That Summer In Maine

She looked troubled, even in sleep, he thought, and hoped he had what it took to pull her out of the past and into a future with him. He’d thought he would have to play it cool, give her time, invite her and her father to his home. But Elliott’s sudden mission had been a fateful intervention forcing her into his path. He had to take advantage of it.

She awoke in northern Massachusetts. It was dusk.

She sat up guiltily and stretched, a gesture he was grateful he couldn’t watch because of the thinning but steady traffic.

“Where are we?” she asked on a yawn.

“Almost to the New Hampshire border. You ready for dinner?”

“I’m starved,” she admitted.

“Okay.” He pointed to a highway sign that promised Good Food and Cozy Cabins. “Looks like a good place to spend the night.”

The cabins were small and rustic, but each boasted a tidy bathroom and a television set. That was all Duffy needed, but after having seen Maggie’s town house, he wondered if she considered the cabins adequate.

He dropped her bag on her bed and watched her perusal of the pine-paneled, plaid-curtained room. She sat on the edge of the bed that was covered in a spread that matched the curtains, and bounced a little.

“It’s been such a long day,” she said. “This feels comfortable.”

He winced at the bold decorating. “The rooms are a little…plaid.”

She nodded. “They’re going for cozy. After all, their highway sign makes the claim. I like it.”

So, Lady Bellows was not offended by her surroundings. He was relieved to know that—and pleased.

She lay her upper body back against the mattress and closed her eyes with a contented sigh. “I should skip dinner,” she said, wriggling comfortably. “I didn’t get any exercise at all today except when we ran across the terminal to catch the plane.”

“Lunch was a long time ago,” he said, glancing at his watch. “And it’s almost seven. You should eat something, then you can sleep.”

She gave him a mildly scolding glance as she sat up. “Tell me you’re not going to try to police my food intake as well as everything else.”

“I’m not policing anything,” he insisted, offering her a hand up. “But if you’ve been given a month off to restore yourself after your ordeal in the mountains, you should take advantage of the opportunity. Good food and lots of rest.”

“Food doesn’t appeal to me. I haven’t expended any energy.”

She’d taken the hand he offered but still sat there, arguing, and he had to concentrate on her words one at a time to distract himself from the feel of her small, cool hand in his.

“The sign says they serve breakfast all day,” he remembered, privately congratulating himself on thinking clearly. “You could have an omelette or fruit.”

She considered those possibilities and used his hand to pull herself up. He had to apply almost no counterweight.

“Maybe I’ll just have dessert,” she said, snatching up her purse and heading for the door.

They talked companionably for an hour over the fruit salad she finally decided upon and the steak and salad that was his reward for a trying day.

They talked about their fathers, about people in the neighborhood both remembered, and encapsulated the past twenty years for each other.

Maggie spoke mostly about her career, about the roles she’d enjoyed and those she’d agonized over, the casts that had been fun to work with and those that had been difficult.

“Did you ever expect,” he asked, fascinated by her stories, “that you’d achieve such success?”

“It’s funny.” She shrugged, studying a section of mandarin orange on the tip of her fork. “I’ve loved the work, and there’s such an excitement in really finding the character and giving it all you’ve got. So I was about ten years into it when I realized that I was a respected actress. People recognized me on the street or in the market. It was flattering.”