Susan Wiggs - That Summer Place - Island Time / Old Things / Private Paradise

His first day on the island he had walked past the old boathouse with his pride on his sleeve and a chip on his shoulder. He was on his way to meet a grandfather he’d only heard of the few times his father had talked about his past.

At thirteen Michael had thought the island was just some backward hayseed place stuck out in the tulles. To him his grandfather was a stranger who lived in a strange place, someone he didn’t know, yet who had the power to control his life. The island seemed like Alcatraz. And Michael had been scared.

But now, standing on the dock, he was older and wiser. World-weary. He didn’t have any of those feelings he’d had when he was young. Now he could feel the freedom of the island. He saw the rarity of this place that had never been coldly dissected by freeways.

It was lush and green, surrounded by silver glassy water instead of silver-glassed high-rise buildings. Fir, cedar, maple and hemlock towered along the jagged ridges that rose from the center of the island, and even along the sheer cliffs and quiet inlets where birds wheeled in the clean air.

He didn’t move for a minute, but stared out at the sharp blue sky above Cutters Cove where a large dark bird floated overhead. He did a sudden double-take. The bird had a majestic white head. With one hand, he shielded his eyes from the sun and stood there watching the eagle fly.

When the bird was out of sight, he shoved his hands back in his pockets and took a deep breath of cool, damp mid-morning air. The things that had been plaguing his mind suddenly fell into perspective in a way that was humbling and strangely welcome.

He had no idea how long he stood there, and it didn’t matter because there was no plane to catch. No meeting to get to. No stockholders to appease. No do-or-die deal to close. Here he could just…be.

When he finally did move, it was slowly and with purpose. He opened the boathouse door, which creaked loudly and scared away the black crows perched on the old shingled roof. He ducked down and stepped inside.

The late afternoon sun slipped though the panes of rustic time- and weather-frosted windows and cast shafts of milky light on the floor in a checkered pattern that looked like an oversized circuit board. Spiderwebs drifted in the light. He could smell the metallic and wet scent of algae that always grew on the wood in the Northwest.

He stepped over a few teak oars and tossed aside an old orange life vest that water, air, and the seasons had turned hard as concrete. He took a few more steps and ran his hand over the old boards along the windows. He leaned closer, squinting at the wood siding because he’d left his glasses in the cabin sitting next to his cell phone, electronic daytimer and briefcase.

He ran his hand over the old cedar boards carefully and more tentatively than any of his business associates would have thought possible. He was certain they thought he never did anything tentatively.

Yet his hands moved with care, the same way he’d wiped away her tears almost thirty years before. He stopped suddenly, his hand freezing in one splintered spot.

There, in the boards, were the ragged letters: M P + C W.

Summer, 1960

The first time he’d ever seen her he was fourteen and she was eleven. He was on an errand for his grandfather, walking down the gravel path that cut from his grandfather’s cabin, through the forest, and on to the old summer place.

She was hanging upside-down from an old pine tree, her skinned knees hooked over a low thick branch. She was swinging back and forth, so her long blond braids dangled like Tarzan’s jungle ropes. The whole time she hummed “Alley Oop” while she blew the biggest pink bubble he’d ever seen.

He didn’t know you could hum and blow bubble gum at the same time. As he walked past her, there was a loud pop!

“Who are you?” She swung up so she was straddling the branch with one leg, while the other dangled down. Her palms propped up her body and she stared down at him.

Needles and pine dust fell all over him and scowling he wiped off his face and head. On the same level as his nose was a pair of red canvas shoes with no shoelaces and the word Keds on the scuffed rubber tips. He slowly looked upward along her gangly freckled legs and scabbed-over knees to her small indignant face, which looked like a troll doll.

“I asked you who you were,” she repeated as if she were the queen of the island.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Wardwell.”

“Oh.” She blew another bubble, sucked in and popped it in an obnoxious way, then asked, “Why are ya lookin’ for him?”

“None of your business, Squirt.” Michael turned his back on her and started to walk down the gravel path that led toward the old house.

She jumped out of the tree and appeared beside him. “My name’s not Squirt. It’s Catherine.”

He grunted some response and kept walking.

“Hey! What’s your name?” she called out after him.

“It’s Mr. Packard,” he said to annoy her.

“You’re not Mr. Packard,” she said, skipping alongside of him. “Mr. Packard is taller and older and he has gray hair and a dog named King Crab.”

Michael ignored her.

“And he’s not a grump. Like you.”

He stopped and looked down her.

Her expression dared him to ignore her again.

“He’s my grandfather,” he told her and started walking away again.

She kept up with him, not saying anything, but he could feel her studying him. He looked at her finally. All he saw was an expressive face and a pair of frowning brown eyes that were the same color as root beer.

They were on the narrowest section of the sea cliff trail where it paralleled the water. He slowed his steps. “Watch it there, Squirt.” He grabbed her arm. “There’s a cliff on that side of the path. Fall down it and you’ll land in the water. Really cold water.”

She frowned down at his hand gripping her arm, then wriggled free with a stubborn independence and looked up at him. She stared for the longest time. “We come here every summer. I’ve never seen you here before.”

He wasn’t going to tell some kid why he had to live here.

But she wouldn’t shut up. “Where’d you come from anyway?”

“The stork dropped me down the chimney.”

“Funny.” She called him a dork under her breath.

He almost laughed then.

When he said nothing she piped up, “I’m not a baby, you know.”

He snorted and walked on.

“I know all about things like why the ocean is blue.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I know how planes fly and why engines need oil—” She paused as if she were waiting for him to make her prove it.

After a moment she announced, “And I know all about sex.”

He stopped and looked down at her. Then he did laugh. Loud and long, because she was so silly.

She planted her hands on her boyish hips, raised her chin, and said, “I do.”

He just shook his head and moved farther down the path. He could hear her running after him.

“Go ahead. Ask me something.”

“No.”

“But I know…” Her voice suddenly changed to a scream.

Michael turned.

One instant she was wobbling on the edge of the path, and before he could reach out, she tumbled down the hillside toward the water, hollering all the way.

Michael swore under his breath and went after her, sliding down the steep hillside feet-first.

She was still screaming. Below him he saw her hit the water. Rock and dirt and mud tumbled down ahead of him. The whole time he was watching for her silly head to pop up out of the glassy surface.

It didn’t.

He panicked and shoved off the hill in a half-dive. He hit the water just a foot away from where she’d sank. He dove down deeper.