispering something that gets her to smile. To touch his jaw.
He turns then, Shane does. Turns around and walks off into the misty night.
One step at a time, farther and farther, he leaves his brother, leaves Maris—leaves Stony Point and all of its second chances—behind.
seventeen
— Now —
AFTER CRUISING THE DUSTY BEACH roads in Shane’s truck, they’re here. The Sand Bar is busy on this hot summer night. Together, he and Celia walk up the few stairs to the propped-open entrance door. Right away, Shane hears the hum of easy talk inside. Mounted big-screen TVs are filled with some baseball stadium view—the outfield lush green, the pin-striped players alert and maneuvering their footwork to catch, throw, run, slide.
As they make their way further inside, each visual detail is utterly familiar. The waitress carrying a tray of draft beer. The bartender reaching overhead for a wineglass. The shadowy booths filled with conversation and laughs. Each casual greeting is practically memorized. Each crack of a pool stick or jukebox tune, expected.
Of course it is. Shane Bradford’s stopped in his share of honky-tonk beach joints all his life. Up and down the East Coast, briny buildings and salty shacks both. But being at The Sand Bar late Thursday night sure feels different.
Feels like home.
And Shane relishes that feeling.
Situated across the street from a distant harbor, The Sand Bar is the kind of place where you could imagine a fisherman walking in for a drink, straight off the boat. Oh, Shane knowsthatfeeling well, too. How many times, back in Maine, has he walked straight from the docks in Rockport Harbor into the Red Boat Tavern? Too many times to count—especially after a long trip out at sea.
But tonight is different. Tonight, walking into this local dive, he has Celia on his arm. The fisherman vibe continues, though, when they sit at the crowded bar. Decorative wood pilings tied with nautical rope stand at either end.
“Hey, hey. It’s the entertainers,” the bartender says as he wipes the bar top in front of them and sets down two napkins. “Play a song for the crowd?”
Celia shakes her head with a small smile. “Thanks, Patrick, but not tonight. Just patrons this time.”
“That’s decent,” Patrick says. But he extends a hand to Shane. “Not sure we’ve actually met. I’m Patrick. Manage this place, and saw you steal the show with your harmonica a few weeks back, then disappear.”
Shane half stands and reaches across the bar to shake his hand. “Name’s Shane. Shane Bradford. Been visiting these parts from Maine.”
