Torchlight

J
ulia Rierdon traveled along what she assumed would be the equivalent of Vermont’s Glory Road come fall. The verdant countryside flanking the narrow, winding road shouted spring.
Alive! Awake!
The sprouting leaves seemed to wave at her as she drove quickly by in her restored red convertible. This was what she had hoped for when she had left the crowded freeways of San Francisco headed for Maine. The power of this vista, the overwhelming sense of homecoming, was the magnet that had pulled her away from her career, her parents, her social circles, and, quite possibly, from her boyfriend.

Miles had been so angry when she left. Would he ever speak to her again? She hoped so. They had spent four years together; certainly their relationship could handle a little separation. But how long would they really be apart? For the hundredth time, Julia shoved the question from her mind. She had things to get straight, in her head, in her heart. And it was at Torchlight that she would be able to do so.

The air still held a hint of winter’s edge, but the sun was out and, despite the chill, Julia could not resist pulling the car top down when she pulled to the side of the road to stretch. She grabbed a blue duffel coat from her bag and a matching beret, which she slipped over her head, leaving her long, golden hair hanging beneath its edges. Julia took a deep breath and reached toward the sky, then easily hopped over the car’s door and turned the key in the ignition. The engine
roared to life, and she blasted the heater so at least her feet would be warm. “Almost there,” she announced to herself and pulled onto the highway once more.

An hour later Julia crested a hill at a place where the trees thinned, allowing her a spectacular view of the Atlantic. She cried out at the sight of the deep, blue waters she had gazed upon as a child from the windows of her family’s Maine estate. Her memories of the mansion and lighthouse were dim. Both had stood vacant now for twenty years, in need of repair and someone with the passion—and finances—to take on the project. Now it was hers for the taking. She could not believe her good fortune.

Julia was so lost in her memories, she paid little heed to the motorcycle that had begun to tail her. She slowed as she passed through a quaint seaside fishing village, then sped up again upon reaching the north side of town. After four more miles, the motorcyclist casually crossed into the opposite lane, and Julia caught sight of him in her sideview mirror. He drew up alongside her car, keeping his eyes on Julia and not the road in front of him.

The man wore faded jeans and cowboy boots, and a weathered denim jacket covered his broad shoulders. Julia blushed at his obvious attention, although unable to see his face behind the dark shadows of his helmet. His lackadaisical attitude toward the risk of oncoming traffic made her anxious.
He’s toying with me. Well, two can play this game.

She lowered her sunglasses on her nose and stared back the next time he glanced at her. The man threw back his head, apparently laughing, when he could not stare her down.

Just then a logging truck rounded the corner, loaded high with thick, felled pine trees.

Her heart pounding, Julia stepped on her brakes, and the man easily slipped into her lane, in front of her. The trucker laid on his horn and shook a fist out the window as he thundered past.

The motorcyclist waved once to Julia, then opened the throttle.

He was out of sight within seconds.

It took several minutes for Julia’s heart to return to a normal pace.

After passing three fishing villages and several roadside shacks labeled
LOBSTER
, Julia came to a peeling sign that announced her destination in O
AK
H
ARBOR, POPULATION
435. It was late afternoon, and bright spring sunlight still illuminated the valleys, inlets, and wide natural basin surrounding the town. The houses were made predominantly of white clapboard, with sunny porches and large yards that already showed signs of new spring flowers. A few brick buildings were interspersed among the homes, along with two picturesque churches, each with a bell tower and steeple. A covered bridge stood farther up the shoreline, crossing a harbor inlet.

Famished after her long drive, and stiff after several days of travel, Julia pulled up to a café that bore a sign that made her smile:
TARA’S GOOD FOOD.
As she entered, she realized there were no other customers—too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The café was partially decorated in the simplified Federal style made famous by the Shakers, although the rich wood of the bar made Julia surmise the building had once been a tavern.

Pine board walls had been laboriously painted matte terra cotta, giving the entire room a warm, reassuring feel. An elaborate, hand-stenciled frieze capped the walls above cream-colored molding.
Classy
, Julia thought.
Someone has some artistic talent.
She sat down
on a tall cane stool and waited for someone to help her. From the kitchen came the sounds of someone humming and, apparently, chopping food.