Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [132]
Alice swiveled her head, gesturing toward them. “Year-rounders,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders like, What can you do?
The houses eventually gave way to a field of wildflowers on the far side of a low stone wall. Off in the distance stood a stately red barn and a roofless silo that had been struck by lightning the summer Maggie turned ten.
Soon the two-lane street became a narrow dirt road. There were no streetlights here, only a wall of pine trees on either side that nearly blocked out the sun. She wondered if the locals realized how beautiful it was, or if they were immune. In New York, icons faded into the background most of the time—then one day you’d look up and notice the Empire State Building and it would take your breath away.
They drove until they came to the turnoff for Route 1, and there they sped up, joining the motorists rushing in both directions. Suddenly the world changed. The trees vanished. Two bright yellow lines popped out against black tar. Here the quaint and the garish were entwined in a decades-old wrestling match, so that the stately Ogunquit Playhouse with its forest-green marquee and white clapboard walls was offset by a strip of neon motels with pools out front, enclosed by chain-link fences. There was a massive liquor store, a place selling homemade quilts, Flo’s hot dog stand, and a junk shop with tables out front, which were crowded with hundreds of glass bottles. At night, a wooden box by the curb said, BOTTLES, $2 EA., PLEASE OBSERVE THE HONOR SYSTEM.
They took another turn, and a few minutes later they had arrived at the fork where Perkins Cove met Shore Road.
“Shall we walk in the Cove for a bit?” Alice said. “I don’t feel quite ready to go home.”
The place had once been a quiet fishing village, but now the lobstermen unloading their traps on the docks were outnumbered by tourists waiting in line at the old-fashioned ice cream shop and buying magnets and candles and trinkets in the gift stores. Maggie bought a giant box of saltwater taffy to mail to Kathleen and a necklace made of pure blue sea glass for Alice.
They ambled toward the entrance to the Marginal Way, chatting as they went. When they reached the mile-long path that wove through the shoreline cliffs, Alice said to the priest, “Way back when, this was just a stretch of dirt for farmers to walk their cattle on. Then some nice local bought it and dedicated it to the town, and the path was built. That happened the year after we got here. There was a big to-do.”
“Were you there?” Maggie asked.
Alice shook her head. “It sounds silly now, but I was tired, I’d been up all night with a baby. I think your grandfather went, though.”
They hardly said a word to one another as they walked the path, humbled by the natural beauty. You couldn’t come here and not be absorbed by it. Off to the left on the other side of a fence stood stately homes with big front porches and Adirondack chairs on the lawns. To the right there was nothing but the pounding surf below, crashing against the rocks, the tide swaying back and forth like a dance. It made you feel as though you were a part of something more important than just you. Like even if there was no God there was always the ocean—before you and after you, breathing in and out for all eternity.
Maggie and Gabe had walked the Marginal one night last summer. It was darker than any night she could remember. There were so many stars. A Jimmy Buffett song drifted out to the path from the poolside bar of a resort in the distance, and they danced to the sound, laughing and singing along. Part of her wished she had never brought him here.
Alice’s knees were sore by the time they reached Ogunquit Beach, so instead of turning back on foot, they hopped one of the trolleys that puttered around town. The last time Maggie had ridden one was when Pat and Ann Marie rented the entire Ogunquit fleet for her cousin Patty’s wedding. Maggie thought now of Patty’s husband, Josh. He was a sweet guy, and he had been