Page 8 of A Shore Fling

NINA

I ’m awake at six a.m. as usual. I may be on vacation, but my internal clock hasn’t adjusted yet.

I lie in bed, enjoying the soft golden glow peeking through the open bedroom windows.

Back in New York, when my alarm goes off, I jump right up and hit the shower, so luxuriating between the crisp cotton sheets is new to me.

And so is listening to birds chirp from my bed, considering my apartment is on the twelfth floor and I have central air conditioning.

After about ten minutes, I use the bathroom and change into shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers.

I decide to do some exploring and check out what’s nearby.

Shoving some cash in one pocket and my phone in the other, I leave the house.

There’s no way I’m walking up the hill, so I head to the right toward unexplored areas.

The neighborhood is quiet at this time of the morning.

The lack of people is almost as jarring as the thick crowds of pedestrians I face in the city.

I can’t remember a time when I was the only soul walking down the sidewalk.

It feels like I’m one of the few surviving characters in some dystopian novel.

It’s only five minutes to the first footbridge.

Clusters of tall sea grass jut upward on either side, and the wooden planks creak beneath my feet as I walk over them.

The view stretching out before me is stunning.

The sun’s rays add a golden hue to the sand, and the navy water is accented with pops of a lighter blueish-green with whitecaps cresting the waves.

I step down onto the beach and try to walk on the soft sand, but I feel uncoordinated.

Put me in sky-high heels in the concrete jungle and I’ll walk for miles, but take me out of my environment and suddenly I’m like a fish out of water.

I totter to the wet sand, and I’m relieved at how much easier it is to navigate.

I head down the beach at a leisurely pace, scanning the area in front of me for seashells or interesting rocks.

I’m determined to find some during my time here to bring back home as keepsakes.

My thoughts wandering, I wonder what time Travis starts his day. Is he in his office now or already out patrolling the water? Maybe he’s still in bed. No, don’t go there.

It’s okay to admit he’s attractive, but that’s as far as I can let it progress.

This summer is about taking a break and figuring out what makes me happy.

I don’t need to get caught up thinking about some grumpy harbormaster who couldn’t have a conversation without saying something derogatory to me.

I get enough insults at work from my family members.

Havenport is my fresh start, my chance to be a version of myself that doesn’t involve my family’s history or notoriety.

But I’m not even sure who I am without my work anymore.

It’s become such an integral part of my life—the primary focus, really—and that’s not healthy.

I need balance, and I’m determined to find it while I’m here.

On my return walk up the beach, I cross over the first footbridge I come to, which leads me to the street.

This area has larger historical homes that have faced the brunt of the ocean for hundreds of years and still stand firm.

A twinge of excitement stirs in my chest. History has always intrigued me.

I pause in front of a white colonial with a plaque stating that this is the Palmer House, named for Sea Captain Thomas Palmer, and was built in 1768.

It’s crazy to think how Maine was still part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony at that point.

There’s a widow’s walk on the top of the home that has me imagining the sea captain’s wife in period clothing, day after day, watching for her husband’s ship to return from a six-month-long voyage.

I can practically feel her anxiety as I think about it.

Did they have children she cared for in his absence?

Children she had to maintain a strong facade for even while she longed for her husband with every fiber of her being?

No wonder they say Mainers are hearty people.

It’s part of their ancestry that’s been passed on.

I start moving once more, enjoying the cooler early morning air.

An occasional car drives past, and I pass a few other people out for their morning walk.

We share hellos, and they actually smile at me.

I’m so used to walking purposefully in the city with large crowds who all seem to be operating on time constraints.

I come upon an area with some shops, but at the early hour there’s only one that’s open: Laugh A Latte.

I moan softly at the thought of coffee, and pull the door open.

I’m barely inside when the woman behind the counter calls out, “Good morning. What can I do for you?” Her smile is warm and welcoming.

“Good morning. I’d love a large, hot coffee with cream to go.” I glance up at the board on the wall with all the items listed. “And a blueberry muffin, please.”

She gets right to taking care of my order while my eyes sweep around the inviting interior. With the soothing blue-toned walls and beachy artwork, it’s everything a coastal coffee shop should be. The tables and chairs are a mismatched compilation of styles and wood varieties.

“Here you go.” She sets my items down on the counter in front of me. After punching some keys on the cash register, she tells me my total. I hand over some cash, waving away my change.

“That’s for you.”

“Thank you. How long are you visiting for?”

“I’m here through the end of August.”

“Nice. This must be a big change from New York,” she says.

My eyes go wide. “Are you psychic?”

She grins. “No, but when you ordered your cawfee, it kind of gave it away.”

I laugh. “Oh. I forget I have an accent.”

“I think we’re all guilty of that,” she reassures me. “I’m Ginger, by the way. Welcome to Havenport.”

“Thank you. I’m Nina. Your shop is adorable.”

“Thanks. It’s a labor of love.”

“Where did you find the tables and chairs? They’re antiques, right?”

She nods. “I found them at various flea markets. I wanted to give a nod to the history of this area.”

“Well, you did a fantastic job. The vibe is so welcoming.” Ginger’s warm personality also plays a large part in that. I take a sip of my coffee and then hum with pleasure.

“I’m glad you think so. I hope you come back and visit again.”

Opening the door, I look over my shoulder as I step outside, calling out, “You can count on it.” I turn the corner and slam into a brick wall. How’d that get there? Miraculously, my cup is still intact.

“You gotta be kidding me,” the wall exclaims, moving backward.

Recognizing the voice and sarcastic tone, I brace myself before I look up to find Travis frowning at me. Unfortunately, his disappointed expression is also familiar to me. “It’s nice to see you too, harbormaster.”

“It’s good to see you create chaos wherever you go,” he utters between smirking lips.

“Maybe it’s only when you’re around.” I wiggle the fingers on my free hand, as if I’m casting a hex on him.

His expression is dubious. “I find that hard to believe.”

I shrug. “I guess time will tell. Enjoy your day.” I start to walk away.

“You’re not taking the boat out, right?”

Continuing forward, I hold my middle finger up over my head.

I hear his deep chuckle, but I refuse to look back.

Though I’m tempted to get another look at the way his dark-blue polo shirt molds over his broad shoulders and rock-solid chest. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Besides, no matter how handsome he is or how great his body is, I’m here to relax and simplify my life.

And God knows nothing is more complicated than a man.

By the time I get back to the cottage, my phone is vibrating with texts and calls.

It figures the wifi isn’t spotty now, and it seems like my email has been read.

Oh shit. I panic for a few seconds. I might as well get this over with before I eat my muffin and finish my coffee.

Yanking my phone from my pocket, I open the texts.

Jonathon: Are you fucking kidding me? This better be a joke, Nina.

He’s as upset as I figured he’d be.

Jonathon: Answer me!

Jonathon: Nina, I’m serious. This isn’t funny. Answer me, now.

I don’t bother listening to the voicemails he left. There’s no reason to hear how pissed off he is. Reading his texts is enough.

Me: I’m not joking. I’m not trying to be funny. I’m merely taking a mental health break for my well-being.

Jonathon: What a crock of shit. If you needed a vacation, you should’ve put in for the time off like every other employee has to.

Me: We both know how that would’ve gone. Every time I’ve put in for a vacation in the past two years, either you or dad has declined it. There is no good time for me to go away, so I took matters into my own hands.

Jonathon: You can have this week to reboot, but you better be back here the following Monday.

Me: I’m not coming back until the end of August.

Jonathon: Don’t forget you can be replaced.

Me: Then replace me. Good luck finding someone who works as hard and efficiently as I do.

Jonathon: I don’t have time to conduct interviews. Just come back, please.

Me: There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. Enjoy your summer.

Jonathon: This isn’t the end of this, Nina.

Oh yes, it is. I leave my phone on the counter, and bring my coffee and muffin out to the front porch.

Sinking into one of the lobster trap chairs, I marvel at how comfortable it is, and take my time eating my breakfast. The blueberries are large, and the flavor practically explodes in my mouth with each bite.

The coffee is just as delicious. It’s only my second day in town and I’ve already found my breakfast spot.

Go me. Next up is ordering groceries to be delivered so I don’t have to eat takeout, which was a staple of my diet back home.

Even when I cooked on the weekends it was basic items like spaghetti or chicken.

One of my goals for the next few months is to eat healthier and learn how to cook more complex dishes.

My mind starts running through the list of goals I made to accomplish, and I come up with one more to add—avoid seeing the harbormaster.