Sunset at the Pink Water Cafe Ch. 01

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Nobody does it better, or, the spy who fucked me.
7.5k words
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Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 03/18/2017
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It was a small town, cold and quiet. Hard by the Canadian border. The Atlantic yards away, and on most nights she could hear the surf from her parent's house. She grew up on Summer Street, but growing up there -- just the thought of summer was often an unbearable idea. In December, when the snow came fast, summer was a memory hard to find. Something to hold on to when night came. Something far away and warm, something to reach out to when nights got too cold. Like a promise, broken, summer was something far away and out of reach.

She'd run away once, almost thirty years ago, right after she got out of high school. She ran to Boston, and Boston ran all over her. She left after a year, not quite a year, really, and she ended up in New London, fell in with a sailor, a submariner. He left, was gone for six months, came home moody and dark and they split up after that. She moved up the coast to Mystic for a while, worked at the Seaport Museum that next winter, days, anyway. She worked the counter at Mystic Pizza too, at night, and she hoped men would think she looked like one of those actresses from the movie. Didn't work out that way, but she met a guy with a boat and for a while she thought they had something going. That didn't work out, either, and she settled in Newport, Rhode Island, working for a lawyer. Secretarial work, for the most part. The lawyer, a girl from Boston, tried to get her to go back to school -- maybe because the girl made the mistake of thinking she had ambitions.

But she didn't. Not really. Her needs were far simpler and, like memories of summer, always just out of reach.

She stayed in Newport, however, for fifteen years, and never missed a day or work. She and the lawyer became close, then closer than close, and she was comfortable for a while, but uneasy. Like she'd found a false Spring and was trapped in a season of discontent. Then one September morning her mother called.

"Your father's dying," her mother said, "and you need to come home, say goodbye."

She hopped a bus the next morning, told her employer -- her employer! -- that she'd call when she knew more, yet somehow both knew this was the end of their road.

The bus ran through Boston on it's way up to Portland, and she looked at the city like maybe she'd visited once, but the memories were painful and she turned away from them. She changed buses in Portland, at the little train station, got on the bus that would take her all the way down east, to Lubec, and she sat by a window and watched the coast slip by through veils of blazing trees. In almost twenty years nothing much had changed, yet somehow that bothered her. A part of her was happy to see so little change, it was almost a comfort, yet the closer she got to home the more she wondered what a lack of change really meant. For her.

Trees were turning brilliantly up north, and when she got off the bus she smelled smokey fireplaces in the distance. She walked to her parent's house and let herself in, but when she called out she realized the place was empty. She carried her little bag upstairs, put her clothes in the same little closet she'd left behind so many years ago, and she turned, looked around the little room where she'd spent so many years. So many little years. Inconsequential years, she thought. Little, like her life. Almost empty, but for a few broken dreams back there, down that dusty road.

She stood by her mother's side while her father passed, and she stood by her mother's side when his body was lowered into the ground, and when she went into her mother's bedroom later that evening to check on her -- she had gone too. Died of a broken heart, a neighbor said.

They'd left her everything, of course. The house and enough money to fix the plumbing and replace the roof, and she took a job at a restaurant down by the water to make ends meet. It was a new place, had just opened a month before, and it catered to the summer crowd. It was called the Pink Water Café -- because of the sunsets visible from windows out back that looked over the river towards Eastport.

She got along well enough with the owners, two boys from New York City who'd run away in search of true love and fresh lobster, and time slipped by, slowly, like the first snows of autumn.

+++++

It was a June morning, May still just a day or so gone. Still a snap in the air, no boats on the river yet, no sailors from Boston or New York. Didn't matter, they started summer hours on June first, and that was that. She took out some chalk and began putting the day's specials on the board: fresh poached salmon Hollandaise with orzo and field greens, a tarragon lobster bisque, and, of course, their famous lobster and butternut squash tortellini. And for dessert, a blueberry crisp fresh out of the oven, with mountains of fresh churned vanilla bean ice cream on top.

She put prices by each item and had just placed the blackboard on an easel by the door when he walked by.

Old man, tall. White hair, and not much left on top, and he was wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue windbreaker, but he was walking a dog, black and white and tan, with no leash. Big dog, yet not quite, and the pup was what caught her eye. Gorgeous. Like a movie star reincarnated and now here he was, ready for his next role. She watched them walk down the street and disappear into the hardware store and she sighed.

A young couple came in and she seated them, gave them menus and she saw the dog again, then the man -- and he stopped by the door, read the menu through the glass then poked his head in the door, and the little bell twinkled his arrival.

"Y'all allow dogs?" he asked her.

"Is he trained?" she replied.

"When he feel like it, yes."

She smiled, shrugged. "If he acts up, he's out of here."

He smiled too. "Well, smells too good to pass up. How 'bout that table in the corner?"

"It's all yours. What's his name?"

"Depends. If he's being good I call him Jimmy."

"And when he's not?"

"Fudge butt."

"How old is he?"

"Not quite a year. Still filling out."

"A Springer?"

"That's right. When he wants to be, anyway."

"They're bird dogs, aren't they?"

"Could be. He likes looking at birds, so I guess that counts for something."

She handed him a menu, pointed out the specials.

"What's good?"

"The bisque is crazy good, but really, my favorite thing is the lamb burger. Swiss, steamed spinach and a garlic aioli."

"Whoa...if I twist your arm, could I get a cup of bisque and that burger?"

"As long as you don't twist too hard, sure. Anything to drink?"

"What do you recommend?"

"Redcurrant iced-tea. Brewed fresh this morning."

"Now that sounds good."

She nodded, walked to the kitchen and handed off the order, then went to take care of the young couple, coming back a few minutes later with his tea.

"You passing through?" she asked.

And he shook his head. "Moving in."

"Oh, a summer place?"

"Nope. Full time. Retired recently, wanted to be up here, away from it all."

She laughed. "Well, you'll be away from it all, alright." She knelt and scratched behind Jimmy's ears and he sighed, his stumpy tail started ticking like a metronome. "So, is it just you and the dog?"

"Yup."

"So, let me see if I have this right. You moved up here, alone, to live in the most lonely town in the universe?"

"I've got Jimmy," he said, but he looked at the girl now, maybe for the first time, and he took her in, sized her up in an instant. "Sometimes quiet is a good thing," he said, looking into her eyes.

And she almost fell over backwards -- from the force she felt in his eyes. So blue, like cobalt, but she'd never felt such intensity before -- like his eyes were x-rays, maybe, designed to probe the soul. She stood, wiped her hands on her apron...

And he looked her over now, continued his ritual inventory. Tall, red hair tucked in a bun, green eyes, milk-white complexion with buckets of freckles spilled everywhere. Evasive eyes, two fingernails broken, or chewed. Could have been a stunner once, but something like low self-esteem got her -- and hard, probably in high school. No wedding band. Maybe fifty. He didn't think marriage was a good fit for her -- probably too unfocused, too ready to take flight for that kind of commitment. Ten years ago he might have been interested in her, but not now.

"How's the tea," she asked.

"You know? Not bad...like the mint."

"Let me go see if your soup's ready."

He watched as she turned and walked away...sprayed on Levis, good legs, strong, a little hip waggle going on, trying to flirt a little.

He felt a stirring below, felt Jimmy resettling on the tile floor, trying to find just the right spot and he reached down, rubbed his neck for a minute. He looked down and they made eye contact; he saw curiosity in the pup's eyes, an unusual willingness to explore. "You think so?" he asked.

Jimmy opened his mouth, into the grin that meant he was interested in the things going on around them, but now they kept looking right at one another -- as if they were reading each other's mind.

He felt her putting the bowl on his table but didn't break the link just yet, but he saw her legs by Jimmy's face, watched Jimmy move closer and sniff her ankles...

"That tickles," she giggled. "Would you like some oyster crackers with that?"

He shook his head. "You wouldn't happen to have some french bread?"

"Only at dinner. Baked fresh, too. Sorry."

"Ah, well, you live and learn."

She looked at him again, looked at those eyes. She wanted to fall inside, naked, and go for a swim -- but he looked away just then, turned to his soup, and that kind of startled her, maybe depressed her just a little.

She walked back to the kitchen, unsettled now. By him. By the kinds of emotions he released in her. She knew she was a flirt, that she worked here in part because of the attention she received from older men. She still liked feeling attractive -- wanted -- and she had realized a long time ago there were times when she really needed to feel wanted...and she got that attention when she worked around men in the café. She had from the first day, and maybe that's why she'd stayed.

But this guy was something different.

She wanted his attention, and in the worse sort of way, yet he didn't seem to want any from her. Something about those eyes, some weird force. She'd never seen anything like them before, and now? He lived just down the street? Alone? Every single woman within a hundred miles would be making a play for this one, and soon. "So how do I make my play?" she sighed, not aware she was speaking aloud.

"Play for who?" asked Darren, one of the co-owner/chefs.

"Him?" she said, nodding her head covertly to the man at the corner table.

Darren leaned over the counter and looked. "Umm. He looks delicious. Not taken, I take it?"

"No ring, said he lives alone."

"You'll have to move fast, Tracy. Maybe you'll have to move faster than me..."

"I know," she said, then his words penetrated and she looked at Darren, smiled: "God...you're taken...so hand's off, okay?"

"Go get 'em, Tiger Lilly," he said, and he handed her a lamb burger, watched her carry it out -- and shook his head.

She put the platter on the man's table. "I forgot to ask, pasta salad or slaw?"

"You know...this is good. Neither, I guess."

"Okay. Let me know if I can get you anything else."

"Will do."

More people came in and things got busy, and after he finished she left his bill on the table. The next time she looked up he was gone, he'd left cash on the table and had simply gone, and she sighed. 'That's the way it is...' she told herself as she cleaned his table.

She had a two hour break between lunch and dinner and she walked home, enjoying the sun on her face and the sea breeze in her hair as she walked, and she saw a moving van pulled up to the old Martin place on Washington Street. Saw him directing movers, helping with boxes, and she watched neighbors looking at him through mottled glass and curtains just pulled aside. Sizing him up, perhaps, wondering who he was, what kind of neighbor he'd make. Maybe even what kind of dark secrets lurked in his past...just waiting to be discovered?

He looked over as she walked past.

"Hi there!" she said.

"Howdy. Off so soon?"

"Lunch break. Two hours."

"Ah. What time do you open for dinner?"

"Five. Open eleven to two, and five to eight, closed Mondays."

"Good to know. Probably see you tonight."

"Bringing Jimmy, I hope?"

"Yeah. We're inseparable."

She smiled. "Well, seeya."

The movers were carrying in a baby grand piano just then and that made her wonder: what kind of man is this? She walked on by, walked into her house, went over to the large window in the living room and looked down the hill and through the trees. She could just see him, and her curiosity was more aroused than before. "Who is he?" She said to the empty house and the barren walls, then she turned, went to the kitchen and put on water for tea.

When she walked by an hour or later he was leading Jimmy into an old slate blue Jeep looking thing, a Land Rover she saw as it drove by, and she watched him wave as he passed, and she smiled at him -- and she thought about him all the way back to the café. She thought about his eyes most of all. His eyes, looking at hers.

He came in a little after five and as he was the first customer she told him to sit where he liked, and Jimmy walked over to her, sniffed her ankles, and she noticed it then. The pups eyes were milky white now, obscured.

"Can he see?" she blurted out.

"Sometimes."

"Blind?"

"When he wants to be, I think."

"So...that's why you're inseparable?"

"Yup."

She handed him the evening's menu. "Need a wine list?"

"No, not tonight. Too much to un-pack. Any specials?"

"Yes, a broiled cod stuffed with lobster and morels."

"Wow...sign me up."

"Soup or salad? He's doing a butternut bisque or I can make you field greens with stilton and walnuts."

"Salad, I think."

"More tea?"

"Sounds good."

The café filled up quickly after that, and as before she dropped off his check and he left money on the table, walked out unnoticed. She 'clocked-out' a little before nine and walked home in the late twilight, and he was standing in his front yard, throwing a ball for Jimmy -- and she stopped and watched.

The ball had a bell inside and the pup homed in on the sound as it bounced and rolled, then used his nose to zero in on it, and when the pup picked it up the man clapped, providing a signal to run for. She watched them for a while, then walked over to the yard.

"This is unbelievable," she said. "I'd never believe it if someone told me."

"Oh? Well, you have to adapt, but it's easy for him, I think. He has no other frame of reference, yet his instincts are intact. He wants to fetch, sometimes I think he needs to..." he said as the pup ran up and sat, 'looking' up to him for praise. And it came, soft, deep -- sincere. She could feel the love in his voice, almost like, she thought, empathy. Like he was blind to things around him too.

"It's odd," she said, "playing out here in the dark."

"Doesn't make a bit of difference to him, I guess. How was your day?"

"Long. But this is the season, you know? Make it or break it."

"Looked busy when I left."

"I wish you wouldn't just get up and leave." The words came out in an unexpected rush, and she looked embarrassed.

"What? Why?"

"I'd like it if you let me say goodbye, at least." Then she walked up and kissed him on the cheek, turned and ran off into the night.

"Well, I'll be, Jimmy," he said, and the pup turned, sniffed the air -- then looked up at him, grinning.

+++++

She couldn't sleep that night and got up the next morning feeling groggy, almost dead on her feet, and when she looked in the mirror she wanted to scream. She showered, slathered anti-wrinkle cream on her face, anti-bags-under-the-eyes cream under her eyes, brushed her teeth -- twice -- then went down, made some toast and put on water for coffee. She almost jumped out of her skin when she heard a knock on the door.

She saw him standing there, flowers in hand, and when she opened the door he handed them to her, then quickly turned and left.

She stood there, open mouthed, speechless, and watched him walk back down the hill -- then realized she'd forgotten to put on clothes before coming down to the kitchen.

+++++

She walked down to work an hour later, but she left an hour early -- in case he was outside -- and he was just pulling in the drive when she passed.

"Hi!" she called out. "Thanks for the flowers."

"You bet."

"Sorry about the, uh..."

"Don't be. I shouldn't have come by so early."

"Groceries?" she asked. "Can I give you a hand?"

"Sure, if you can spare a minute." He watched Jimmy watching her, then he handed her a sack with eggs in it. "Could you take these? I think I've got the rest..."

"Did you go to Wal*Mart?"

"Yup. Didn't know where else to go."

"You want to get in bad with the locals, do your shopping there."

"Where else can..."

"Monday," she said, following them into the house. "Be ready early, and I'll show you the ropes," but she staggered to a stop when she stepped inside. Everyone had seen workmen at the house for the last month or so, but she didn't expect what she saw now. The place looked brand new, not a hundred years old, and the kitchen was like something out of a magazine. Muted, but elegant. "Holy cow," she sighed.

"Like it?"

"I was in here a few years ago, but it didn't look anything like this."

"Bought it because of the view, but the structure needed some serious work so I went ahead and gussied her up a little while I was at it. I've got to get stuff in the 'fridge, but take a look around, tell me what you think."

She put down the eggs and walked out to the living room, then to the little den on the other side of the fireplace. He'd turned it into a study and there were dozens of pictures on the wall -- and she walked to the wall and started looking at them. One with him and Reagan -- on a submarine, another with him and the first Bush, standing beside an airplane, a fighter of some sort. With Jimmy Carter, on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Letters of Commendation, from the Central Intelligence Agency, four of them. A framed note from Gorbachev, thanking him for something he'd done in Berlin. Diplomas, from Annapolis and the Fletcher School, another from the Naval War College.

'Who the hell are you?' she thought, then she heard him behind her and turned, looked at him, her eyes full of questions. She shook her head, felt at a loss for words. "Nice," she said, quietly. "I like what you've done to the place."

"Thanks. Like to sit for a minute?"

"Sure." She followed him back to the living room and sat on a small sofa; he sat across from her in an overstuffed chair -- and looked at her while Jimmy walked up and sniffed her legs again.

"He's just saying hello, I guess. You get used to it."

"I don't mind," she said, now very unsure of herself around all those letters and pictures.

"Look, about all that stuff in there..."

"Who are you?"

"What?"

"Well, for starters, I don't even know your name," she said.

He laughed, gently, as he looked from Jimmy to her. "Sorry. Jim Taylor. Thought we...but no, we didn't."

"Tracy -- Collins," she added, hesitating between names. "What is all that stuff in there?"

"Forty three years," he said, and when he saw the lost look in her eyes he continued: "Forty three years of my life. And that's about all I've got left to show for it, too."

"I didn't see any pictures of..."

"My wife? In the bedroom."

"How long ago?"

"A couple of years," he said, turning away.

"It shows," she said.

"What shows?"

"She was your life, wasn't she? Your best friend."