This is a long one. I sometimes wonder why the young people are expected to have all the fun. So, this is a story about two people falling in love as they near their retirement years. More than that, it's about how none of us escape this life without being broken in some way. Both these people are broken in their own way, and they need someone else to help them heal.
This story contains considerably more sex than I normally write and it has one element that I admit to being unsure of. It seemed like an interesting twist, or maybe it's troubling. You decide.
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It was mid-June on the coast of Maine, and I was taking a much-needed vacation. In recent years, the summer season has been starting sooner. It used to be the summer season didn't kick off until the Fourth of July, but the start had crept into late June and from there into mid-June. The roads and motels that once were almost empty in early June were now starting to get crowded, so I had started taking a vacation in mid- to late-May while schools were still in session. Until the local school boards change the school calendars, mid-May would continue to be safe. However, work had been crazy this spring and this week was the first opportunity I had to get away. Vacation season on the coast of Maine was in full swing and the crowds had arrived. I don't do crowds well, but I adjusted my expectations and tried to go with the flow.
This year's vacation was turning into a bust. You see, my wife died ten months ago and while I would not describe the last decade of our marriage as happy, I was accustomed to her company. Depression had killed my marriage, or more specifically my wife's depression had taken the life I had hoped we'd have. I know that sounds selfish and perhaps it is, but it slowly overtook her as I tried to adapt to what was always described as my fault. It was always my fault - her doctors didn't listen, her friends were jerks, this wasn't done, that wasn't right, she couldn't stand the other thing, and it was always my fault. Well, I do exaggerate on one thing. She didn't complain much about her friends because she drove them all away. It was really her former friends that she continued to complain about.
I don't know if honesty is the first casualty of depression the way it is with adultery, but in our case the results were much the same. The marriage suffered, the love took a beating, and I was left with a deep sense of obligation with very little joy to sustain it. I would explain it better, but I never fully understood what was happening to our lives and her psychiatrist would never speak to me. The asshole kept claiming doctor-patient confidentiality, so I remained in the dark. Ten months earlier it all came to an end, and I found myself alone.
I adapted to my new situation. Life was less complicated, and I had my friends, my work, and my hobbies. I spent much of that time ridding the home of the many signs of depression including clutter, hoarding, and lists, hundreds of lists. By the time of my vacation, my life had achieved a new normal and I found myself a sixty-five-year-old engineer living a stripped-down simple life in a Boston suburb. I'm not complaining. The truth be told, my new life was an improvement over what it had been. It just wasn't what I wanted it to be or what I had hoped it would be at this point in my life.
And so I found myself on the coast of Maine taking my first ever solo vacation. I was settled in at Bar Harbor on the edge of Acadia and I was doing the things I had always enjoyed, visiting the places I knew well, and enjoying it well enough, but there was nobody to share it with. I'd rise to search out a good breakfast, but I would eat alone. I would hike the trails alone. I'd go to dinner and sit alone. A pattern was developing, and I didn't like it. I struck up some conversations with people I met, but those conversations were fleeting, if pleasant, and I soon found myself once again making plans that included nobody. I rarely saw a single woman my age and when I did it seemed they were content with their status quo. I wasn't setting the world on fire with my newly acquired bachelorhood.
On this day I had decided to take a break from the hiking and drove up the coast to Eastport. The small town of Eastport sits on the Canadian border and is notable for having the deepest harbor on the East Coast of the United States with some monster tides and powerful currents. That's about all it's known for. People sometimes claim it's the first place the sun strikes the United States in the morning, but that honor goes to the peak of Cadillac Mountain on Mount Desert Island in the heart of Acadia. Eastport makes a good effort with longitude, but Cadillac wins with altitude.
Okay, I'm a geek. I wanted to see the place for myself.
Eastport is not what most people would call a tourist destination. It's small and very quiet, but the drive there and back is interesting. Once north of Ellsworth, which is the gateway to Acadia, the character of the coast changes. The hotels, motels, and restaurants that litter the coast are largely gone and the scenery gives way to farms, summer homes, and small coastal communities. There are great vistas, and the communities have their own personalities with interesting and unexpected artisans working out of their homes, but the towns are more real and less geared toward separating tourists from their money than what you find further south.
I had explored the small towns along the coast as I drove north reaching Eastport in mid-afternoon, and I spent a bit over an hour walking around the town. It's a pleasant place and anyone who is fond of the sea will appreciate it. My curiosity sated; I began the drive south. Forty minutes into my drive it was time to buy gas, so I pulled into a small gas station with a two-bay garage and began to fuel up. Glancing over at the little convenience store attached to the station I thought I saw a friend of mine from work pacing back and forth and deep in thought. After a double take, I knew I had!
"Jennifer, is that you?" I know, that has to be the dumbest thing anyone has ever said! It ranks right up there with people who walk up to celebrities and say, "Are you somebody?" or "Are you who I think you are?" Still, it's what people say in situations like this, and she immediately looked up and recognized me as well.
"John? Is that you?" Okay, we were two-for-two.
"Last time I checked I was!" That wasn't much of an improvement, but I was trying. At least we were both smiling.
I finished filling the tank and walked over to join my friend.
"Small world! What brings you up here?"
"I was visiting our offices in Bangor and thought I'd check out Eastport before heading home."
A word of explanation is in order here. Jennifer and I both work in the Boston office of a large engineering firm that has satellite offices up and down the East Coast. It isn't at all unusual for one or several of us to be called away to another office to work on a project.
"So you heard the siren of Eastport, too, did you? You just couldn't stay away?"
I love to make her laugh. She laughs so quickly and so easily.
"Well, you know, it's the most eastern point of the United States, the first place the sun hits every morning. I just had to see that lighthouse." She was laughing, but that's exactly why I was there as well.
"And so now you're stretching your legs getting ready for the long drive back to Boston?"
"Oh Gawd, I wish! My car broke down and they towed it here to fix it."
"You're kidding me! How long before it's ready?"
"Three days minimum!"
"What the hell! Are you serious?"
"Apparently, they don't have the part... they have to order it... then there's shipping..."
"Well, serves you write for driving that fancy car or yours!" That was standing joke between us. She drove a twenty-five-year-old Volvo with enough miles on it to drive to the moon and back. She was emotionally tied to that car. Both the engine and transmission had been replaced, and she routinely had rusted areas cut out and patched. The entire car had been repainted twice and it needed a third paint job.
"Well, since you're stranded without wheels, how about I take you to dinner?"
