22

Straightening his suit and pulling a tie from the depths of his duffle, Leo joined Miss Isabelle in the chapel. She eyed his attire, and shook her head. “You’d be better off with a collar when meeting the likes of Red O’Rourke,” she shared. “He’s what you young people would call ‘old school.’”

Leo shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fresh out of collars, unfortunately. But what’s the big deal about Red O’Rourke? Why does everyone seem so intimidated by him?”

“Oh, I’m not intimidated by him, dear,” Miss Isabelle replied, looking up at Leo. “He’s just a man set in his old ways and determined that everyone else should follow them, too. But believe me, he better show you respect or I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”

The front door of the chapel creaked open, and Gillian stuck her head in. She had clearly freshened up, tidying her hair and reapplying makeup. She looked the most at ease that she had in the time Leo had been around her, but it probably helped both of them that they weren’t on a boat. When she saw that both Miss Isabelle and Leo were there, she entered the chapel completely, and took in the simple beauty of the space. “I’m not much of a churchgoer myself,” she admitted, with a quick glance Leo’s way, “but this place certainly has its allure.”

Leo shared that he too had been struck by the sanctuary’s simplicity, which set off a ten-minute oratory by Miss Isabelle about the chapel’s humble beginnings after the American Revolutionary War. A soldier returning from the war had been forever changed by the atrocities he had seen there and had set out to devote his life to peace. Building the chapel had been his first effort, as he returned to Tranquility after the war and married his sweetheart. Together, they had found the appropriate artisans to bring the chapel its style after approaching the O’Rourke family about charitable giving. To Leo’s surprise, O’Rourke’s ancestors had been driven by their faith to fund the entire building process.

Isabelle recounted the generations of people who were buried in the cemetery, including her mother and father, people who had cleared space for houses and built up the kind of environment that made tourists want to visit. She pointed out that most people were buried on the mainland anymore because of a lack of space, but she hoped one day to be toes up in the cemetery out behind the chapel. She listed off famous people who had visited the chapel over the last one hundred and fifty years, and even Gillian seemed impressed, if only momentarily. 

While the fountain of information sent Gillian fumbling again for something to write with, Leo sat down with a sigh and pulled out a well worn hymnal. The cover was faded and a bit torn, its pages curled and dogeared from some parishioner’s interest. A slim piece of paper fell into his hand, and he saw the order of worship from a year ago, presumably the last time Father Matthew had led a service at the chapel. He could see that the connection to the past was alive and well within the church, too, like bloodlines running through the island. He wondered what it would take to bring the chapel that kind of vibrant spirit again, and ran his fingers over the worn hymnal cover. 

Leo was shaken out of his inspection by Gillian’s touch on his shoulder, firm and a bit cold. “It’s time to head up to O’Rourke’s place,” she explained, indicating that Miss Isabelle was halfway out of the door already. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t know where anything is, so if we want to get there, we better follow her.”

The two newest occupants of the town caught up to Miss Isabelle under the arch of pine trees that kept the cobblestone road cool and shaded. After a few hundred yards, it was obvious that more people lived in quaint homes made of stone and wood available throughout New England, and probably elsewhere on the island. While the homes weren’t immediately obvious from Main Street, the visitors could see the beauty and craftsmanship of the different homes that the settlers of Tranquility Island had instilled in their community. Only the trees that were necessary to be cleared had been cut down; the footprint of each property still left room for common forest between homes. The road itself wasn’t even wider than necessary to accommodate two-way foot traffic. When asked, Miss Isabelle said that a few of the families had wagons but they had voted to ban motor vehicles from the island back in the 1970s. 

A few of the homes had lazy spires of smoke rising from their chimneys, and Leo could smell the wood fires as they walked casually but purposefully up the hill. Soon, they crested the hill and came into an opening that stretched on for a few miles. Over another stretch of forest to the east, Leo could barely see the top of a lighthouse on the ocean side of the island. The cobblestone path continued in several directions, including to the massive mansion on the hill. 

Miss Isabelle pointed out that one of the paths led down a set of stairs hewed into the rock, the whole way down to the water. Looking over, Leo and Gillian could see that at this point, the tide had risen to obscure any beach to walk on, as the water lapped at the stairs and up the cliff wall. The rock steps were massive, intimidating even, but they had been cut with such precision that Leo knew that there would be no trouble climbing down to the cove at low tide. Gillian looked like she wanted to descend the steps and check it out further, but Miss Isabelle pulled her by the arm and pressed on ahead toward O’Rourke’s mansion, not wanting to keep their host waiting. 

Rising some five stories, the mansion was the largest edifice that they had seen on the island. Its architectural style stood out as well, given that the masonry was different, more elaborate than any of the quiet New England homes that they had passed on the way up the hill. They observed a fountain out in the yard leading up to the house, shooting arcs of water high into the air and back down into the pool below. Statues of cherubs and nymphs adorned the garden walk, and gargoyles of different shapes and sizes outlined the roof and awnings. 

The lawn around the mansion was manicured, with flowers planted in beds all around it. Two massive Dobermans lazed away the afternoon sun on the steps as they walked up, eyeballing them as they approached. Neither one seemed particularly concerned by the approaching guests, but Leo and Gillian still skirted them while keeping a side eye on the canines. Miss Isabelle however plowed on through, walking directly between the dogs, and stepping over one of their tails to maintain her course directly toward the front door of the mansion.

One of the dogs lifted its head, growling as they passed, but Miss Isabelle said, “Poseidon!” and the dog immediately whimpered, and rolled onto its back to have its stomach rubbed with some force. The other one nudged Isabelle with its head until she acknowledged it as Neptune, and rubbed its stomach, too. Apparently Miss Isabelle’s stern teacher voice wasn’t only good for keeping human children in their place. 

“These dogs look so terrifying,” she chuckled. “They’re big hearted and loving, but they’ve been known to go after a tourist wandering around the grounds who acts like they’re at home in Mr. Rourke’s yard!”

Rising from her kneeling position next to the dogs, Miss Isabelle continued to the massive wooden doors that stood as the main entry to the mansion. More gargoyles looked down at the three of them as they closed the distance, and Leo could feel the weight of the building looming above them. Isabelle rapped on the giant wooden door with the door knocker that looked like it weighed as much as she did, but barged in without waiting for a response. Gillian looked at Poseidon and Neptune who were staring at the newcomers, eyes now locked on the newcomers. She shook her head, turned to Leo, and grinned, before following Miss Isabelle into the mansion itself. 

Leo took a furtive glance back at the dogs and then darted through the wooden doors behind her.

23

In the upstairs study, O’Rourke was wrapping up a conversation with one of his oldest friends, Francois Burchard. The tall dapper gentleman had started off in O’Rourke’s employ when he was captaining cruise ships and had risen up the ladder as O’Rourke had seen much of himself in the other man. Hardworking, disciplined, and a man of few words, Burchard was twenty years younger than O’Rourke, and treated O’Rourke like the father he had never had. Now, circulating the world as a cruise ship captain on the Princess Kay, Burchard had taken the opportunity to seek his old mentor out. But he was troubled by the conversation. 

Burchard pulled at the corner of his well-manicured mustache. He was in his off-duty clothes, but the man traded a pressed white uniform for a sleek suit when the opportunity presented itself. His shoes were spit shined, and he could still make a mile time as he had during his time with the Merchant Marines. He expected things to be planned out and done properly, and O’Rourke had mentioned several details that were potentially unnerving. 

“You’re saying that you know about drugs coming to and from Tranquility,” repeated Burchard, “and traveling back and forth via a cruise ship?” Beads of sweat were building on his forehead and upper lip, and most concerning were the ways that he found himself unable to look his mentor in the eye. 

“That’s correct,” responded O’Rourke, fixing an unblinking eye on his mentee. “I wanted you to know what I had discovered, because I’m confident the authorities are going to be looking into the matter shortly.”

Burchard stared out the window, watching as the sun’s fading rays played across the waters. He couldn’t see the Princess Kay, docked off the shore on the other side of the island, but he knew that the cooks would be laying out a fabulous spread and that soon the majority of travelers would be descending on one of the ship’s three dining rooms. He was a student of precision and discipline, and everything aboard his ship must run smoothly. 

To think that O’Rourke had discovered of impropriety on the Kay without Burchard’s awareness? Inconceivable! There was a host of problems that this conversation raised, but Burchard didn’t want to let his mentor see just how troubled he was. 

“I’m sure that the Kay isn’t the problem,” he responded, slowly. “But I can speak to the other captains about the issue, and I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this. There’s no need to worry about Tranquility on my account!” 

O’Rourke chuckled. “Oh, Tranquility will be just fine. It always has been. But I would hate for you to wind up as collateral if the authorities find out the drugs are connected to the Kay. That would be disastrous for your reputation.” 

“I just wanted you to have a head’s up,” he added, comfortingly, patting the younger man’s knee. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Burchard, standing up. He almost saluted but caught himself mid-salute. O’Rourke rose stiffly and shook his hand, and then led him out of the study. 

Burchard told himself to breathe slowly, but his hands were shaking and he felt a tremor roll up and down his left leg. 

24

The entryway was several stories high with ornate wooden paneling stretching skyward. Windows on the second and third stories allowed natural light to break in, while chandeliers and recessed lights provided bright illumination within the house. While the majority of the work was historic in nature, someone had certainly taken the time to add the modern conveniences to the preexisting mansion. 

On the walls hung portraits of people over time, clearly the ancestors of Red O’Rourke, who Leo saw was also depicted in the picture closest to the stairs. All of the people in the paintings were tall and redheaded. O’Rourke’s grandparents and great grandparents had been depicted in front of and within the chapel, but Leo could see the changes in religious status, as O’Rourke’s parents were painted sitting outside of the mansion. O’Rourke himself stood alone in what must’ve been his study. There was much to be learned from observing what made the man tick, thought Leo. As Gillian and Leo turned circles taking it all in, a voice from above them boomed out. 

“Welcome to the O’Rourke family home! I hear David has invited you all for dinner.”

Descending the decadent stairs, Red O’Rourke looked to be in a slightly better mood than he had been earlier that day when Leo had first observed him. He was wearing a silk evening jacket now, and his giant hand gripped the bannister as he approached them. Beneath shaggy red eyebrows, his green eyes flashed as he closed the distance between them, even half-smiling at Miss Isabelle. With him was a pale, well dressed man, who O’Rourke introduced as Captain Burchard. The man appeared to be elsewhere mentally, but he formally greeted each of the newcomers before excusing himself to the bathroom.

O’Rourke had grunted his introductions to Leo and Gillian, taking her offered hand in both of his massive hands, and inclining his head respectfully. He eyed Leo from head to toe, but seemed to be withholding judgment, at least temporarily. After a few moments of small talk, he allowed Miss Isabelle to take him by the arm and to lead him down the hallway toward an open door. The two of them engaged in conversational whispers that were lost to Leo and Gillian who were caught up staring at all of the portraits on the walls. 

Leo could see that whatever conflict had happened over the chapel, O’Rourke was not going to hold it against Miss Isabelle for long as he leaned in to listen to her voice. As they wandered away, David came striding out from another section of the downstairs, looking troubled, and throwing his sport coat over a wrinkled polo shirt. But when he saw his two guests, he greeted the two more warmly, thanking them for making the trek up the hill. 

“Let me show you around,” he added, steering them into a series of interlocked rooms that ran along the front side of the mansion. One was a study, filled with books, artwork, and exotic looking trinkets, clearly the background for O’Rourke’s portrait. “Red was once the captain of a cruise ship that sailed all around the world. He’d bring home these amazing souvenirs, like handcrafted talismans from Africa or dolls from China. He doesn’t talk about them much anymore, but he clearly has some stories he could tell,” David explained, wistfully. “And of course, he liked to bring home exotic.. Food.”

Before they entered the room, Leo could hear the hushed sounds of a parent fussing and a child’s excited questions. Entering the next room, Gillian and Leo could see some of the “food” Red O’Rourke had acquired and see what was causing the commotion. Just barely above head high, the heads of an elephant, a lion, a tiger, a bear, a rhino, and a gorilla leered down at them. Gillian recoiled, as she almost slammed the top of her head into a zebra head that had not quite reached the same height as the others, indicating it had been less admired than some of O’Rourke’s more terrifying kills. Leo caught Gillian before she stumbled too far, and she nodded gratefully for the quick save. 

Betty Williams was tugging at Bryan’s arm, as he hung upside down on the belly of a stuffed cheetah that had been mounted on a platform in the corner. George was too caught up in the various pictures of O’Rourke with famous people in different spots around the world to notice his wife’s distress until she hissed his name, and he hurriedly went over to pluck Bryan with one hand from the cheetah’s body. 

The Williamses officially introduced themselves to Leo and Gillian, and nodded to David, whom they had met earlier in the day. O’Rourke had actually invited them to dinner, they shared although they had yet to see him. Apparently he had another meeting prior to dinner. Betty expressed her surprise at O’Rourke’s philanthropic nature allowing for the big game trophies, and then blushed having openly commented on the host. 

“Red needs to feel like he’s bigger and better than most everyone else,” David shared, wryly. “These are a few of the mementos he uncovered while he was abroad, but there are even more upstairs. He definitely sees those years as his glory years, but I think, well, I hope, that his mentality has changed.” 

Leo and Gillian could tell that David didn’t approve of his uncle’s trophies, but there was a measure of affection that was transparent as well. As they moved around the room, and into the next one, dedicated to hundreds and hundreds of old books, he would stop periodically and touch framed photographs of Red and others in different locations around the world. Gillian identified some of the people in O’Rourke’s pictures as famous, and a few more were known to her but she just couldn’t place them. “He was a real mover and a shaker once,” David explained. “He made quite a bit of money back in the day.”

With a clap of her hands, Miss Isabelle entered from the dim hallway, disrupting the quiet. “Carol has dinner ready,” she exclaimed. “Come and get it while it’s hot!”

The three younger folks followed her into the dining room, a tall and elaborate ballroom with parquet floors and gilded walls. The table was set for twelve, but only Red was seated at the extensive stretch of wood enhanced with gold and other jewels. A petite woman in an unadorned dress had just been seated, but she hopped up out of her chair, and vigorously shook hands with the two guests. “I’m Carol, and I do the cooking here, as well as some laundry and odds and ends,” she shared, shyly. The quiet woman was approximately the same age as O’Rourke and Miss Isabelle, but she took charge in doing the serving. 

As Gillian, Leo, Isabelle, David, and the Williamses took their seats, the front door knocker rattled with the sound of the door flinging open, and then voices were echoing through the hall, as they walked toward the dining room. Nails skittered on the hardwood floor outside of the dining room and then Poseidon and Neptune came bounding in, tongues and slobber flying. O’Rourke put up a hand silently and the two dogs slid to a stop on the floor at his feet. Dr. Steinman and Johnny soon followed along with Captain Burchard, eliciting more grumbles from their host, about timeliness and godliness. 

Leo found himself seated between Bryan Williams and Gillian. Gillian’s face radiated interest in the people present and the stories she could no doubt reap from interrogating them. On the other hand, Bryan seemed disinterested in everything going on around him. His mother tried to do her best to keep him from climbing underneath the ornately laid table, but he soon played peekaboo with Leo from underneath the tablecloth. O’Rourke just growled, and the majority of adults tried to ignore the boy.

Carol and Miss Isabelle exchanged a look, and went back to serving the grilled chicken, green beans, and sauteed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. Casually, Betty supplied Bryan with cheese sticks and goldfish crackers that she slipped out of her bag. The little boy slid the chicken off of his plate when no one other than Leo was looking, and fed it to the dogs, which had slid up to his chair waiting expectantly. No one ate more than Leo, who drew amused looks from several of the others when he asked for thirds and fourths of the mash potatoes. Carol just beamed from ear to ear and provided him with whatever he was asking for at the time. Gillian rolled her eyes and continued to pick away at the food. 

There was polite chit-chat around the table, mostly about the impending annual migration and the nor’easter that was predicted to cross over Tranquility later in the week. Gillian made a few notes for her writing later, but the newest arrivals sat back to soak up what the Tranquility residents had to say about life on the island. When dinner was over, O’Rourke pushed back from the table and announced that he was going to the parlor and instructed Carol to bring him a fresh mug of coffee. When Miss Isabelle raised an eyebrow, he apologized to Carol and asked her to provide him with one. Turning to the rest of the table, O’Rourke begrudgingly invited the others to join him.

Everyone could tell that it wasn’t a real invitation, and that they were all dismissed. O’Rourke’s ability to be hospitable had certainly been stretched to its limits by now, right? But Miss Isabelle announced that they would all love to join O’Rourke in the parlor for coffee. The Williamses begged out of the invitation, offering that they needed to take Bryan back to the bed and breakfast for a bath and bedtime. Leo sent the boy on his way with an origami lion fashioned out of a napkin, and the boy high fived him as he left the dining room. 

Carol began to clear the remnants of dinner off of the table, and several of the guests moved to join her. Leo and David laughed, as they both went to enter the kitchen at the same time, and couldn’t squeeze through. 

“You certainly seemed to enjoy the food!” David remarked as they emptied scraps into the trash can. 

“I think I could eat that meal over and over again for eternity,” Leo admitted, loading dishes into the industrial sized dishwasher. 

“Carol certainly has a gift with food,” agreed David. “She’s been cooking here for as long as I can remember, and there’s always been enough for whoever shows up for dinner. Red isn’t big on asking people over, but Miss Isabelle is usually bringing home some strays.”

Leo put his hand up in mock anger. “Are you calling me a stray, sir?” He laughed again. “You’re the one who invited us, remember?”

David nodded. “I know, I know. Miss Isabelle has been almost a mother to me. She made sure I was doing my schoolwork, and when I needed new clothes because I’d outgrown my old ones, she made sure Red provided what I needed.” 

By now, Gillian had stopped snooping around the dining room paintings and decorations, and had joined them in the kitchen. She stared at the enormity of the cabinets, the variety of the utensils and extensive offering of spices, herbs, and condiments. “This place is ridiculous!” she announced to no one in particular. 

Carol smiled, as she loaded the dishes into the giant dishwasher. “Mr. O’Rourke was used to the scale of the cruise ship kitchen when he retired here, so he had the kitchen rebuilt to provide all of the amenities the ship’s kitchen would have. He spared no expense!”

With this, Carol waved her hand at the four or five different machines that Leo could tell were designed to make various forms of coffee and tea. Who needed a Starbucks when you could have an O’Rourke’s?

Chapters 25-27 coming April 19!

19

After a brief breakfast and a few moments of silence in the sanctuary, Leo headed out for a brisk stroll. He didn’t encounter too many of the folks he knew, but everyone responded to his waves and nods with perfunctory greetings. It wasn’t anything special but it was good to know that people on Tranquility were not inclined to ignore their fellow man. It reminded Leo of home, and made him feel less isolated than he had before. 

To the left and right of the dock on Main Street, the island sloped down to a rocky shore. Leo hesitated to categorize it as ‘beach’ in his own mind, but he was sure that some people might’ve considered it safe enough to swim off from. He skipped a few stones and watched them slip end around over and over out to sea, sometimes as many as six or seven times each. A seagull hopped down from the brush and surveyed Leo, wondering if he had any leftover fries or a bite or two of burger to share. Seeing none, the bird stared Leo down and flew off to explore the rest of Main Street. 

Grinning from ear to ear, Leo turned back to the ebb and flow of the waves on the rocky shore. The storm hadn’t come yet, but Leo could sense something changing in the water. Off the shore a dolphin lazed by and then another, dorsal fins cutting through the water as they swam by. They weren’t fish, he remembered suddenly, but mammals. Maybe they could sense the storm coming. 

Storm or not, Leo still had a day to deal with before the looming dinner at the O’Rourke estate. He figured he’d swing through town and find out if there were any of the other islanders he hadn’t met yet. It wouldn’t do to be the pastor of the only church in town and ignore half of the congregation. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. The bouncing of a basketball ball broke Leo out of his thoughts as he neared Main Street. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl, were walking by, and the smallest dribbled the basketball between his legs, around his back, and then back through his legs in opposite order. He caught sight of Leo, and held the ball, halfway through the routine. 

“Hey, you’re the new preacher, right?” the boy asked. He brushed his brown bangs out of his face and stared at Leo with unblinking hazel eyes. “My dad says we’ll have to come see if you have anything worth saying this Sunday.”

Leo smiled calmly, taking it all in stride. He replied, “Well, I’m Leo and we’ll see if I have something your dad thinks is worth saying.” 

The two other teenagers were watching Leo warily, and the girl whispered something to the taller boy. Leo saw that they were both muscular, and resembled each other. He figured that the smaller boy must be their younger brother. 

“What are your names?” Leo asked, looking from the smaller boy to the other two. The girl stepped forward, giving Leo the once over that he figured was supposed to put him in his place. “I’m Steph, and this is Steven,” she said, indicating the boy her size. Pointing at the little boy, she said, “That’s Junior.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” replied Leo, trying to keep his tone conversational and light in the face of the teenagers’ distrust. “What are you up to? Do you have school?”

“It’s break for the Annual Migration,” said Junior, shaking his head at Leo’s ignorance. When Leo looked at him blankly, Junior continued, “There’s no school so that everyone can take part in getting ready for the festivities.” 

“We’re headed to shoot baskets at the school,” added Junior, beginning his through the legs, around the back, through the legs again routine. “You want to come?”

“Um,” started Steph, and Steven rolled his eyes. Leo grinned his best smile and said, “Sure, I’d love to!”

Over the next few minutes, Leo walked with Junior who told him all about fourth grade on the island, and how cool it was to be in the same school as his brother and sister. They were twins, Junior revealed, in the tenth grade. Today, they were given the responsibility of watching Junior, although he carefully avoided using the word ‘babysitting.’ 

Behind them, the twins trailed, keeping their voices low and continuing to eye Leo with suspicion. He figured that they hadn’t been around the pastor, and were worried that he was going to report back to their parents. He decided not to tell them that he didn’t have the slightest idea who their parents were. 

At the school, Leo stopped to stare at the building that served as the center of learning for the whole island. It was a stone’s throw from the library, but when he had heard ‘one-room schoolhouse,’ he hadn’t really considered that it was only one room, literally. It did have a half court for basketball, and a tiny cement area set aside for four square. But compared to schools on the mainland, there was barely enough to look at here. 

“Hey, mister, can you shoot?” asked Junior. Leo looked up, and found all three youngsters staring at him expectantly. Steven added, “If you play, we can go two on two.” 

Leo sighed. He wasn’t much of an athlete, but how hard could it be to play with these kids? He rolled up his sleeves, and nodded his head. 

A few hours later, Gillian found Leo sitting on a bench near the basketball court. The teenagers had left in search of lunch, with Junior waving to Leo as they disappeared around a bend. At least one of the youth thought he was “cool,” even if the other two had barely said a word to him while they played, mixing up teams throughout the morning. Now, Leo held an ice pack to the back of his head, and his shoes looked like they had been put through a rock tumbler. If he could be honest, he hurt all over, including in places that he didn’t even know that he had muscles. 

“What happened to you?” she asked, barely containing her own laughter. “Would you like to make a report for the article?”

“I believe I was ‘schooled’ by a trio of basketball-playing youngsters,” he said, wryly. “One of them crossed me over so badly that I slipped and hit my head. Even the youngest one broke my ankles a few times.” 

“So you won’t be signing up for the youth initiative I keep hearing whispers about?” Gillian followed up, laughing openly now. She sat down next to Leo, and winced when she saw the goose egg on the back of his head. 

“Oh the kids are wonderful,” replied Leo. “It’s just that I shouldn’t be involved in any of the sporting activities here.”

Gillian grinned. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. There have to be other things you’re good at, right? Praying, preaching, reading the Bible?”

“Oh yes,” Leo replied, rolling his eyes. “All of the things that young people find impressive and intriguing.” 

“Maybe you just need to work on your jumpshot. You’ll be able to win them over if you stick with it,” replied Gillian. 

Leo groaned. “I’m going to need a few days to recuperate before I think about playing anything again!”

20

Inside the chapel, O’Rourke waited for George and Betty Williams to show up. He had spoken to Betty on the phone while on his last trip to the mainland, but he didn’t really know what to expect. She had seemed competent and knowledgeable about running a youth program, and he knew that if they were going to provide a better future for the young people on Tranquility, that they would need strong leaders. The single-room school teacher could not be expected to do it on her own. When the island council met with her two months prior, she had threatened to quit if they didn’t find a way to support her, or at least curtailing the negative activities of many of the youth in ages K through 12. 

O’Rourke shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the problem that the island was facing. Back when he was a child living on the island, his father’s word was law. If he had stepped outside of what the school teacher back then had said, he would’ve been unable to sit down for a week and probably never seen the outside of his house or the schoolhouse for months. These days, mused O’Rourke, parents wanted to be their child’s best friend and refused to provide any discipline whatsoever. 

The door opened and in walked a couple with a child in tow. O’Rourke’s anxiety rose, even as he stood to greet the Williamses. He shook George’s hand, noting that the man was out of shape but still strong. Apparently, George’s days of playing collegiate basketball were far behind him but he still claimed some of the athleticism and strength that had made him a Big East star. O’Rourke had never had much time or interest in sports, but he understood from several other members of the island council that George Williams had been a force on the court. O’Rourke was more interested in how the man and his wife would use their platform to help the island not fall into a ridiculous state of vandalism and truancy. 

Betty Williams watched O’Rourke carefully as he turned his head to acknowledge Bryan. Bryan was watching the patterns of stainglassed light play across the wall above him, and barely acknowledged the older man. From where O’Rourke was standing, that was just as well. He hadn’t had too much experience with young people in his line of work, and he saw the issues on the island as something to be fixed rather than relationally. He patted the little boy on the head with his giant hand and turned to nod respectfully at Betty. 

The female half of the relationship was quiet and calm, the opposite of her husband’s leadership style. She smiled at Bryan’s interest in the stained glass patterns and nodded to O’Rourke before pulling a coloring book and some crayons out of her purse and putting them down on a pew where Bryan could use them. 

O’Rourke turned to George and asked, “So what are you all thinking about the island so far?” 

George looked at his wife, and responded carefully. “We think it’s a beautiful place to live, and the ride out here was pleasant. We have met a few people in town and haven’t really explained why we’re here. But everyone has been super friendly. We haven’t seen too many young people yet.” 

The older man nodded, staring up at the ceiling for a few silent moments. “It’s true,” he said, sighing. “We don’t have too many but the ones we have either end up running away as soon as they can or they seem to get taken away because they make life decisions that negatively impact the rest of us on the island. Graffiti, petty theft, underage drinking. I’m sure those are all acceptable coming-of-age things on the mainland, but here, that’s not really what we’re going for–”

Betty Williams interrupted. “Those aren’t acceptable things, anywhere. But sometimes we have to consider what’s causing the youth to choose to do those things. Sometimes we have to consider what their options are and what they’re being encouraged to do that gives them options outside of those things.”

O’Rourke was startled initially that Betty had been the one to rebuke him. He expected that the Williamses had a different perspective because you’d have to if you were willing to work with youth full-time. But their perspective would need to be remarkably different from anyone else’s on the island because what they had been trying wasn’t working. 

Maybe he would need to listen to something completely different if they were going to get anywhere good.

21

Fred wiped down the bar at Ocean’s Breeze for what felt like the thousandth time already that day. This was one of the days when Fred was sorry he had agreed to buy the Ocean’s Breeze on a whim a few years before, wishing he had never set foot on this island out in the middle of nowhere. 

Today, Fred was tired, and it was showing. He was tired, tired of getting drinks for people who thought that everything they did was ‘all-included’ even if the island businesses weren’t paid a dime by the cruises themselves. He was tired of dealing with little old island people who had lived on the island for most of their lives and couldn’t be bothered to vote for things like credit card machines or the internet. 

Seriously, why would anyone want to live somewhere that was a step above a Third World country, when all of the amenities and technology of the world could be had just about anywhere else? Why would anyone settle for this?

Another cruise ship couple came teetering up to the bar. Fred smiled at them grimly, the emotions conveyed by his lips not traveling north to his eyes. The couple was too enamored by looking at all of the nautical acoutremon attached to the walls, and the fish tank that Fred begrudgingly kept stocked with local aquatic life. They were looking around, while also blocking a stream of cruise ship employees who actually wanted to order alcohol, something Fred was happy to supply them with for exorbitant prices. 

“Excuse me, young man,” started the older woman, pushing her glasses up on her nose, as the frames fought against the seashell-encrusted glasses strap that looked like it weighed ten pounds. “I’m deathly allergic to seafood, so I’m assuming you have a grill that is free and clear of all of those nasty wildlife.”

Fred shook his head, keeping the smile plastered on his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he replied, towering over the little woman. “We don’t have that kind of capability here.”

“I knew it, Herbert,” the woman said, sighing. She turned away from Fred dismissively. “Let’s go find somewhere worthy to eat in.”

Herbert was turning red, as he labored to swing his extremely large stomach up to the bar. “This is unacceptable!” the man snapped, slamming his ring-encrusted hand down loudly on the bar. The early hour meant the bar was only half-full, and no one had turned the jukebox on yet. The slap on the bar was loud, but the bowl of peanuts that Herbert sent flying knocked over a few island daiquiris farther down the bar. 

“Ow!” cried Herbert, attempting to pull his hand back hastily. One of his oversized rings had become stuck on the engraved railing, and no matter how he jerked backward, the ring didn’t budge. Fred felt his anger rising, but he locked eyes with one of the cruise ship workers he knew and realized that everyone was laughing at the man, not at Fred. 

As one of the waitresses walked by out of the kitchen, Fred swiped a bowl of half-melted butter off of her tray. He shoved the bowl under the railing, where Herbert’s finger submerged in the liquid ooze. He kept yanking spastically, and finally jerked his hand free, falling backward into the crowd waiting to buy beer. 

This only caused the crowd to laugh louder, as Herbert’s wife tried to drag him to his feet. Herbert was still working to gain his footing, and accidentally caught ahold of his wife’s glasses strap. With a pop, seashells joined the peanuts everywhere, and Herbert slipped getting up. Someone else’s legs were taken out from under them, and a pile of people hit the floor. 

When the dust settled, Herbert and his wife fled the scene, angry and embarrassed, while Fred called another waitress over to help take the abundant orders of beer for a midday rush. As he walked away, he glanced down at the ring he had palmed as he slid it off the finger of Herbert’s immobilized hand. 

It would certainly pawn for more than a day’s wages at the Ocean’s Breeze, thought Fred, and he smiled genuinely for the first time that day.

Chapters 22-24 coming April 12!

16

Wandering around the dock after a quick dinner at the Ocean’s Breeze, Leo stared out at the cruise ships that were beginning to accumulate several hundred yards off of the island. They were clustering together and he assumed that they were staying put in deeper water. Smaller boats were lowered and raised to the cruise ship’s level to allow passengers to disembark for the mainland and Tranquility, and then return as they wished. 

The air was turning colder but there were still no clouds in the sky. He recognized that while the storm might be coming, it hadn’t arrived yet. In fact, if he hadn’t been told that the weather would be getting worse, he would have assumed that the current conditions would last for days. 

The quiet of the evening was interrupted by the couple from the ferry ride and their toddler son. He was running ahead of them, checking boat by boat. Leo didn’t know what he was looking for, as the toddler speak didn’t translate in his head. But the parents seemed less flustered than they had before, that is, until the little boy almost took a header off of the side of the dock. 

“Come here, buddy,” the father requested, watching his wife throw her hands up in the air, helplessly. “Come walk with us.”

The little boy obediently took his mother’s hand, and they walked on, nodding in greeting to Leo who nodded back. The little boy stuck out his hand to high five Leo as they passed, and grinned excitedly when Leo obliged. They continued on down the dock and Leo watched as they stopped to examine a couple of the fishing boats that were tied to the dock. 

Above them, on Main Street, Leo saw as the lights in the various stores began to flicker off. Fred closed the Ocean’s Spray and locked the door behind him, waving to the waitresses and cooks as they left. Cindi locked up the salon and headed up the hill toward the residential area. The streetlights were all coming on, old fashioned lamp posts that gave the street a nostalgic feel. 

With a quiet sigh, Leo turned back to the water one last time. Standing there, he felt a great calm come over him. The immensity of water, the range with which it ebbed and flowed out to sea, almost infinitely reminded him of his small size in the context of things. There was so much more at work here than he could see, and it comforted him to know that there were greater forces in play that caused the sun to rise and the ocean to flow. 

Heading back to the chapel, he said a quiet prayer as he crossed the front of the small sanctuary and retired to his tiny apartment. Pulling back the covers, he hung his suit in the closet and pulled out a well-worn copy of C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Shortly after Father Christmas delivered the gifts to the Pevensie children, he nodded off, his sleep deep and untroubled. 

17

The old wooden door of the now defunct library creaked open as the shadowy figure slipped inside. He replaced the duplicate key to the facility in his pocket, but a noise from the back of the library startled him. Walking cautiously through the welcome area past the checkout station, his eyes slowly acclimated to the dark. Looking left and right, he saw the dark outlines of the stacks, fiction, nonfiction, children’s, research. The books were long gone, donated to a library on the mainland, and the shelves now collected dust after several years of disuse. 

Stifling a sneeze, he stopped walking as he heard a noise to his left. The man played the light over the children’s area, where a small table and chair set had been pushed to the corner. Sitting on the table, a raccoon’s shiny eyes stared back through its mask, caught in the glow of the flashlight. The man sighed, and turned away. One had to admire the animal’s audacity, he supposed, one bandit giving credit to another. 

Walking down the hallway toward the back area of the library, the man heard shuffling and scratching that sounded more serious than the disturbance caused by the raccoon. Carefully, the man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small handgun. He extinguished the flashlight, and stepped forward, pushing the door to the office the whole way open. 

Inside, sitting at one of the desks, the man found his accomplice shelling peanuts and throwing shells at a trash can across the room. The man looked up midthrow and banked another one of the shells off of the rim of the trash can to join a pile of others on the floor. He grinned and said, “I used to be more accurate.”

“You used to be more careful,” groused the new arrival. “Your food consumption here has drawn the wild animals in. You should know better.”

“Aw, lighten up,” replied the peanut guy. “The animals aren’t going to mess with our stuff.” This last he said gesturing behind himself at the wall of white containers that the men had been smuggling in and out of the library for days. 

“You know we can’t afford to have any of that go missing,” reminded the first man. “You know what they’ll do to us if we don’t come through for them.”

“You worry too much,” said the other man, standing up and brushing off shells from his lap. “We’ve got a good thing going and they won’t want to screw it up.” 

The first man just stared, boring holes into his subordinate, until the other man finally looked away. Together, they began to tabulate the contents of the containers, preparing some to depart soon off of the island. They would probably work long hours into the night, and arguing wasn’t going to get them any closer to their goal.

18

Outside, Pat Garrett was making his rounds around town. The sky wasn’t too dark yet, but he knew the sky was getting heavier with the threat of the incoming storm. He’d lived on the island since moving from the mainland. He’d retired as the police chief of a big town – not a city he was always careful to point out to people – and when he thought about all of the places he could live out the rest of his days in peace, Tranquility was a place from his childhood that came to mind. 

Arriving on the island, Garrett had taken up in the Bed & Breakfast, eating at the Ocean’s Breeze every day for lunch and dinner. After two months of getting up late and going to bed early, he finally felt refreshed. As he relaxed into civilian life, he realized that he didn’t miss the grind of paperwork and schedules, but he did mind the lack of community. He was going to have to find something to do. 

By the end of the third month, the retired law enforcement officer had found his way to the small prayer meeting that met at the Chapel once a week. Miss Isabelle had taken to him immediately and pegged him as a police officer before he ever told anyone. By the third week, she had informed him that the island had been missing a night watchman for six months and would he be willing to take on the role for a nominal compensation? 

The tall mustached officer had thought about turning down the offer. He didn’t feel like dealing with the criminal underbelly of society anymore, after years of busting a menagerie of humanity at its worst. But the little old woman batted her eyelashes (maybe she was blinking, he wasn’t sure) and introduced him to Red O’Rourke, who tersely greeted, shook hands firmly, and welcomed him to the position.

That was twelve years ago, and here he was still making the rounds at night. It was especially encouraged during the cruise ship season as some of the cruise ship tourists ended up drinking their way through town and collapsing somewhere in the dark, unable to find their way back to the ship. One year, Garrett had even saved two of them from drowning when they’d been certain they could return to the cruise ship by swimming back off of the dock. The thankful and slightly ashamed tourists had even sent a cashier’s check in Garrett’s name to thank him for his efforts. 

Shaking his head, the stooped officer limped up the hill toward his house. Everything seemed buttoned up for the evening, and it would take him a bit to get home as an old sports injury always caused aches and pains that sitting at a desk for hours had only exacerbated. He’d been trying to walk around the island more during the day, both to get better acquainted with people who were new to the area and to drop some more of the weight he’d acquired by too much sitting around.

Tightening his belt, Garrett stopped and stared at the old library. He thought it was his mind playing tricks on him but there certainly seemed to be light shining dimly through the arboretum end of the library. Maybe one of the Tranquility muckety mucks had visited during the day and forgotten to turn the lights off. Or maybe he was just sleep deprived. Either way, he wasn’t going to sleep well unless he put the matter to rest. 

The trees seemed to whisper in the wind as Garrett turned down the walkway toward the library. He was more annoyed that someone had left a light on than he was worried that anyone was up to no goods. Besides, he knew those boys wouldn’t be finishing up their time in juvie yet, and none of the other teenagers had escalated to breaking and entering. He signed, and groaned as his knee creaked going up the stairs. 

In the dim moonlight, Garrett fumbled with the ring of keys that he had been outfitted with once everyone around town realized that he would actually make the rounds and was trustworthy enough to check on their property when they were away. Finding the library key, he turned to the door and realized that it was slightly ajar. The old police officer frowned and pulled out his flashlight. 

Holding the flashlight out ahead of him, the ex-chief reached for his gun, remembering as his hand came away empty that he wasn’t actually armed anymore. His internal temperature rose a little, and his pupils dilated as the old habits came flooding back. 

A crash in the shadows caused him to shift quickly, the flashlight catching the masked face of a racoon munching on peanuts. The varmint stopped in mid-chew as Garrett chuckled to himself, relaxing. Noise from farther back in the library made the blood pound in his ears, and he pushed forward, reminding himself to get someone to trap the racoon the next morning. Inching ahead, he saw light shining from underneath the office door. 

Taking a deep breath, Garrett pushed open the door and froze. The scene in front of him reminded him of too many places that he had been in making busts for the police department. He’d seen containers like this with drugs before, and rarely had he seen this great a quantity before. There was no hiding what was going on, and the man in front of him was completely oblivious to his arrival. 

“Turn around slowly,” Garrett said. The man at the work table tightened up and sighed. He turned to look at Garrett, a look of anxiety and frustration playing off of his face. 

The man smirked. “What can I do for you, ‘Officer’?” he asked, his hands deep in his coat pockets. 

“I’d like to see your hands,” replied the ex-lawman, ignoring the jibe. “Then we can talk about what you’re doing and what we need to do about it.”

“I don’t think that would be necessary,” said the other man, shaking his head slowly. “It would be wise for you to turn around and walk away.”

Garrett replied, tersely, “You know I can’t do that.”

A sharp blow to the back of Garrett’s head sent shockwaves of pain through his head and neck. He put out a hand to brace himself on the doorframe, and turned, his flashlight swinging wildly toward the source of the blow. He heard a rush of wind in the darkness outside of the library office and a flash of bronze as a heavy bookend rushed toward his face, and then everything went black. 

A shoe and then the rest of a leg and body emerged from the darkness. The second man nudged Garrett’s body with his boot. The first man stood aghast, his hand on his mouth. “You killed him, you fool!” he hissed at the assailant. 

“It’s too bad he wandered out here tonight,” the murderer said, dropping the bookend to the ground beside the growing pool of blood spilling out of Garrett’s lifeless body. “But what did you expect me to do? It wasn’t like he was going to stay quiet. He was too stubborn and too straightlaced for that.”

The two accomplices lifted the body of the ex-policeman, half-carrying and half-dragging him out of the back door of the library. No one ever came to that end of the abandoned building but they found some heavy duty plastic wrap to surround Garrett’s body, and left it covered with brush. Their plan was too close to fruition to be sidetracked by one man’s murder, even if they had genuinely respected the man. 

Chapters 19-21 coming April 5!

13

Inside the Ocean’s Spray Cafe, Leo surveyed the crowd and saw that every seat was occupied except for one. Scanning the table, he found the young woman who had failed to keep her shoes out of harm’s way, and tagged his shoes in the process for good measure. He figured she would be able to put up with his intrusion, given that he’d become intimately familiar with her breakfast, or was it her lunch? He let the door close behind him and the cacophony of conversations in the bar rolled over him. He wasn’t much for places like this but it seemed to be where everyone else was eating, and he wanted to make the acquaintance of the woman from the ferry. Wading through groups of people in conversation, dodging servers and tables of diners, Leo made his way over to the woman’s table. 

Clearly irritated by something, the woman was fussing over a cellphone on the table, sitting next to an opened laptop. She tapped on the cellphone disgustedly, and then banged on a few of the keyboard keys. As Leo closed in on the table, he could hear that a matronly waitress was patiently trying to explain that technological signals didn’t work on Tranquility, but the young woman clearly wasn’t prepared to accept the answer. She had one part of her long hair tucked up behind her ear, and the rest cascaded down over her neck and shoulders. 

Leo nodded to the waitress and put his hand on the chair opposite the young woman. He hesitated and tried again to get her attention. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Leo asked, lifting his hand in greeting and as a bit of supplication, without ever getting the younger woman’s attention. 

The gray haired waitress looked over the glasses held from falling by the set of her twice broken nose, just barely. Leo could smell the grease from the grill and probably french fries, too, emanating from her, and her uniform looked like she’d worn it for quite some time. At the moment, Leo surmised that the waitress with the name tag “Marge” looked like she’d like to upend a bucket of grease on the other out-of-towner’s head. The younger woman was still angrily addressing her phone and laptop and made no move to acknowledge Marge. 

Turning to Leo, the waitress said, “You might as well sit there. There’s nowhere else to sit anyway so it doesn’t really matter if she wants you here or not. Maybe you can order something to eat? She doesn’t believe me that there’s no Internet or cell service here. It’s why some of you mainland lot stay here once you get here, and why others can’t wait to get away from here. You have at it, son, and see if you can talk some sense into her. Good luck.”

Still tapping madly on the phone and now banging on various laptop settings, the young woman looked up as the waitress walked away. “She didn’t even take my order,” she muttered, seemingly oblivious to everything else Marge had said, or how long she had waited to take the order. The woman was laser focused on the problem in front of her, continuing to tune everything out, initially even Leo. 

“So, I’m Leo,” he said, extending his hand, awkwardly. 

“Gillian,” replied the young woman, not even looking up. After a second or two, Leo withdrew his offered hand, and made himself at home in the seat opposite Gillian. She had dropped her bag over the chair next to her, and Leo straightened out a menu that had been crumpled in Gillian’s mini-tantrum. 

Over the top of the menu, Leo gave Gillian more of a once-over than he had before. Her shoulder length brown hair curled close to the shoulders, and she had pulled it back into a ponytail with a rubber band while she stared furiously at her phone. Her nose wrinkled as she concentrated, making the freckles on her face dance while she worked. He swallowed, and attempted to get her attention. “Hey,” he said, but choked when she held up a finger shushing him. 

“I think I saw you on the boat today,” he tried again. “I’m…”

“I know, I know. The new pastor,” Gillian interrupted. “I heard that old woman greet you on the dock. Listen, I’d love to chat and all, but I’ve got to get connected to this internet system or my boss is going to have my head on a plate. I’m supposed to be writing some background stories about the annual whale migration, so I can get out of here and get home.”

Marge the waitress had reemerged, sidestepping customers who tried to corral her, and the rush of folks coming in for lunch that created a bottleneck at the front door. “You two know what you want yet?” she asked, glancing from Leo to the top of Gillian’s head. 

“What do you recommend, Marge?” Leo responded, smiling sweetly, over the muttering and tapping from the other side of the table. 

Marge, folded her arms over her expansive waist, looked to see if Leo was for real or not, and sighed. Her heavy New England accent deepened with her irritation. “The special today is the lobster roll. I’m sure it’s quite delicious, but I’m allergic to shellfish,” she intoned, staring up at the ceiling. “The cook churns out fish and chips pretty fast. You can get a burger here, but you could get a burger anywhere. The salad is made from freshly harvested vegetables from gardens on the island-”

“I’ll take the fish and chips,” Leo offered, brightly. Gillian just kept hacking away at her keyboard, and mumbled incoherently. She glanced up in time to say, “Make that two,” throwing two fingers up in the air as if Marge needed the visual answer, too. Leo shrugged apologetically, and mouthed ‘thank you’ to Marge. The waitress harrumphed and slid her greasy notepad back into her apron pocket. Walking away, Marge stopped to refill drinks for another table of regular customers, before carrying their order to the kitchen and barking it across the counter at the cook. 

Leo spent the next few minutes quietly examining the other diners at the bar. The overall din was consistent with an ebb and flow of conversations, but no one engaged him. It felt like the eye of a storm, his little table of solace in the midst of all the activity around him. 

Off to his right, Leo saw that the ferry captain and his right hand man had taken up space at the corner of the bar, keeping the bartender running back and forth between them and the rest of the orders. Apparently their stomachs were no worse for wear after the trip over, and he saw that the captain was already several drinks in based on the empties on his side of the table. A few tourists he recognized from the ferry had bellied up to the bar, including the family with the toddler. The stroller was nowhere to be seen and Leo figured that they had been forced to leave it outside. The little boy was balanced precariously on one of the bar stools and his mother had placed one hand behind him to keep him in place. 

To his left, an older married couple from the ferry had chosen a quiet corner off to the side, and Leo watched as they shared a close moment in the midst of the hubbub. Different groups were gathered around the tables, and the bar was packed. The annual migration looked like it was good financially for the Ocean’s Spray but Leo hadn’t seen anywhere else that was a larger establishment where a person could grab a meal. Looking back at Gillian, he saw that she was oblivious to it all, focused as she was on her inability to work. 

“Here they are, two orders of the fish and chips,” announced Marge, slapping the plates down for emphasis, making sure to land them close enough to make Gillian jump. Leo thought Gillian might have growled as she glared at the waitress, but he loudly and enthusiastically thanked Marge, to which she rolled her eyes and moved away to answer someone else’s request. He realized too late that he had neither tartar sauce or ketchup, but he figured it would be awhile before Marge returned to see if they needed anything. 

Quietly saying grace over his food, Leo soaked in the smells of the fish and chips. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the motion sickness of the ferry ride wore off. Apparently fresh fish was really better than Red Lobster’s frozen, processed seafood! He looked up to say something about their meal but Gillian just picked at her food, barely even acknowledging its existence or his. Leo shrugged and went back to enjoying his meal, and so their lunch went until the door flew open. 

A young black man strode into the bar, surveying the crowd as he made his way to the bar. His eyes seemed to barely register the other diners, until he found who he was looking for. His serious look broke into a broad smile, and his eyes seemed to come alive under the close cut fade. Leo watched as he strode over to the bar, and enveloped the younger man from the ferry sitting at the bar in his embrace. The other man turned and half-hugged him back, as the late arrival tousled his hair and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. Leo couldn’t hear what was said, but then he realized that someone else had joined their table, too. 

“These are quite good,” Miss Isabelle said, snatching a few chips off of Gillian’s barely-touched plate. Sitting down, Leo could now look Miss Isabelle directly in the eye. She was grinning from ear to ear, and pointed a thumb in Gillian’s direction, expecting Leo to introduce her. Gillian waved at her distractedly, and Leo shrugged. Miss Isabelle had grown tired of waiting, asking as she swallowed down another fry, “Who’s your new friend?”

At the same moment, Gillian slapped her laptop shut. She looked up at Isabelle, as if noticing her for the first time. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Gillian from the Coastal Gazette. I’m here to do some stories about people who are part of Tranquility, as we get toward the migration. My boss Dewey apparently thought it would be really fun to send me here without telling me that this place is a complete deadzone for all things technological. I can’t research, email or text. It’s really putting a damper on my day. How do you people not have Candy Crush or TikTok? Seriously, no Netflix and chill?”

Miss Isabelle dragged an empty chair away from a table of unsuspecting tourists, and scooted close to Gillian. “My dear, I don’t know what your crush is on, or whatever that Ticky-Tock thing is, but that’s the beauty of Tranquility! While the technological world just wants to get bigger and more invasive, we’ve chosen to stay small” – here, she pulled her hands close together – “and keep all of those hacker types out of our lives altogether!” 

At this, Miss Isabelle sat back, as if waiting for applause. “Isn’t this great?” she asked, looking from Leo’s bemused face to Gillian’s irritated one. “What could be better than a few days away without interruption, surrounded by sea breezes and salt air? After a few days, you’ll love it, too!”

Leo knew that Miss Isabelle had a point. Too much of life was rushed and hurried, thrown together on the way to something else. Few people he knew stopped to appreciate or enjoy the moments they were in, as they constantly focused on what came next. 

On the other side of the table, Gillian was staring at Miss Isabelle like she had just grown three sizes and turned green like the Grinch. She choked on a piece of the fried fish, and hurriedly drank some of the water Leo offered her. “Well, I have a job to do,” she said slowly, reaching for her notebook and pen. Turning to Miss Isabelle, she asked, voice dripping with sweetness, “Would you maybe answer some questions for me?”

Leo swallowed a chuckle, coughing into the back of his hand, as he raised an eyebrow at the way that Gillian so quickly turned her charm on and off. She turned to make some kind of retort, but Isabelle had already snatched up her hand in both of her own. “My dear, I would love to talk to you about the wonders of Tranquility!” she exclaimed. 

Instantly, the storyteller was verbally recounting the formation of Tranquility as a community, the importance of the traditions and lifestyle that these people maintained, and the way that they provided a respite for world weary people who were seeking an alternative. Gillian mindlessly ate her fish and chips, jotting a few thoughts down here and there as Isabelle lectured her for the next hour. When Marge had reluctantly approached the table to clear plates away, Isabelle had slapped down the funds to cover their meals. “I ate most of your chips!” she exclaimed. “Now it’s time for the tour!”

Gillian’s face contracted in a grimace, and Leo could tell that she was almost prepared to argue. But Isabelle was already on her feet and had snatched up Gillian’s arm, pulling her toward the front door.  As Leo watched with amusement, Isabelle steered Gillian out of the bar, and away from her laptop. Even as the newspaper woman tried to argue, looking back over her shoulder, Isabelle shushed her, and launched into the history of Tranquility and the many wonders that there were to see. Throwing down some cash to cover the gratuity for both of them, Leo picked up Gillian’s computer bag, shoveled her computer and phone into the bag, and headed out into the street behind them. 

14

The foundation of the little town off of the New England coastline was attributed to a desire to be closer to the migration patterns of the whales and of fish that provided the livelihood for many of the early Tranquility residents, Miss Isabelle explained. Hundreds of years prior, it had allowed fishermen to settle their families closer to their work, rather than spending weeks and months away from them out at sea. Over time, out of necessity, other businesses had sprung up on the island, drawing other people to the island. 

While many of the Tranquility people were natives, a few were people who had moved in late in life or married into a Tranquility family, Isabelle shared. A few of the people would move off of the island every year, and fewer still would move onto it, but the population remained relatively the same. Anything you couldn’t get on the island could be brought in from the mainland, but Amazon wasn’t going to deliver Prime two-day shipping so there was no instant gratification.

The town itself occupied most of the near side of the island where they were, with residential property extending along the middle of the island up through the forest. On the far side of the island, their guide said a sheer rock cliff prevented access by water, even though folks from the mansion could access the tiny cove they had seen from the ferry. An old lighthouse could be found at the farthest point of the island out to sea, but it had been unmanned for years. A simple battery light was triggered when darkness fell, but otherwise, there was no one to keep the light. 

Miss Isabelle bought them each a soft pretzel at Kauffman’s Bakery, much to the delight of an equally tiny old woman who could’ve been her sister. They stopped to examine the odds and ends at the Tranquility Island Gift Shop, petting the three-legged French Mastiff who stiffly rose to greet them, slipping it a few treats from the bowl on the counter. Each store and business made Miss Isabelle’s list of important facts, but none so much as the schoolhouse where she had taught for forty years. She told them that she still volunteered if the new teacher needed to be away or was sick, but that her time with all of the students was past. 

As the day progressed, Isabelle warned them that everything appeared peaceful and calm at the moment, but that over the next forty-eight hours, the town would be flooded with tourists and day visitors wanting to catch a peak at a whale and experience New England island life. A few of the ships were expected to arrive earlier than normal, depending on how smoothly their voyage went, and some of the captains would choose to ride out the upcoming nor’easter here. The inundation of tourists would last for at least a week, Isabelle shared, unbothered by what Leo was sure was an overwhelming crowd. 

“Where will they all stay?” asked Gillian, surprised. “I booked a room in the Tranquility B&B, but there aren’t hundreds of rooms there and I haven’t seen any hotels.”

Isabelle’ face lit up. “They’ll stay on the cruise ships! They will put people ashore to shop and stroll, and to watch the whales swim past. But for the most part, they don’t stay overnight here. There’s not enough room. You’ll have to ask Mr. O’Rourke about that sometime.”

Leo stopped examining a pair of seagulls squawking at each other over which one would get an abandoned French fry on the street, and looked up. The interaction between Miss Isabelle and Red O’Rourke hadn’t seemed amicable earlier, but she clearly had an affection for the man. Leo knew that he didn’t expect the angry giant would be incredibly keen on answering questions but maybe Gillian would turn on her charm for him. 

Their tour had brought them back to the Ocean’s Spray Bar, just as the young men Leo had seen earlier emerged into the sunshine. They were whispering conspiratorially to each other, and the black man’s face lit up when he saw Miss Isabelle. She glared at them, momentarily, and then lunged in, an arm around each of the men who dwarfed her. 

“David, Johnny, I can’t believe you’ve gotten to Tranquility and didn’t tell me directly!” she fussed in mock anger. The blonde-haired man was still showing some surprise, when she turned to him. “Johnny, any friend of David’s is a friend of mine, and of course he has been telling me about you! Listen, both of you, meet my new friends, Leo the minister and Gillian the journalist! I’ve just given them the Main Street tour, and I didn’t even collect tickets,” she cackled, laughing at her own joke.

“Well, Leo the minister and Gillian the journalist, welcome to Tranquility,” David, the tall black man said. “You’re certainly in good hands with Miss Isabelle. She knows everything and everyone,” he added, with a nudge toward Isabelle, who beamed. “She’s taught all of us about Tranquility at some point, and how to be good folks, too.”

Johnny shook hands, and explained that he was not originally from Tranquility, but was visiting David over the school holiday. They were seniors at Hudson University in New York, and had made a plan to visit Tranquility together so that Johnny could see the annual migration. Johnny was from Nebraska, and had never seen the East Coast, let alone a whale before.  

A moment of inspiration struck David and he leaned closer to the visitors. “We don’t get many island visitors who aren’t cruise ship tourists. Why don’t you come up for dinner tomorrow night, to my uncle’s house?” he asked, excitedly. “We can show you the other side of the island, and you can try to pry some stories out ol’ Red himself.” He looked expectantly from Leo to Gillian and back. 

Leo watched as Miss Isabelle bit her lip, frowning. David noticed but he wasn’t deterred. “It’ll be fine, Miss Isabelle! You know that Carol will have a full spread, and everyone will have enough. Besides, it’s better that we show them Tranquility hospitality ourselves! Red could use some company to help him grumble a little less.”

Turning to Leo and Gillian, David said, “See you at six tomorrow. Promptly of course. Ol’ Red can’t miss a meal.” And with a wink, he was off with Johnny in tow, as they headed up the cobblestone road that disappeared into the trees. 

Miss Isabelle stared after them, hints of concern on her face. She seemed lost in thought, until Gillian, completely oblivious, asked, “What was that all about?” Searching in her purse for a notebook and pen, she asked, “Who is ‘ol’ Red’?”

“You’ll see,” Miss Isabelle responded, slowly. “He’s part-mayor, part-rich guy, and all crotchety old man!”

15

Having said his goodbyes to the others, Leo decided to investigate the village square in more detail. He wandered up and down the aisles of the grocery store, and even purchased a few postcards. Sitting outside of the post office on a bench, he watched as a portly gentleman in a lab coat struggled to get his keys out of his pocket while minding a stack of to-go boxes from the Ocean’s Spray. He tried unsuccessfully to get the key into the lock of a door marked “Infirmary”    with his right hand, and was fumbling to switch to his left to get the door open.

“Here, let me help you,” interjected Leo, hopping up from the bench. Apparently, the other gentlemen had been lost in thought, because Leo’s sudden movement caused him to flinch, and a few of the boxes flew in different directions as the man himself went sprawling. Leo looked down at the man, realizing that he bore a resemblance to the General from the KFC commercials. His white hair was part pompadour, part receding hairline, and underneath the lab coat, he wore a frumpy pair of dress pants and a stained dress shirt that was two sizes too big. His leather cowboy boots had seen better days, but the man didn’t seem to mind.  

Brushing himself off, the man accepted Leo’s hand as he gingerly pulled himself to his feet. “My goodness, young man,” he murmured, “you certainly put the fear of God into me!”

Laughing at his own joke, the man explained that he was the island’s doctor, Frank Steinman. He was hurriedly shoving items back into the to-go boxes, and pulling them away from Leo. “Everyone calls me Stein though,” the doctor explained, finally getting the door to his office opened. “And of course, I knew who you were because Isabelle has been around the town a time or two telling everyone to be nice to you, being fresh out of seminary and all.”

Leo could see that the inside office had a partition or two to separate patients and provide different degrees of privacy. It wasn’t like a normal doctor’s office, stuck between the post office and the hardware store, but he figured it would suffice if someone got sick. The doctor disappeared behind another partition, leaving the to-go boxes behind when he reemerged. He seemed surprised that Leo had followed him into the clinic. 

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, pushing up his thin black glasses higher up his nose and focusing on Leo for the first time. 

“I’m just wandering around right now,” Leo replied, still taking it all in. “How long have you been in Tranquility?”

The doctor shared that he had arrived on a cruise ship several decades ago, and had never left. He’d met a woman from Tranquility, and after a short courtship, they’d been married. But when Dr. Steinman saw Leo examining his left hand, he explained that his wife of almost thirty years had died of cancer on the mainland, just a few months before. Doctors hadn’t been able to do anything for her except to keep her comfortable. Leo mumbled his condolences but the doctor waved it all away with his hand. 

The doctor now lived alone in a cottage on the O’Rourke estate, and admitted to hitting a golf ball now and again through Red’s yard. “He’s not a huge fan of that,” chuckled the doctor, “but it’s hard to know what he is a fan of anymore! The old bird just grinds along, chewing up life and spitting it out.”

“What’s his story?” Leo asked, curious about the man who kept coming up in conversation.

“You’d have to get the details from Red himself,” Steinman replied, “but his father owned a whole fleet of fishing boats that he inherited from his father. He had next to nothing to do with the actual business himself, but he invested financially and grew the company. He built onto the mansion at the top of the hill, and was going to leave it all to Red. But Red went off to see the world, throwing it back in his father’s face, dallying around the world as a cruise ship captain before buying his own ships.”

The doctor suddenly became quiet, and went to moving paperwork around his desk. Deciding it was time to move on given how uncomfortable that he seemed to make the doctor,  Leo bid his goodbyes and went back outside to retrieve his scattered postcards. He noticed that out to sea, a larger than life cruise ship had appeared, dropping anchor a mile away from the island. A few of the cruise ship’s tenders were in the process of being lowered into the water from above. Soon, it seemed, a whole new group of guests would arrive on Tranquility Island.

Looking back at the row of offerings along Main Street, Leo meandered over to Cindi’s Hair Salon, examining the different advertisements taped on the window. He saw that there would be a special concert by the Tranquility Quartet that weekend, and that someone was offering dog walking services. Another ad suggested people hire someone called Squirrel to top their trees, and several advertised people looking to pick up odd jobs around the island. 

A tap on the window startled Leo, as he looked up to see that the hairstylist, who he assumed was Cindi, and all of her customers were waving to him. His cheeks flushed, and he waved back weakly, before hurriedly away. A few of the other stores were temporarily closed, and several others announced they would re-open the next day. Even the post office had a closed sign and  Leo made a mental note to visit the businesses  later that week so he could meet the proprietors. Realizing that the dinner hour was approaching, he went back to the chapel to tidy up. He found Miss Isabelle dusting and rearranging hymnals in the pews, and nodded to her as he went past to his room. 

Isabelle smiled at him as he came by but gave him space. She clearly knew he needed a few moments to himself, and the quiet in the chapel was like a comfortable blanket wrapped around him. He slowed as he approached the front, and quietly stood before the altar, visualizing what it could look like for him to stand before the congregation that coming Sunday. With a grin and a wink at Miss Isabelle, Leo turned into his apartment off of the back of the chapel and she left to head home.

Section 5 (Chapters 16-18) coming March 29!

10

The well dressed young woman named Gillian pulled her bouncing suitcase up the ramp and away from the ferry. She didn’t care whether she ever set foot on another boat again, even if it meant never leaving the island! The trip out to Tranquility had felt like an eternity, and eating before boarding had been one of the worst ideas that she had ever followed through on in her thirty-five-year-old life. Back on terra firma, she felt her confidence growing with each step, knowing that she was there to get the job done regardless of however long it took. She still couldn’t believe she’d ended up in this place, but it beat the alternative. 

Sighing, the woman readjusted her bag to keep the corner of her laptop from digging into her back. As she scanned Main Street, she saw storefronts that could only be described as quaint, with smiling townspeople who greeted her verbally or doffed their hats to her like some sort of old fashioned reenactment. It was like traveling back in time without a DeLorean or Doc Brown to guide her, and seemed even stranger considering that just hours ago she had traveled by plane and electric automobile. She was already starting to wonder what she had gotten herself into, but the orders from her boss were unavoidable.

She wasn’t the lowest person on the totem pole in the office, but she wasn’t exactly a senior member yet either. She knew that this whole situation was supposed to help make her career, and she wanted to do a good job tracking down the story, even if she didn’t know much about it to begin with. 

Her boss, Dewey, was a man of few words, and there wasn’t much time to ask him for clarification, not that he would’ve given much anyway. He was just like that: he knew what he expected you to do and he thought you should go do it. If you had questions, you should figure them out yourself because it wasn’t his job to make you better or help you succeed. This was all a bit daunting for a new arrival in Dewey’s office, but the only kind of training he provided was on the job, on one’s own. Gillian was pretty sure he wanted her to fail, and it wasn’t clear yet whether that was because she was a woman or because she had graduated at the top of her class. 

Looking around Main Street, the young woman could see why some people would think Tranquility was a quaint, quiet place to come visit, or maybe even raise a family. But for her, it seemed a little too kitschy, a little too cute. It was not the kind of sophisticated place that the city woman was used to. Main Street stretched on for a half-mile or so, with the bends at each end into forested areas. 

Having briefly surveyed an online map of the island, she knew that there were residential houses hidden from view. The community swelled on Tranquility during this time of year, nearly doubling all of the people counted on the island. Of course, there were the longstanding community members living in their own homes who would find themselves next door to summer residents and a few hotels for those fresh off of cruise ships who didn’t want to traipse back and forth between the island and the ships all week long. 

By now, Gillian had walked by the regular shops like the grocery store, the Ocean’s Spray Cafe, the hairdresser, and the funeral home. She saw a pop-up store for fresh cut flowers, for film development, and a few other businesses that she half-noticed in the post-ferry ride haze that she was still trying to shake. Now, she’d finally arrived at her destination where she’d be sleeping this week for as long as her stay took her. 

I need to get the story, investigate enough for background, and get back to the mainland, she told herself, staring up at the outside of the Tranquility Bed & Breakfast. It wasn’t quite the end of the road, but it was past almost all of the eateries and stores where tourists would shop, and she hoped for the very least that it would provide some quiet. 

The young woman took a deep breath, and pulled her luggage up the three wooden stairs. Pushing into the first floor of the B&B, she found herself face to face with a big blonde man with an ear-to-ear smile and blazing blue eyes. His curly hair seemed to have a life of its own, bobbing up and down as he looked her over, and hoop earrings twinkled in his ears as he moved. She noticed that he was wearing an apron, covered with flour and other ingredients, and he clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. She was nearly afraid that he was going to hug her, flour and all. 

“Welcome to the Tranquility Bed & Breakfast!” he nearly shouted at her. “I’m Chris Baxter, one of the co-owners. How can I help you?”

Not normally one to be drawn in by abundant enthusiasm, the young woman took off her designer sunglasses, took a deep breath, and replied simply, “Gillian, Gillian Anderson. I have a reservation, I think.” 

Baxter consulted his giant reservation handbook, scrolling a meaty pointer finger down the list. “We have you down for a week, staying in the Assisi Suite. Can I help you with your luggage?” 

Anderson said that she could handle her luggage herself, and received directions to the Assisi Suite on the second floor. She slung her computer bag over her shoulder, and scooped up her luggage in one arm and the room key in the other. She nodded her thanks to Baxter and then moved up the stairs to the landing. Her feet still felt a bit unsteady, and the staircase seemed to sway each time that she took a new step. She steadied herself on the wall, and looked at the still shots framed in the hallway and up the stairs. They were of different times and places on Tranquility, and Anderson could see how the town had grown. Arriving on her floor, she looked around for any signs of other guests but saw none as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. 

Inside her room, Anderson situated her suitcase on the provided rack and inspected the contents of her room. The wallpaper had a woodland creatures theme, and ornate woodworking depicted different forest animals on the canopy bed and matching furniture. The bathroom had a raised-up bathtub, and someone had taken great effort to keep the whole place looking clean and put together. Rarely had she stayed anywhere quite so unique, as she’d become used to red eye flights into cities where she stayed without much fanfare in hotels that all looked the same. During a quick survey of the wooden desk, Anderson noticed that there were no directions for connecting to the B&B wifi, but when she went back downstairs, Baxter had disappeared into the private portions of the house. She could hear him singing loudly, and would have probably rolled her eyes, except for the glorious way that the B&B owner easily echoed the original artist’s sounds. 

Returning to her room, Anderson unpacked most of her belongings into the closet and checked her purse for the necessities to do the job. She settled on top of the bed without removing her shoes, and quietly meditated for a few minutes. Feeling refreshed, and having stopped the world from spinning finally, she knew that it was time to proceed around the island. She looked around the room one last time, sighing when she realized the room lacked a coffee maker of any time, and pulled the door shut behind her as she headed out to see what the island had to offer her. Hopefully the island had more to offer in amenities than the room she’d be sleeping in this week.

11

At the south end of Main Street, the island’s only outwardly religious structure stood as a testament to the way previous generations had constructed their communities. The Tranquility Chapel was nondenominational in nature, and various elements from the mainland had provided delegates to serve as the town’s religious leader over the last two hundred years. As the only building big enough to hold a significant attendance, the chapel served as a meeting spot throughout the week for the island’s residents, religious or otherwise. 

Inside the chapel proper, Red O’Rourke kneaded his hands, staring intently at the front of the chapel and its simply adorned cross. From his seat on the back pew of the sanctuary, he could see the way that the sun changed the appearance of the space as it rose. Unlit by any artificial means, the sanctuary’s shadows receded as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky outside. The quiet should have been comforting, but instead it felt like a silent condemnation of the man himself. His expensive suit was well-worn and today, his consternation at being made to wait sent waves of irritation across his face. His nervousness was showing, and that made him even more irritable. He liked to be in control of his emotions and he felt anything but in control. He chided himself again for counting on visitors from the mainland to follow through on their promises.

The meeting was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago, but of course, the mainland contacts were late, if they were going to show at all. It took grit and a bit of persistence to exist on the island, thought O’Rourke, grumbling to himself. Mainlanders never seemed to have what it took to make that happen, like the people of Tranquility Island were an adaptive breed of people who would survive where others failed. You couldn’t count on mainlanders, and if you expected much of anything, you were bound to be disappointed. Maybe they had cold feet and decided not to come at all, which would be typical for the mainlanders he knew. 

The chapel was the most recognizable place in town, but it provided a degree of privacy if you could pick the right time for a meeting during the week. If not for the chapel, O’Rourke would have had to meet the mainlanders in his home or out in public at the Cafe, and the red bearded man figured that people had enough to talk about without getting wind of this conversation.. He’d figured they could meet there, and then be about their business, rather than having to entertain in his home and coming up with an excuse to get the contacts out of his house. Or squelching the rumors that were bound to flourish afterward. He’d come to the conclusion that the conversation had to be had, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to wait indefinitely. 

The red bearded man was investing a lot of money in the mainlanders, and he expected them to be good for their word. Being late was hardly new, but it irritated him that they were off to this kind of start. He checked his expensive watch, the last reminder of his old life as a wealthy sea captain. It still ticked, but the luster of the gold finished had been worn and chipped over the years. Again noticing the time, he sighed.The morning was getting away from him, and he had things to accomplish and projects to maintain. 

After a moment, the man rose, his large frame’s departure causing the pew to groan as he left it. He ran his fingers along the pew, remembering moments when he had sat in the same sanctuary with members of his family. They weren’t happier days, but they were somehow better than whatever kind of existence he was maintaining now. He thought of the old songs he had learned as a child, and the people he had known who would’ve called this place their spiritual home. Those times were dead and gone, like most members of his family. 

O’Rourke’s mother and father had been stern, austere New Englanders, who thought children should be seen and not heard. They prescribed to a Jonathan Edwards “sinners in the hands of an angry God” kind of religious belief, and they had used fear and punishment to shape their son into who they thought he should be. That wasn’t the kind of thing that O’Rourke followed faithfully anymore, but he still figured if there was a god, then that god was angry. The world was too messed up and broken to be of much satisfaction to its Maker. War, violence, poverty, sickness. They were all earmarks that the world was utterly and fantastically broken, with little hope for anything different. 

Looked back again at the cross, O’Rourke shook his head, bitterly. There was nothing for him here, and even his business expectations for the place had fallen short. He wouldn’t be quick to trust the mainlanders, and they would have to seek him out if they wanted to make the situation work for all of them. Just being in the Chapel was a stretch for him, given his memories. Usually he kept them locked away and disregarded, but he’d fallen into the same trap he always did when he set foot inside of the Chapel. 

With a shrug, the red bearded man twisted the old handle on the back door of the chapel, and stepped squinting into the sunshine outside. Hopefully he could just get home without too much trouble, or running into someone who wanted to discuss ‘the good old days.’ One trip was enough for him down memory lane. He couldn’t imagine looking back on the past with any joy. 

12

A few minutes earlier on Main Street, Miss Isabelle was pulling on Leo’s sleeve, pointing out landmarks along the way as they walked up from the dock toward the town itself. The path up from the dock wasn’t terribly treacherous as Leo reestablished his center of gravity, but he was fighting off a headache as Miss Headle lectured him about the island. Her chatter was nonstop, given a lifetime of knowledge about the island and its people. It was nearly more information than Leo could comprehend, his body still mildly moving with seasickness back and forth, and now his brain being pulled along at speed that belied Miss Isabelle’s age. 

Leo thought back to the way he had been forced to rush to catch the ferry, still amazed by his flying leap and the way his body had responded to the ferry’s voyage. He felt something akin to hunger creeping up through his stomach but after watching that young woman be sick over and over, he wasn’t sure when he would make food a priority. He’d zoned out momentarily but that hadn’t stopped Miss Isabelle, who was still pointing out landmarks and explaining the history of the island. 

“Tranquility has been around for hundreds of years,” she was explaining, “a part of the coastal towns that provided trade and fishing routes between the mainland and international traders. The bigger ships couldn’t get into the mainland near here and needed a transition point. Now, people know that the island is good for a bite of food and a relaxing day off the ships. Any more, we don’t have much industry, but the people who live here love it, and call it home. Of course, the high point for the mainlanders is the Annual Migration, which happens a few days from now. That’s the time when most of the shopkeepers make their money with a couple of thousand extra people showing up to catch a glimpse of the whales and to experience a few days of island life. You’ll see lots of outsiders then, but I hear there’s supposed to be a real nor’easter so we’ll see who decides to brave the trip. Some of the cruise ships may decide to skip this stop altogether, while others may come a little early.”

“What’s the Annual Migration?” asked Leo, having finally decided that the road wasn’t moving under his feet. 

Miss Isabelle stopped and put her hands on her hips. Leo took an unconscious step back, at first afraid that he had somehow offended her enough to strike him. “Are you serious?” she asked, incredulously. “They sent you here from the seminary and didn’t tell you about the time of year here? I sent them a whole folder full of background on the island and what to expect this week. Hmph. Someone wasn’t doing their job! Bet that they didn’t tell you about the ferry you’d have to take to get here either.”

Leo’s guide went on to explain that twice a year, whales migrate along the eastern coast of the continental United States. Once when they went from their southern winter homes north to feed in the spring, and once in the fall when they moved south for the winter to deliver calves in the shallow coastal waters. Because of the currents and other elements that went over Leo’s head as Miss Isabelle explained, the migration south in the fall took the whales closer to Tranquility so tourists came more heavily then to catch a taste of island life and for a chance to snap some photos of whales off of the coast. 

Leo eyed the line forming at Ocean’s Spray already, his stomach rumbling now that it had settled down from being a bubbling cauldron. He saw the way that different shops had various decorations and signs enticing passersby to come and check out their wares related to the annual migration. Miss Isabelle pointed out different businesses, like France’ grocery, the post office, Cindi’s Hair Salon, and Kauffman’s Bakery. Winding off the main street were little paths that cut burroughs back to residential homes and beyond that to farther fields that Leo could just catch in the distance. Through the woods, Leo could see more homes, winding up higher onto the island, with cobblestone roads leading the way. 

Neither the mansion or the lighthouse were visible from Main Street, but Leo was slowly getting his bearings about the orientation of the island. He knew that he would have to do some exploring to get comfortable with his new location, but he was trying hard to focus on what Miss Isabelle was sharing about the people on the island now. He’d have to catch up quickly to discover what he needed to know about the people and the island itself. 

With a jolt, Leo ran into Miss Isabelle, not as hard as to tackle her but hard enough that he apologized profusely. He hadn’t realized that she had stopped talking, as he tried to soak in all of the things she was telling him, and in his perusal of the town, he had failed to see her come to a halt. When he did look down after bumping into her, he realized that she was staring intently at a large, redbearded man who had just emerged from the town chapel.

Leo didn’t think of himself as afraid of much, but the red bearded man was physically imposing. He was easily over six feet, and a few pounds shy of three hundred. The man was dressed well, his clothes all from expensive cloth, stitched together in custom fits for the man himself, with shoes to match. His face was contorted with frustration if not outright anger, and Leo realized that he would just as soon not tangle with this man if he could help out. The man’s giant hands kneaded together when he saw Miss Isabelle and Leo approaching, and ducked his eyes as if he could keep them from seeing him, as he strode away from the chapel.

Miss Isabelle was having none of that though, and Leo cringed when she called out to the other man. Leo wasn’t much for physical confrontation, and the thought of defending Miss Isabelle if she provoked the man was enough to make him sweat. 

“Red O’Rourke, what are you doing in the chapel?” she bellowed, causing several passersby to stop in their tracks. They were shocked by her tone, but even more bewildered that she’d confront this giant who’d rather be left alone. When those on the street recognized that no violent confrontation was about to happen, they hurried along nonetheless, holding their packages in front of them as if they could ward off whatever threat she presented. Leo felt like he was walking toward a gunfight in the O.K. Corral, and waited for a tumbleweed to blow by him. What was he going to do if this angry man assaulted Miss Isabelle? 

With his coattails flying behind him, the red haired giant tried to push by Miss Isabelle and Leo, but the spitfire woman was having none of it. “You’ll speak to me when I address you, sir,” she added, grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat. The tension was palpable for a moment and Leo feared that Isabelle was about to be sent flying by the redhead. He felt like he should say something but the words all hung up in his throat, as he was physically no match for the bigger man. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” growled O’Rourke, “but my thoughts are still acceptable in the chapel, even if you think I don’t know how to pray. And the chapel is the town’s, not yours or anyone else’s.” He snatched his arm away from the matronly Miss Isabelle, hardly even glancing in Leo’s direction. With another few strides, O’Rourke disappeared up the path into the woods and Leo was left staring at Miss Isabelle’s downturned face. Miss Isabelle stared after him, and Leo thought he detected a tear creeping out of the corner of one eye. This woman was full of surprises. 

“Father Leo, it is just so sad,” Miss Isabelle shared, leaning in. “That man doesn’t understand what church is really for, all scurrying about and secretive. He needs the community more than he knows, and he’s too proud to ask for help. I know God hears everyone’s prayers but when the answers we want don’t come, it can rattle a person’s faith.”

Leo just nodded, mutely following Miss Isabelle into the Chapel, leaving the talking to her. She’d moved past her reverie about O’Rourke, and was now explaining that she was in charge of the Chapel Women’s Guild. The Guild was responsible for the upkeep of the island chapel and preparing it for services each week. She pointed out to him where she and others normally sat, explained who had donated the money for the stained glass windows, and told him again how excited people would be to meet him. Leading him to the back entrance of the chapel, to his private rooms, she pointed left and right to storage bins and other rooms she thought important enough to highlight. 

When Miss Isabelle finished giving him the two-dollar tour of the facility, Leo stretched out on the bed, and eyed the bag that the ship captain had brought to his room. Leo had tried momentarily to compensate the man for his effort, but he’d run off, looking over his shoulder, as if Miss Isabelle might appear from any corridor and berate him for staying too long. After a few moments reflecting on the choppy ride over to Tranquility and nodding off for a few more, Leo rose from his spartan bed, straightened his shirt and pants, and walked out into the chapel proper. 

The solitary stained glass window that Miss Isabelle had highlighted before rose on the back wall of the chapel, centered on a crimson rose. With the sun shining through, it cast colors around the simple chapel, the walls a tapestry for the sun to paint. Other natural light broke through high windows close to the roof, but the simple rows of wooden pews led directly to the front rail for kneeling and a single table draped with white cloth, set before a hand hewn wooden cross on the wall. A simple lectern was the only other piece of furniture on the raised up platform in front of the church, and Leo saw that there were a few Bibles stacked over in one corner. 

The chapel would never pass as a glorious cathedral, but Leo figured it was a space that lent itself to worship for the people of the island. Like the rest of the island’s vibe, the chapel was timeless, working just as well two hundred years in the past or two hundred more into the future. Someone, probably Miss Isabelle and her friends, had taken great pains to make sure that the building was kept up and clean. It was a place that they clearly revered and in its simplicity it showed just how much they believed in what they were doing in worship there. 

Leo ran his hands over the tops of the pews as he walked, noticing the worn seats and the well-used books of worship sitting in the back of each pew. The island didn’t seem to have much of a population during the regular year, but apparently, those who came to church came regularly. Leo slid into the last pew and stared reflectively at where the stained glass window’s glow now reflected on the central cross. He kept his thoughts clear, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had gotten himself into, but he knew he was where he was supposed to be. Rising from the pew, Leo left through the chapel door and went to explore the town for himself. 

Section 4 (Chapters 13-15) coming March 22!

7

As the ferry rounded the mainland’s final point, the passengers could see the island in the distance. It was the last expression of land before the vast ocean spread out away from the mainland. The island itself was big enough to be impressive, but still small enough that most of the passengers who weren’t from Tranquility could consider it something exotic, like a cinematic escape from reality.

Over the side of the ferry, the passengers could identify fish swimming in pools through the waves, and overhead, seagulls and other smaller birds darted through the sky. The salt water splashed up the side of the ferry as it cut through the water, and a few of the visitors closed their eyes while inhaling the salty breeze. It was picturesque, like something they had only imagined in their dreams and not like something that they would ever have believed to be a real spot on the map. 

Approaching the island, the first mate pointed out the mansion on the top of a cliff, a narrow set of stairs leading down to a rocky shore below, certainly cut intentionally with no other means of accessing a small cove below. The structure was grand enough that the tourists snapped pictures of it with their phones or personal cameras, the luxury of the mansion like something out of a historical brochure. It seemed imposing, even high above them in the distance, with its high windows and ornate parapets. The travelers took notice, turning to each other to ask what kind of person would have the money and pride to build such a home out to sea. All of them would have if they had the funds to do so but it was easier to judge those they didn’t know, and they shook their heads as the ferry veered away from the cliff. 

The first mate explained that they would take another fifteen to twenty minutes to get around the island to the side where the ferry could dock. As the boat motored on, the passengers saw the occasional building through the trees which were densely packed together the whole way to the perimeter of the island, with no usable shore in sight. High on the cliff, they saw the outlying fences of what Noah said was the only farm on the island, providing a significant portion of the produce and other fresh ingredients to the lone grocery store on the island. Those in the boat could see the occasional farm animal stroll by the fence, and they even caught sight of a man on a tractor. He caught sight of the ferry and waved, exciting the tourists who heartily waved back. 

As the ferry rounded the northern tip of the island, the tourists all took closer inventory of the lighthouse. Someone was taking the time to keep that portion of the island well-manicured and clear of brush. The light strobed from the uppermost portion of the lighthouse, and a few more pictures were snapped. As the lighthouse was set on a rocky beach with steep inclines to the water, Noah explained that no boats could get closer to the island on the northern point, but that the tourists from the luxury liners would most likely congregate there to watch for migrating whales over the course of the next week. 

Periodically, tufts of smoke rose through the trees, and interested passengers caught bits and pieces of the first mate’s explanations about who lived in different places through the outskirts of the island. Most of the town’s active population worked in the town, and lived in houses throughout the woods toward the other end of the island where the lighthouse stood as a warning toward the ocean side of the island. As the ferry motored south, Noah explained that the dock served as the main entry point onto the island for everyone. This was where the ferry was headed, and the only place that larger boats could put passengers ashore. 

The ferry was forced to take a wide turn around the tip of the island, and now straightened in deeper waters. Someone saw a pod of dolphins, and excitedly pointed them out to the others. As the passengers turned to look, the ferry hit a rough patch of water, with some of the choppy water splashing over the bow of the boat.  A few of the newcomers looked like they might be sick, and the first mate dug into a cooler in the stern of the boat for a few complimentary bottles of water. 

Noah refused to make eye contact with the captain, who glared at him over the deck of the bridge. The captain didn’t love it when the water bottles were given out too quickly, wanting to keep the expenses down so that the profits would be higher. He had told the first mate to wait and see who got sick before providing them free beverages. The first mate always just shrugged when the captain glared at him, knowing that the fewer passengers who got sick, the less clean up there would be on the tail end of their trip that night. The captain certainly wouldn’t be spending any of his extra time swabbing the deck. 

8

Down the hill walked the hunched old woman. She’d been canvassing this island for seventy straight years, raised by a pair of Tranquility natives who had fallen in love in the back of their ninth grade classroom, which had also been their classroom from kindergarten through twelfth grade. Her father had been the owner of the cafe and her mother had been the assistant librarian. Together they had instilled in their daughter a love for the island, but she had pursued her mother’s interests in terms of books and learning. 

After a brief foray to the mainland to pursue a college degree, Isabelle Headle had returned to the island to fill the spot recently vacated by her now-deceased school teacher. A bout of poor health and bad luck had taken both of her parents twenty years before, and she’d had to sell the cafe to settle all of their bills, but she didn’t really mind. She was already embedded in the DNA of the island as the educator on the island.

Headle had taken over the one-room schoolhouse for the students of Tranquility Island, and taken on the responsibility of caring for the school-age children. She taught everything from mathematics to typing, even if it was still done on old typewriters, because the people of Tranquility had never felt the need to upgrade technologically, happy to keep things simple. Simple was what worked for Headle, and simple it was. If truth be told, she was someone that anyone who’d learned under her watchful eye could turn to no matter how old they became. 

Headle upped her pace down the hill from her house toward Main Street. Her diminutive size forced her to take twice as many steps as the next person, but she was used to the inconvenience. Her activity level hadn’t dimmed much as she’d aged, and she always credited that to her relationship to the younger generations of the island. She loved them, and most of them loved her back. They were all her children, and they always would be. 

The town crept into view as she crested the last little rise and angled around the bend where Martin and Sue Brown lived. She knew that she would have a few minutes to slip into the Chapel and give it one last review before heading to the dock. The new pastor was supposed to be on that boat and she didn’t want to make him wait. They had been without a real pastor for months, and attendance was starting to slide as people got tired of listening to their friends tell the same stories from the pulpit that they always did. Headle knew it was time for some direction. She also didn’t want anything to be out of order when he got there so she had to look it over one last time. 

In the Chapel, Headle did a quick spin through the sanctuary, the kitchenette, and the pastor’s apartment. Everything seemed to be in order. The fresh flowers she had placed the day before still looked vibrant, so she added a few more ounces of water to the vase from the kitchenette sink. There was enough food to tide the pastor over until she had a chance to find out what he really liked to eat. She was satisfied that she had tidied up the place as best could be done without major renovations.

As the head of the Chapel Guild, Headle believed it was her job to have everything just so. She wanted the Chapel to be the vibrant place it had once been, and she hoped that the new pastor would be full of the kind of passion that other people would find attractive. She had read his letter dozens of times, where he talked about how much he had enjoyed seminary and looked forward to implementing the things he learned in the life of a church. He seemed like he could help them recover from the months of time they had been limping along without a pastor. 

Now, she just needed to hope that he could survive the ferry ride over from the mainland. Some of the seminary students they had been sent over the last fifty years couldn’t handle the ride and didn’t make it more than a few weeks before heading back home. Headle didn’t know if it was the reality of the island’s isolation or the next generation’s need for technology that kept the seminarians turning over and over. 

9

Behind the wheel, ferry Captain Drake wiped the sweat from his eyes, and pulled hard on his cap. His longish hair was streaked with gray but to most folks, he was still a young man. The wind and the rain had weathered his face, but he’d adapted to the life on the water and couldn’t imagine life any other way. 

The salt spray was whipping all around him, and although the sun was shining brightly over the water, the chop of the water belied any false expectation of a calm sea. He had made this run thousands of times, but transporting passengers just ahead of an incoming nor’easter was always his least favorite. Tourists were always the most whiny about travel conditions, and they couldn’t handle their dinner. This run was bound to cost him extra cleanup, given the pier food he’d seen these people consuming on their way to the ferry. Seriously, who ate like that if they didn’t know if they would get motion sick or not?

Through the dirty glass windshield, he’d seen his first mate handing out bottles of water to the passengers on the benches inside the bow of the boat, and a few pats on the back. He thought he’d overheard one of the tourists ask if there were other options to drink, like wine or beer, and if nuts would be provided. At least that person won’t cause me a mess, he thought. But they expect options on this little ferry! Do we look like flight attendants? 

Behind him, the captain could hear the sound of a few more passengers retching. He hoped it was all over the side, but he doubted he could be that lucky. He’d eyeballed a few of them as they boarded the ferry, and he just couldn’t hold onto hope. He was tired of those aspects of the ferrying: swabbing the deck, cleaning up trash, dealing with whiny customers. The sea was his friend, and he could’ve made the trip from the mainland in his sleep. Another rough patch forced him to tighten his hold on the wheel, and brought him out of his reverie.

Of the dozen or so passengers on the ferry, only one or two were still standing after the last wave had sent the ferry lurching sidewise. The captain patted the steering wheel with some affection, and continued to motor straight ahead. He’d poured sweat equity into the ferry, having bought out the previous owner after working for him until his retirement. He’d nicknamed the ferry ‘The Panther’ for her ferocity, even though he figured it would have been more appropriate if he had considered naming her something aquatic like the manatee or hippo based on how she plowed through the water. That just wasn’t sexy though. Who wanted a ship named after something fat and slow?

The captain knew the old girl would always be seaworthy, thanks to the regular upkeep he maintained with a bit of help from Noah. He never worried about her in the midst of the day-to-day transportation, and even the prequel of the nor’easter wasn’t enough to get him worked up. He chuckled, watching the tourists discomfort on the benches ringing the ferry. 

The folks from the mainland were fit to be tied when the water wasn’t as flat as a Formica top. They were paying for a short convenient commuter trip, not like one of the pleasure cruises that the tourists would arrive over the course of the next week. After an hour ride out to the island, some of them expected to get a five-star treatment like it was their personal vehicle. Wait until they realized that he’d been taking the long way around the island to avoid the cruise ships. An extra thirty minutes on the ferry when the island was in sight would drive some of the tourists to complain, and he’d just grit his teeth and kept moving. The high side of the island led into deeper waters and he wasn’t interested in getting stuck on a shoal when the waves receded.

Shaking his head, the captain turned the ferry toward the slip with the easiest access to the dock. Selfishly it was conveniently also the one to bring him closest to the Ocean’s Spray Grille, his happy place on the island. No more than a bar with foods that would coat arteries and antagonized unsuspecting stomachs later, Ocean’s Spray was a fine place to refuel before taking whatever passengers showed up for the return trip later that afternoon. 

The captain knew that his wife would give him the side eye if he showed up drunk for dinner, but what was a little nip here and there midday when he could’ve steered the ferry home with both eyes closed? She’d already poured out all of the alcohol he had hidden in spots around the house, and pretty soon she’d discover he was visiting their one-car garage too frequently. She was sure to find his stash out there as well, and then he’d have to make do with what he could get at the Ocean’s Spray.

The sound of more retching shook him out of his reverie. A single woman, dressed sharply, had just emptied her stomach of whatever foods she had purchased back on the mainland. A pity, thought the captain, watching as she tried to dab and blot the marks off of her shoes. If she had just leaned a little over the side, he wouldn’t have to spend an extra thirty minutes washing down the deck. At least he could push that one off on the first mate. The woman looked like she wasn’t finished, and the captain saw movement out of the corner of his eye. 

The latecomer wearing the black suit approached her, offering her a handkerchief. The captain knew the guy was trying to be a gentleman but things like that had a way of backfiring out on the water. The young woman declined, waving him away with the back of her hand and barely looking at him, just moments before vomiting on herself and on his shoes, too. That looked like it might make the man vomit himself, a thought that made the captain chuckle wryly. But the man just sat down next to her, patted her on the back and held the handkerchief out to her again. This time she accepted it, and began sipping water from a bottle provided by the first mate. 

The tourists, at least those who weren’t clutching napkins to their mouths, cheered when they saw that they were at their final destination. Those who could still focus were wide-eyed with excitement, and even the motion sick passengers started to stir as they realized that their torture was almost over. The scents on the wind, the salt air and some kind of fried food, wafted over the ferry and made most of the passengers forget how awful they had felt just moments before. 

Just a few moments later, the ferry pulled in with a less than gentle bump of the dock, reminding the captain that he should pay better attention to their approach but he was entirely focused on the meal and beer he was about to consume. The first mate, used to his unattentiveness, had them tied to the dock quickly, and had pulled out the simple gangplank to give the passengers free access to the ground they so desperately wanted to stand on. A few of them almost pitched off of the floating dock into the water on the other side as they disembarked, unaware that it too moved. Visitors to the island were a chief form of entertainment to everyone who was milling about the streets above the dock as town inhabitants just tried to stifle grins behind their hands. 

The captain and mate grabbed all of the luggage from the waterproof storage container behind the cabin, slinging it onto the dock. The work for the trip was almost over, they thought, until they realized that they still had the toddler’s stroller strapped to the ferry. With a groan, the captain jerked a thumb in the direction of the stroller, and trudged over. The captain and the mate struggled with the stroller, finally dumping it on the dock next to the family’s other belongings. It was amazing what people would bring on the ferry to spend two days on the island: floor fans, refrigerated coolers, spare shoes for every occasion, etc.  

The first mate doffed his cap once or twice when a braver soul thanked him for the trip, appreciating the generosity that they showed with a tip no matter how small. The captain chuckled behind his beard at a few of the less eager souls, still struggling to put one foot in front of the other, as they dragged their belongings up the ramp to Main Street. They were a little shaky, not having ever achieved their sea legs and now forced to adapt again. It would take them a few hours to sleep off their maiden ferry voyage, and they most likely would subsist on saltines and ginger ale for a few meals.

“Benjamin Francis Drake,” said a stern voice behind him, and he turned, already cringing. “Yes, Miss Isabelle?”

Standing on the dock, looking down at him was the saintly old matron of the island’s oldest, and only, school. The captain knew that Miss Isabelle Headle had taught every child who’d ever grown up on the island in the one-room schoolhouse and if that wasn’t enough time with them, at the church Sunday School, too. She’d been tough but fair, and he sometimes heard her voice in his head as he considered doing something truly stupid. She wasn’t really related to him, but the man approached her with fear and trembling as a person of authority in his life. 

Standing barely over five feet, Miss Isabelle’s hair was always perfectly curled tight to her head, and her thick glasses only seemed to magnify her gaze as she glared at him, half-serious and half-mocking. She always seemed to be present, everywhere on the island, with her pastel homespun dresses and a fluorescent pair of Crocs that always complimented her dresses. Truth be told, Captain Benjamin Drake, formerly of the United States Coast Guard, towered over Miss Isabelle, but in this case, size had little to do with authority or the respect that he had for her. 

If he was honest, Benjamin would have happily stayed under Miss Isabelle’s watchful eyes. If it hadn’t been for Benjamin’s wife, he would still live on the island in the house where he grew up, schlepping supplies from the hardware store or delivering groceries to people’s houses. His wife, also a native islander, had wanted to get away from their families and live somewhere that could get pizza delivered and had cellular service, so they’d moved to the mainland. But even in her quiet tone, Benjamin heard Miss Isabelle’ disapproval and it took him back to his younger years. 

“You shouldn’t laugh at these city folks,” the little old woman scolded. “You know it’s not their fault they were born soft, and that the sea is hard.”

Before Benjamin could get a reply out, Isabelle had already scurried down onto the ferry itself. People were usually in such a hurry to get off the ferry that they only came onto it when they absolutely had to. This little woman still moved nimbly from one rocking platform to another, her life on the island having prepared her for just about anything. He was still afraid she might fall, or worse, slip in passenger vomit, but she was spry like a cat. Maybe it was just life on the island; maybe it was something else. Miss Headle simply defied everyone’s expectations.

Benjamin saw that there was one last passenger remaining, the younger man in the black suit who had offered the sick woman his handkerchief. He had wiped off his own shoes, but his clean shaven, serious face still bore a shade or two of green. He’d clearly tried to tough it out while the ferry was rocking, maybe to impress the young woman, the captain thought, before correcting himself. No, there was something naturally helpful about the man. He hadn’t been trying to impress anyone. 

Sitting there on the ferry bench seat, the late arrival was trying some sort of breathing exercise to get his nerves under control. Beads of sweat were dampening his head, and his dark hair stuck to his forehead in places giving him a slightly wild look, but he didn’t look too keen on mopping them up with his previously used handkerchief. He slowly looked around, gathering his composure and making sure that he had his own belongings before disembarking. He only had a canvas bag with him as he rose unsteadily to his feet, and smiled weakly as Miss Isabelle sauntered down the aisle toward him. 

“You must be the new pastor!” she exclaimed, clapping her arthritis-ridden hands together with excitement. “I’m Miss Isabelle Headle, and it is my absolute delight to lay eyes on you. Come on, and I’ll show you around town.”

“Uh, I’m Leo,” offered the man, as Headle reached out again for his arm. He swayed a bit, grabbing onto the railing on the side of the ferry cabin to keep from stumbling over the side of the ferry into the water. He stabilized himself, but almost sent his bag into the water below. He caught himself on the railing, staring down into the dark bluish green waters between the ferry and the dock, his face growing a different shade of pale. 

In his weakened state, Miss Isabelle was on him before he could resist, jerking the bag away from him and pushing it in Benjamin’s direction. “Bring that to the chapel, Benji. And don’t get lost at Ocean’s Spray, either. You and I both know you need to stop after one drink or you’ll end up skinning the ferry on the way home later. We don’t need any tourists falling overboard on the way back tonight so keep your wits about you!” 

Turning back to the new arrival, Isabelle couldn’t keep her enthusiasm from pouring out. “We’re so glad you’ve come from the seminary to lead our chapel, dear! It’s been too long since we had someone up front, because no one wanted to accept that Father Matthew wasn’t coming back. When he moved to get away from the ocean, they figured he’d get tired of Arizona and come on back to us. But enough about that, up you go, out of the boat, Father Leo!”

Looking after them, Benjamin could only shake his head, and wonder what in the world young Leo had gotten himself into with a firecracker like Miss Isabelle. Calling out to the first mate, he pulled out a bucket to fill with water and a push broom to scrub. Observing the mess that the travelers had made, he realized it was too much to expect his underpaid first mate to clean up on his own. With a sigh, he gripped the broom tighter and went to work swabbing the deck of the Panther. Lunch at Ocean’s Spray would have to wait. 

Section 4 (Chapters 10-12) coming March 15!

4

The gray haired man knew that he hurt all over even before he opened his eyes. He’d felt the pain for nearly twenty years now, thanks to injuries accumulated over time and the general failing of his muscular system that most called “old age.” His back could no longer support the activities that he had once relied on it for, lifting weights, splitting wood, and running nearly ten miles a day. These days, he was grateful if he would simply have the opportunity to walk to the mailbox without pain, or sit down on the floor and get up again without assistance. 

Patting the bed beside him, the man stiffened, the reality of his situation slowly overtaking his awareness in the morning light. There was no one else there, and there would never be anyone there again. He groaned, an onslaught of grief washing over him. He shuddered and dug his fingers into the pillow behind his head and angrily dabbed at the leakage seeping from his eyes down his cheeks. He clutched blindly for his glasses on the table next to him, and slid them on, as the room came into focus.

There was no point in getting up, was there? The old aches were just too prevalent, and now that his wife had passed, what reason was there to get up and get moving? There was really no point in his life at all, with no friends or family to speak of and no purpose for a man who had no meaning. He longed to fall back to sleep, and forget his new reality. Maybe he could dream about what could have been or what had been? But the sun was pouring through the open window burning away the darkness and he knew that sleep was no longer an option. 

He sighed, sliding his diminutive legs out of the bed that they had once shared. His wife’s side of the bed was still, as if it had never been touched, given the sharp edges he still kept firm and creased from his days back making his cot for the military. She’d once waited for years to see him return, and when they had been reunited, they had never parted ways again. Until death had ripped her out of his arms and left a hole in his heart. 

The man’s wife was the reason he’d settled down on the island, and for most of their marriage, the island had only added to their joy. Meeting her had been the greatest day of his life, and she had encouraged him to seek employment around the island after his military service. Out of love for her, he had agreed, and together they had built a home on Tranquility. They had never been able to have children, but their love for each other had brought them together and held them together for decades. The man worked hard, making enough to carry them through life but over time, his physical faculties had started to fall away. They’d made plans for post-retirement, but then tragedy struck. In the last few months, his wife’s mental faculties had drifted out to sea and had never come back. Three weeks ago, she’d passed away, a shell of the woman who she had once been. 

Looking over at her picture on the nightside table, he remembered how glorious a day it had been when that was taken. Picking up the frame, he thought of that ordinary day, a walk through the forest into town, and spent celebrating one of life’s minor triumphs which was now long forgotten. It had been during an Annual Migration twenty-five years ago, and they’d splurged on a picture by the festival photographer. His wife had leaned in and kissed him on the cheek at the last second, and the photographer had captured the moment of his joy in being kissed by her. It wasn’t an anniversary or big occasion, just the two of them together outside on the island. 

His wife’s long brown hair had fallen away from her face, as the photographer captured the twinkle in her eye as she kissed him. He could look into the brown pools of her irises for days, and the smallest dimple of her smile had once captured his whole heart. In the picture, they were together and happy, and life itself was better than he could have ever imagined. It was hard to imagine that happiness now, just weeks after her passing, and he knew that nothing could ever make him that happy again. 

Fifty-some years after meeting her, she was gone and all he had left were his memories. Most of the time they filled him with happiness, causing his wrinkled face to break into a broad smile. But when the memories faded, he was left with an intense emptiness that threatened to drown him under its unrelenting waves. He couldn’t imagine life without her, even the way it had been most recently when he cared for her even though she didn’t really recognize him anymore. They had still been together and that was enough! He longed to feel the way he felt that day when she kissed him, and the vacancy in his heart was threatening to overwhelm him. He gingerly replaced the frame on the table and groaned as his shoulder shuddered and then popped.

Down the hall, the man boiled some water and poured some oatmeal into the bowl. It reminded him of the gruel that they used to serve on the ships, and it was enough to coat the base of his stomach before he got along with his day. Hunger wasn’t a motivation, but the old habits died hard when everything else had crumbled around him. His wife wouldn’t have wanted him to starve to death; she’d always fussed at him about getting caught up in a project and forgetting to eat. If she could see him now, she would pat him on the shoulder and tell him to take better care of himself.

It’s not like anyone really needs me for much, he thought, bitterly, staring out the window at the other houses in his little corner of the island. I’m pretty useless, and it doesn’t seem like that’s going to get better anytime soon. 

Washing out the bowl in the sink and sitting it in the drainer to dry, the man shaved, barely recognizing the man he saw in the mirror. Lines ran horizontally across his forehead as he scrunched up his face to make certain not to miss any spots. His hair had grown a bit wild over the last few months, as his focus had been solely on caring for his wife and helping her be comfortable. Looking up from the shaving cream accumulating in the sink, he found himself staring at the face in the mirror. Who was this old frail man? What had become of the vitality of his youth, the energy that had drawn his wife to him? Was this what dying felt like?

In the stillness of the house he’d shared with his wife, he dressed in front of the mirror, mechanically donning the clothes that had become his retirement uniform. The crisply ironed pants, the starched shirt, it all looked right even if he didn’t feel it on the inside. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about how he felt on the inside, as if actually uttering it out loud would make his dark internal thoughts manifest in front of him for the world to see his sadness. He was too proud to ask for help, and too depressed to try and figure out the best way forward. 

He slipped on his dress shoes, and straightened up again. He must move forward, step by step. He couldn’t give in to the sadness, if not for himself it would be for the memory of his wife, his better half. Shutting the cottage door behind him, he took a deep breath and stepped down from the porch.

Maybe he’d find a way to be useful today after all. The chances seemed slim. 

5

One of the older ladies on the ferry decided that the ride was too long and the number of people on the ferry was too small to make the trip without forcing everyone to introduce themselves. She started the introductions, announcing that she was Alma Mae, retired school teacher from Maine who had decided she didn’t want to live so far north and was checking out all of the places she could think of to live farther south with more climate weather. She was traveling with her grown daughter, Anna Mae, who was herself reasonably close to joining her mother in retirement.

Two women who had left the island for just an overnight trip told everyone about their purchases, as they had been intent on doing some shopping ahead of the upcoming Christmas season. Another family with the last name Mathis was returning from visiting some relatives on the Cape, and were returning with one of their older relatives for a visit. Of course, everyone had heard the situation involving the family with the toddler and the stroller. If it wasn’t for the father’s steel grip, the little one would’ve already been doing the backstroke off the side of the ferry.

The slightly severe woman named Gillian told everyone she was a reporter, but when Anna Mae asked her which television station she was on, she replied snappily that print wasn’t dead and named a newspaper no one had heard of. When it got around to the latecomer, he muttered that his name was Leo and mumbled some more details that no one caught, before he went back to closing his eyes and letting his breath match the rise and fall of the ferry. He was clearly struggling to acclimate to the rising and falling of the ferry as it pushed through the waves. The diesel fumes certainly didn’t help to calm his stomach. 

Next to the reporter, Johnny from Pennsylvania was on the way to visit a friend who grew up on the island. Johnny was wearing the typical preppie polo and pressed khaki shorts, making a small concession to the breeze on the ferry by pulling an L.L. Bean puffy vest out of his designer luggage. He had offered to give up his seat several times to the different older people who boarded after he did, but they had politely demurred, always commenting to their counterparts about what a sweet young man he was. His All America good looks were definitely drawing notice from everyone on the boat, but his “aw shucks” attitude was what really held their attention.

The captain refused to jump into the conversation but after another group of visitors and several native islanders had shared their reason for being on the ferry, the first mate Noah gamely ventured in. He had been a student once who had gotten into a significant amount of trouble, and been sent to live with his grandmother on the island one summer. While there, he had experienced a sort of spiritual renaissance and given up the vices that were giving him such trouble. He’d also fallen in love with the water, and determined to spend the rest of his life on the water. He worked every day for the ferry captain and even lived on a houseboat!

Conversation for the next thirty minutes revolved around the houseboat and exactly what it was like. Noah was peppered with questions nonstop. What was it like? Could you get seasick while sleeping? Did he own a dog or cat and did they get seasick? Would people have to ask to come aboard or did they knock? Did he have to pay for a car too? What was it like to not have to mow the grass? Who were his neighbors? Could he ‘park’ his boat anywhere? Could he fish from his kitchen or from his bed? Where did his electricity come from? If he could do it all over again, wouldn’t he rather own a house?

6

Leo wasn’t really sleeping. His thoughts were churning over and over again, kicking himself metaphorically for almost missing the ferry. Besides, he was miserably uncomfortable breathing in the fumes from the diesel engine and the non-stop motion of the ferry that was now beyond any land coverage, still miles away from Tranquility. The rising and falling motion was now joined by some side-to-side rocking, and Leo felt a bit like a goldfish whose bowl was being shaken violently. That bit of dash and leaping from the dock had summoned muscles he hadn’t used in quite some time, and it was rather embarrassing how close he’d come to missing the ferry and banging off of it into the water below. At least he’d made it on with his bag, and theoretically enough time to get where he was supposed to be on Tranquility. He couldn’t wait to be on terra firma again, both feet on the ground.

He listened to the thrum of the motor and the chatter of the people around him. This wasn’t Leo’s first ferry ride, and he figured it wouldn’t be his last. As far as ferries went, it was pretty run of the mill, but what could you expect when you were off to an island few people had ever heard of? Leo wasn’t knocking the ride, although he hoped someday that the first mate would take over for the captain. The captain could certainly use some lessons in community relations; it didn’t seem that personal skills were high on the list of ferry captain priorities.

Of all of the people on the ferry, the well-dressed woman named Gillian was the one who looked the least happy to be heading out to Tranquility. She seemed to be all business, and he realized that calmly riding on the ferry did not seem to suit her. In fact, he figured she was the one most likely to get sick on the journey out to the island if he didn’t beat her to it. He couldn’t imagine living somewhere that you had to take a boat to get to, but this was his assignment, and he was going to see it through. 

Leo quietly reflected on the different bits of information that he had learned about the other passengers, noting the differences between visitors and island folk. The island folk were all relaxed, and few of them seemed to even acknowledge the scenery around them. On the other side of the boat, Johnny stared at the island, his eyes wide-open and excited. It wasn’t much more than a postage stamp on the horizon, but Leo knew they’d be there soon enough. He didn’t look to be having any trouble with the turbulence that the ferry was experiencing, and he kept checking his watch to see what time it was. Leo decided he checked approximately every five minutes so that his actions became a bit of a metronome for the ride out to the island. 

Next to Leo, Aggie, an older woman dabbed at her eyes, and momentarily lost hold of her large purse. It slid off of her knees and crashed into Leo. She replaced her glasses on her nose and turned to Leo, apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered, bending toward her purse. But Leo had already snatched it up, eyes open after hearing the purse thud to the deck of the ferry. He bent down, a bit woozy, and handed it back to her. 

“That’s no problem, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “I’ll probably drop something before the ride is over.” He grinned at her, and patted her leg, hoping to ease whatever angst was troubling her. “I’m Leo.”

“Oh, I remember your name! It’s like ‘lion,’” she replied. “I’m Agatha, but everyone calls me Aggie.”

“I’m sorry to be such a mess. I’ve been with my daughter’s family for the last few months, since my Tommy died. I knew they needed their space, but all I can think about is how much I miss Tommy and all of the times that we had together.”

Leo nodded, recognizing the pain in Aggie’s eyes. “I think that’s natural,” he said, slowly. “And you certainly don’t need to apologize for missing someone you love.”

The older couple had met in high school, and before long, Tommy had asked Aggie’s parents for permission to marry their daughter. Aggie told Leo about how Tommy had served in various countries around the world as a member of the U.S. Navy. She had waited anxiously for his return each time he waited on tour, raising their two children, a son and a daughter. When he finally retired, they had traveled the world together, exploring the areas they had always wanted to see and soaking up every moment as they tried to make up for lost time. Aggie looked away wistfully, and the moisture on her face was a blend of sea spray and her own tears. 

“I miss him so much,” Aggie whispered, turning back to Leo.”

“I think that’s only natural,” Leo said. “It wouldn’t be the same if you just didn’t notice that he was gone! I’m sure somehow he misses you, too.” 

Aggie’s eyes glimmered, and she patted Leo’s hand. “You’re a sweet boy, Leo,” she said. “Thanks for listening to an old lady’s story.” She sat back and smiled wistfully, remembering. When Leo looked back, she had fallen asleep, gently twitching, the smile still spread across her wrinkled face.. 

Section 3 (Chapters 7-9) coming March 8!

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” – Mark Twain

Prologue

At St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, the pallbearers had been called forward after the closed casket funeral, taking their places on either side of the coffin. None of the pallbearers was particularly fit, and beads of sweat were forming on the hairlines, or where their hairlines would have been if they had any remaining tufts of hair to show. Each of the men waited nervously to be told when to lift the ornate wooden coffin of their somewhat distant relative, pulling on their suit coat sleeves and collars, or shifting uneasily from one foot and then the other. They glanced from the long bronze handles that they would soon be lifting to their wives or significant others sitting in the pews, and smiled weakly. 

At the head of the remaining congregants, the priest and the funeral director processed out, down the sanctuary center aisle, with the immediate family in tow and everyone else trailing behind. The assistant funeral director pushed the rolling cart from behind, until they reached the steps at the front of the church. There was no ramp as the church had been built long before ideas like handicap accessibility became the norm and the only option for the coffin was to walk it gingerly down the stairs. Inside the sanctuary, the church’s organist played something dramatically sad and soulful, drawing out a hymn until it sounded like it might last for days, while the rest of the funeral guests crowded behind the rolling cart in the narthex.

“Everyone, stand in. Grab the handle. Ready. Lift,” intoned the director, standing just ahead of the pallbearers. At the bottom of the stairs, the priest stood off to the side, giving the pallbearers a shorter, clear path to the back of the hearse. He had done a funeral every week since arriving at St. Margaret’s, and he could have given the pallbearers the instructions by heart. On one occasion, he had even had to step in as a pallbearer, when the deceased’s friends and family failed to show up in force for the funeral. 

Remembering the experience with a grimace, the priest dabbed at sweat forming on the tip of his overly large nose. Sliding off his glasses, he ran his handkerchief over his bald head and bushy eyebrows, using it as an excuse to mask the deep sigh that rattled through him. He glanced surreptitiously at his Apple watch and saw that the service had not lasted as long as he had feared. The deceased had been successful in business, but wasn’t particularly well loved by his family, given that he had spent more time at the office than at home. At the same time, his entrepreneurial efforts had netted the family the range of automobiles and homes that they had grown accustomed to enjoying, while making a sizable end of the year donation to the parish that the priest knew funded half of the budget. 

The priest heard the funeral director clear his throat, and stuffed the handkerchief away in the folds of his clothing. As he replaced his lenses, he blinked at the sun overhead, realizing that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was hunger. With any luck, he’d be back from the cemetery in time to catch a bite or two of the reception that would kick off shortly in the fellowship hall. Hopefully, the women in charge of bereavement had remembered his dietary needs, and there would be something gluten free on the menu. 

Everything had in fact progressed perfectly, if not slowly, at the funeral of Richard Simon Culcutter IV, for everyone except maybe Culcutter, who had passed away while on a cruise up the Eastern coast of the continental United States. Culcutter was one of the few folks in town who the priest had found genuinely unlikable, and his death on the cruise had easily morphed into the butt of jokes around the town. When your family made no move to speak on your behalf at the funeral, it was never a good sign.

The priest figured it wasn’t entirely Culcutter’s fault, as he had been born into money and had seen the town shrink even as Culcutter’s family invested more and more money in the town’s upkeep. While he hadn’t enjoyed the pompous man’s company, he did realize that the man deserved the appropriate ceremony due the transition to the next life. Sure, it had taken over a week for his body to be brought back to the continental United States, and then shipped to his home in this landlocked state. But the funeral director and the priest had worked hard to make sure that this day would be a day that the family would remember as an uplifting one, celebrating the life of their patriarch. 

Drawing a deep breath, the priest watched as the first pallbearers stepped down from the top step to the second and then the third. 

And then everything went sideways, literally. 

Culcutter’s grandnephew, Bertrand Richard Culcutter, a large man in his own right who had given up his gym membership several beer bellies ago, caught the heel of his overly ornate expensive dress shoe on the railing of the church steps. Dressed in clothes that had been en vogue twenty years (and thirty pounds) ago, the grandnephew of the dead man could barely breathe in the outfit he was sure his own wife would bury him in out of spite. 

Young Bertrand stopped, temporarily, but the rest of the pallbearers did not, weighed down as they were by Culcutter’s expensive coffin and Culcutter himself, plus the combination of momentum and gravity and an overall lack of upper body strength. Suddenly, the coffin was hung up, and then falling at the same time, with two steps left to go until the flat pavement. 

The coffin of Richard Simon Culcutter IV slammed head first at an angle into the pavement of the church’s parking lot, as several pallbearers now tripped, fell, or collapsed under the unbalanced weight. In the assistant director’s hurry to leave the incredibly lengthy service to get to the cemetery and to keep the gruff old attendant there named Bert from fussing at him, one of the latches on the coffin had not been completely closed. On impact, the coffin of Culcutter IV creaked and groaned, splintering as the lid popped open. 

The aforementioned reception crowd gasped, as parents tried to turn their children away from the tragedy and Culcutter’s widow fainted into the arms of her equally ill-prepared sister-in-law. As Culcutter’s abandoned body, fully dressed as demanded in his beach attire, flew through the air, the funeral director briefly thought about firing the assistant director before realizing that he would probably never do a funeral in town ever again. But no one reacted quite as theatrically as the Episcopal priest who was doused in white powder from the other contents in the coffin. Because as the coffin had opened, several large plastic bags of questionable substance had flung up in the air with Culcutter’s swimsuit-clad body, and exploded after being dashed to bits on the pavement in front of the unsuspecting priest. 

Covered in white powder, and feeling suddenly elated, the priest would require several hours to understand exactly what had happened. Someone from the back of the line who hadn’t inhaled any of the powder called for medical support, realizing that the folks outside were going to require some attention. The medical first responders in turn called the local law enforcement, who arrived in time to deal with a variety of emotionally-charged funeral goers. Attempting to interview them proved to be worthless given their state of exuberance or panic, depending on the powder’s impact on the individual. 

No one could pacify the widow Culcutter and she was finally sedated and taken home. The reception was better attended than anyone expected, as folks who had skipped the funeral turned up just to get firsthand accounts of what had happened that day. And finally, putting two and two together, the local constable contacted federal authorities about the illegal substances that someone had tried smuggling from somewhere in the coffin of Richard Simon Culcutter IV, God rest his soul. 

1

Red O’Rourke knew the history of Tranquility Island. He knew it like the proverbial back of his hand. O’Rourke’s hands were gigantic, formed by hard work and intense drive, generated through his time on and around various ships. Like the rest of his body, O’Rourke’s hands were strong and lean, and weathered by sun and wind. He caught the reflection of himself in the mirrored panel behind the grandfather clock in the dim light, and momentarily reflected on the scars that featured on his face and exposed neck. 

Each of the scars told a story, most of which O’Rourke was not inclined to share with any other breathing soul. He’d seen too much and done too much to want to revisit the moment by sharing it with someone else. This could’ve been a healthy boundary-making decision, but for O’Rourke, it was simply because the wounds beneath the scars cut too deeply into his being. No, just because he wouldn’t share the stories didn’t mean that O’Rourke could  leave the history in the past; he couldn’t seem to move ahead to make the present – or a new history – that mattered. The past was littered with too many mistakes, too many skeletons, too many scars that had never healed up correctly. 

In his late sixties, O’Rourke rose from his armchair and called out to his dogs, Poseidon and Neptune. Large dogs chosen because of their ability to intimidate, these two were harmless to O’Rourke and anyone who was welcome in his mansion on the island, but potentially fatal for anyone who breached the house looking for trouble. In thirty-plus consecutive years of living on the island, no one had ever threatened him on the property, but he’d always felt more comfortable with dogs like these two “sea gods” on hand. They jumped up from their spots by the hearth, and silently stood at his side. He patted each gently on the head, one of the few signs of affection he employed, but neither dog stirred. 

The walk out to the back of the mansion was short, and the dogs sniffed and trotted around him. They were massive and imposing, but next to O’Rourke’s sizable figure, they were still dwarfed by his giant steps. He looked out to sea and saw one of the cruise ships that he knew was headed their way, and shook his head. Some first mate had calculated incorrectly and the ship had arrived a day or two early, probably cutting short some tourist group’s stay in Nova Scotia. Back in his day as captain, he would’ve served up the walking papers to that mate for this mistake. Captains today were getting soft. 

Over the trees to his right, the lighthouse’s top level could be seen poking above the pines. Its light shone out to sea, no longer quite necessary but still a traditional mark of the island and one that needed to be maintained. O’Rourke knew from his days on the ships that there was no way to reach the lighthouse by sea, because the only remaining dock was on the long side of the island opposite from the mansion. Too soon, that dock and the Main Street that was situated above it would be overrun with tourists coming to see the whales as they migrated. The seasonal shops were already prepped and ready for the influx of people and money that came with the Annual Migration. It was one of O’Rourke’s joys in his youth, but now it just served up a few weeks of bothersome tourists. He’d once appreciated the arrival of new people with new stories, but now he saw the next two weeks as a nuisance of reflux-inducing proportions. 

The former ship captain shook his head. Why was he so cynical about business brought to the island? It’s what he had worked on for most of his adult life, after leaving the cruise ships for good. He knew the island needed it, that people needed it. The few times of year where the cruise ships arrived provided up to fifty percent of the regular income for most of the islanders. They wouldn’t survive if the whales somehow started to migrate farther away, which seemed like a possibility if global warming continued to take its toll. Tranquility wouldn’t survive without the cruise ships. 

Wiping sea mist from his thick mustache, O’Rourke pulled his hat tighter on his head as a breeze blew up from the water and over the cliff. A reddish lock bobbed with the breeze, and he tucked it inside of his hat. His appearance had once been a source of his pride, but it had been years since he’d really taken any time to care about his looks. He looked up toward the second story and thought about what his sister would think of all of this, and a tear rolled down his leathery cheek. 

Off the end of the mansion and closer to the center of the island, he saw a light in Dr. Steinman’s cabin through the haze. The man must’ve been up and working on something, but O’Rourke didn’t care enough to go and check on him. Steinman had always been useful to the ex-captain, but he knew the two didn’t have much in common. Steinman had his own responsibilities and O’Rourke did, too, even if people didn’t really know what he did anymore. There was plenty to be done, and never enough time to do it. That was the real irony: O’Rourke never felt like he had enough time, but it always felt like he was sitting and waiting for life to catch up to him, for better or worse. 

Whistling for the dogs, O’Rourke took one last look over the stone stairs that led down to the little cove below the mansion. He was past the days of fishing and swimming at night, but he still liked the way that the cove created a little cauldron at high tide and ebbed away for something calmer in between. He knew why his father had picked this spot to plant his flag and stake his claim. It was not for the faint of heart, but just by surviving here, for this long, it showed there was some strength to the O’Rourke name. 

Wincing at a tinge from an old battle wound in his knee, the last remaining O’Rourke male patted the two dogs on the head and limped back to the front of the mansion, past the fountain to the front door. Heading inside, he found that the cook and housekeeper Carol had left a steaming cup of tea on the mantle for him, with just a hint of lemon. She knew what he liked, and fancied that she knew what he needed, too. She was one of the last remnants of what had been his father’s business model, and she continued to serve the younger O’Rourke well. 

Begrudgingly, O’Rourke smiled. Life wasn’t always what you wanted but somedays it was passable. If he could get to the bottom of the island’s latest problem, maybe things would be better than they had been lately. He doubted everything could be fixed, but with his remaining time, he would at least try. It was something he could wrap his mind around, unlike the various consequences from his own mistakes over time. Those problems couldn’t be undone by hard work or just getting through them, and O’Rourke figured that they would never change. He sipped from the steaming cup without tasting anything, and lost himself in a tangle of memories as he stared out of the window. 

2

It was late at night or early in the morning depending on one’s perspective when Agent Moore of the Drug Enforcement Agency received a curt text from the special agent in charge. “It’s go time.” 

While the SAC was especially inclined to the dramatic, Agent Moore knew that the time had come to visit the island of Tranquility off of the coast of the New England mainland. Something was amiss on the island, and the DEA had decided it was time to put a pair of boots on the ground. Agent Moore had not predicted that the moment of conviction for the SAC would be one o’clock in the morning, but that was the time the message came and that meant it was time to get to the island. Moore figured the SAC had waited until now to convey marching orders that could’ve been shared the day before. 

Packing a few additional items into the go bag as part of the cover story, Agent Moore sat at the little breakfast nook that doubled as a kitchen table in the tiny apartment and sipped on a cup of coffee, black with sugar. Moore’s whole life felt like it had been leading up to this moment, an opportunity to prove once and for all that the decision to go into law enforcement was neither a mistake nor foolish. Against all odds, and definitively oppositional to the parents’ hopes and dreams, Agent Moore would be undertaking the first real case of a career that thus far had included years of book learning and practical application inside of cubicles up and down the East coast, and had led to exactly zero villains incarcerated. In fact, for the SAC to send Moore to Tranquility, it meant that he didn’t expect there would be anything too exciting to the investigation, because otherwise he would’ve sent a more seasoned investigator.

Proving that Agent Moore could work undercover would be a significant gem in the proverbial crown, the agent thought, sipping more of the steaming hot beverage. There would be no sleep now, and the next step was to drive several hours east before taking a ferry ride to Tranquility. Moore was to make contact with a retired law enforcement officer on the island, as well as the confidential informant who had come forward with information about drugs being transported by way of the island. Moore didn’t think there would be much to do while on the island other than gather information, but the ladder rungs weren’t easy to climb and this provided an opportunity. 

Without much of a real picture for what was happening and no hope of finding out more without being in the middle of the action, Agent Moore tried to separate facts from fiction while looking through the report, including the feelings of anxiety that threatened to bring the coffee back up from Moore’s gurgling stomach. Acid boiled and Moore poured the rest of the pot into the sink, put out food for the cat, and checked one last time to make sure that all of the major appliances were unplugged. Who knew how long this particular jaunt would take, and the cat would be fine as long as nothing caught on fire. Moore figured to be back in the apartment in under seventy-two hours either way. 

Locking the door, Agent Moore threw the necessary belongings into the backseat of the car and climbed in. The car took a few minutes to warm up, and in the meantime, Moore checked the weather for Tranquility. Things looked mild for the next few days, but meteorologists warned that an intense storm was blowing in. Great, thought the agent, another wrinkle and I didn’t even pack a raincoat. 

Oh well, Moore said silently, it can’t be that bad out there, can it?

3

The travelers arrived at the ferry to Tranquility Island from different directions and by various means of travel, with the residue fog darkening the sky around them. They came bleary-eyed and yawning, having traveled some distance to the out of the way dock that was their only path to the island. One family, complete with a screaming toddler and enough luggage for a three-week trip to the beach, pulled up in a weighed-down, decade’s old SUV and deposited a mountain of possessions on the dock. The harried mother tried to calm the toddler down with an assortment of snacks and finally settled on an entire Hershey’s chocolate bar that sent the little boy into a cheery food coma of sorts. The father took his time parking the car in a distant spot, meandering on his way back to the dock, willing to give himself time away from the tiresome little boy. The man appeared to be a gentle giant, favoring his right leg, no doubt injured during his college football days. When he arrived on the dock, his burdened wife took a few deep breaths before turning her ire at him, and shoving the chocolate-painted child in his direction. 

Two elderly women helped each other around the potholes and carried their bundles of purchases over to the dock. They whispered quietly to each other, and took turns staring at the little boy who was now covered from ear to ear in melted chocolate. Their tones were clearly disapproving and the mother felt their gaze burning holes in her windbreaker, which still bore the price tag and various stickers about its rain repellant promises and weather-proofed capabilities. The date for this excursion had slipped up on her as she tried to balance family life, a full time job, and finishing up her degree in fitness management at the local four-year school. She had been solely responsible for navigating the trip from their home to the ferry, after spending all night packing enough clothes and entertainment for the toddler. She’d forgotten her makeup bag, and was worried that she hadn’t packed a second set of shoes for the toddler if they were soaked with rain or ocean water. Somehow, this trip wasn’t going the way that the mother had expected, and the ferry couldn’t pull away soon enough. 

A single woman arrived in the middle of everyone else, parking in the back of the lot and backing her Tesla into a compact space. Sharply dressed, she had her wavy brown hair tucked back in a thick braid, her eyes hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses. She’d slung her oversized purse over one shoulder, and pulled a sturdy bit of luggage that rolled behind her, bumbling over the gravel parking lot. She appeared to be focused on her mission, and nothing that she had encountered dissuaded her from her progression forward. Arriving at the dock, she checked her watch with an air of annoyance, finally looking up to survey the rest of the passengers waiting for the ferry. Making eye contact with the two elderly women, she realized that they were hoping she’d join them in judging the mother and her chocolate-inflected child. Instead of staring, the newest arrival unfolded her newspaper and went about solving the daily crossword puzzle, one long legged cuff bouncing above her other crossed foot. 

A few locals arrived, too, pulling their cars into reserved spots and hopping out. There were young and old, singles and groups of three or more. They arrived without any fanfare and casually made their way up onto the dock. The ones who were clearly regulars on the ferry greeted each other with smiles and pats on the back, asking how the weekend away from the island had gone and inquiring about family members that had been visited on the mainland. 

A few of the locals had satchels of groceries and other purchases made on the mainland in various bundles. One of them, clearly an islander with an eye for fine wines and other beverages, showed up pushing a shopping cart full of bottles of various shapes and sizes. He was greeted by another local, who attempted to slip one of the bottles out of the cart before getting cuffed on the side of the head and slinking away. Another arrival loaded a set of boxes onto the back of the ferry and with the help of the first mate, lashed the boxes to the back of the ship. The boxes were all marked fragile, and first mate told someone that he would be setting up an old fashioned photography studio for the next two weeks. Some of the younger islanders came to the dock with duffle bags of dirty clothes, while others seemed to have rolled straight out of bed in their only available outfit. They clearly saw the ferry ride as old hat, and didn’t seem at all in a hurry, instead crowding onto the benches around the out-of-towners and continuing their conversations as if the others weren’t there. 

Most of the locals visited the little snack shop on the dock. The proprietor was long and lanky, with stringy blonde hair that burst in all directions from underneath a hat he’d planted backward on his head. He had already put in an effort as the first mate on the ferry, mixing with the passengers more than the captain, who largely stayed to himself. Middle aged and without much meat to his bones, the captain absent-mindedly scratched at an old anchor tattoo on his left forearm and gruffly met the requests of the passengers who ordered food and drink. 

The first mate provided hot drinks like coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, as long as the passengers could stand the taste of the third using hot water not milk, and the possibility that the water itself had a bit of a coffee aftertaste. There were soft pretzels, popcorn, nuts, and on a good day, hot dogs, boiled of course. Simple condiments available were salt, pepper, mustard, and ketchup. Nothing about the snack shop was frilly, and should have warned newcomers to the ferry as a foretaste of what was to come aboard the ramshackle boat. But the newcomers treated the whole experience like a day at the amusement park, unaware of the voyage they were about to take. 

Scheduled to depart at noon, the ferry left whenever the captain said it did. He was the one puttering around with a basket of tools in the engine room now, then picking up some trash that had been left over after the ferry’s last run out to the island. He was a curmudgeon of a medium build, with a rough beard and hair that crashed out from underneath his captain’s hat into his eyes. He neither made eye contact nor looked away from the passengers awaiting his services on the dock, solely fixated on the ferry itself. He wore a weatherproof set of overalls on top of his dri-fit long sleeve turtleneck, and looked like he was just as used to being left outside overnight as the ferry he piloted out to the island. His clothes were worn but not old, and he seemed completely unflustered by the crowd that was rallying around him, crowding closer and closer to the ferry. 

The first mate was closing up the snack shop now, apologizing to the mother who had taken too long to decide what to feed her little rotund ball of fury next. She was frustrated but refused to succumb to any cross response or meanness toward the snack shop. She sighed, and glanced down at the boy, who was clearly craving his next snack. To no avail, she asked for each item on the shop’s placard, met only by a shake of the head to the negative. 

The mate had already run out of hot coffee and hot dogs, with the influx of a group of eight tourists who were decidedly on a spontaneous jaunt out to the island. They had accents from some landlocked state, and the first mate knew it would be a matter of time before he saw their hot dogs again, most likely on the deck of the ferry. Too many of the visitors from the mainland had never been aboard a boat before, and the passage to the island was not the smoothest. 

Apologizing again to the mother of the young boy, the first mate pulled the hatch down and locked up the snack shop. He stepped out of the side door and locked it behind him. Glancing at the parking lot, the first mate realized that tell-tale drops of rain were falling intermittently, and he had not rolled up his windows. He jogged over to the beat up jalopy and secured the windows, before leaning back against the car to enjoy a last-minute smoke. 

On the ferry, the captain gave him the high sign, and the first mate started the process of getting the passengers to present him with their tickets and stow their luggage in the storage space. A minor ruckus broke out when it was discovered that the stroller for the toddler proved to be more difficult to get stowed away on board the ferry than initially predicted. The captain stomped over to where the first mate was trying, unsuccessfully, to push the stroller into a way-too-narrow storage space, ripped it away from him and threatened to throw it overboard. 

Cooler heads prevailed, and the stroller was finally strapped down on the roof of the ferry’s cabin, much to the irritation of the mother who found out that she’d have to corral the little guy herself throughout the trip over to the island. She threw up her hands and said some choice words under her breath, before attempting to get the little boy settled. This lasted a few seconds before the boy bolted across the bench to his father and threw his hands up in the air. The father simply sighed and held the toddler, and the first mate moved on to the other passengers, content to get away from the toddler and his chocolate-coated fingers. 

Everything appeared set for departure moments later, and the first mate and captain had finished untying the ferry to the dock. The captain gruffly asked everyone to be momentarily seated while they got underway, assuring them that they would not need to stay seated during their hour-long voyage to the island. It was never a pleasant fix to fish a passenger out of the drink, whether they were leaning too far over and unsteady, or balanced precariously on a bench trying to get one last camera shot of the departure. The captain received the thumbs up from the first mate who had assessed the different groups of passengers, and pulled back on the throttle. White bubbles gurgled up behind the aged ferry, and a few of the visitors muttered prayers as the engine rumbled beneath them.

A panicked voice called out from the parking lot, and the passengers turned with the crew to watch as a young man in a dark suit began to sprint across the gravel toward them. He carried a simple duffle bag over his shoulder, and it wasn’t clear exactly where he had come from. But he held a ticket aloft in one hand as he ran, stumbling toward the dock, calling out for the ferry to please wait for him amidst apologies for his tardiness. The young man managed to get abreast of the ferry as it was nearly clear of the dock, and launched himself off of one foot into the deck of the ferry. Falling more so than jumping, the newest arrival was a tangle of arms and legs.

The first mate went to check on him, untangling him from the group of tourists who he’d crashed into upon his arrival. No one seemed injured by the late arrival, and the young man’s pleasant apologies were well received. The mate checked the ticket and saw that in fact, the young man was an intended passenger on that trip to the island. Given his incredible effort to join them, he saw no reason to expel him from the ferry, even if that last minute arrival might have been deemed unacceptable boarding. The captain scowled, and sucked harder on his pipe, before turning back to steer the ferry away from the mainland. 

Addressing the latest passenger, the first mate assessed the man’s suit, and deemed him some sort of professional headed out for employment on the island. Having lived in the area for his entire adult life, the crewman knew the man’s attire would quickly change on the laidback island. Shaking his head, he directed the new passenger to the back of the boat, and went to check on the other passengers. 

The young man slid into an empty seat along the stern of the ferry, and put his head back, staring up at the sky. The other passengers were still looking in amazement at him, wondering what had made him so desperate to get onto the ferry in the first place, and admiring the determination to follow through. He nodded curtly to them when realizing that they were staring at him, but he said nothing, finally closing his eyes. Before too long, the man had fallen asleep, lulled by the rhythmic movement of the waves and the thrumming of the ferry engine as it pulled away from the mainland. 

If only, wished the other passengers, the toddler would’ve fallen asleep, too. 

Section 2 (Chapters 4-6) coming March 1!

INTRO: In 2012, I wrote a letter to my sons, for them to receive on their eighteenth birthday. A pastor friend of mine, a former Marine, told me how he had started the tradition annually because he was often on a tour of duty and missed their birthdays. Even after retiring from the Marines, he kept writing them letters. What would you put down in on paper if you could share with your son or daughter what you wanted them to know, about your relationship and the way you believe? Considering the answers to that question has driven me to consider what I am teaching with my words and what I model with my actions. So here is the fourth letter I’ve written in the last ten years — with an eye to the world we live in and the way I hope my boys will continue to grow. 

Dear Adam and Andrew, 

This is the fourth time I’ve written to you both since 2012. I figured since Adam was 5 and Andrew was 1, it probably stood to be re-iterated for you to hear now, and to read when you turn 18. Of course, at this point, you’d probably prefer I texted it to you – but your dad is old fashioned, so I’m going to write it all down in a letter. In fact, what you’re about to read is probably the fifth version – I can’t seem to find all the words I want to capture what needs said. 

Let me start with this: I love you. I love you more than you’ll probably ever understand until you have a child of your own. I have loved you since I first saw you, maybe even before that. I love you with a joy that soars and a concern that keeps me up at night sometimes. I love you unconditionally, with a love that will never end. I hope that you know this. 

As I write this, we’ve survived three months of the first pandemic in a century, and a movement in our country to throw off the chains of racism that have polluted our country since white people first arrived in America and thought they’d discovered it. There is so much that could be said about the way that people have or have not responded to the challenges. The truth is that this could be a time when folks look back and see all the problems, all of the difficulties, but you know that your mom and dad tried to make the most of the time. I’m thankful for the walks, the conversations, the nightly rounds of Dutch Blitz, the family movie nights, the way your Mom kept us happy and fed. I’m thankful for the way you both have bonded with your grandparents (and hope that you’ll continue to nurture those relationships). I’m thankful for the time I was able to spend being your dad, even while trying to pastor a church from home — and experiencing what it meant to change churches in the middle of a crisis! I hope that you both will constantly shine as examples of gratitude for the way that God has blessed us and shown us love. Let gratitude be your attitude. 

Thanks to all of the things going on in the world, we’ve talked about many things that I never expected we’d deal with while you were 9 and 13. But it has filled my heart with joy to know two young men who recognize that racism is evil and that the church should stand as a place for all people, regardless of age, race, sexuality, gender, class, education level, whatever. I hope that you will bear the stance that when Jesus came to save the whole world, that he signalled once and for all that all really means all. 

There’s no better example of that than in the Parable of the Prodigal Son. You boys have not been prodigals because you have grabbed onto what your mom and dad taught you, and shared it with other people. I want you to know that the attitude of the father is how I feel about you. There is nowhere you can go and nothing that you could do that would make me stop loving you. You will always be welcome wherever your Mom and I are; you will always be safe there. Even when you make mistakes, never ever imagine that we won’t love you unconditionally. Be quick to admit your mistakes because it’s the right thing to do, and because it shows your character as people who follow Jesus. 

God loves you so much because you were created in God’s image and because Jesus died on the cross for all of the things you have done wrong, all the sins committed knowingly or unknowingly. While the world tends to paint churches and pastors into a corner with a list of rules, that’s really my non-negotiable: I believe Jesus was God Himself, who lived as fully human with us, taught and showed us how to love, and died on the cross for our sins before God raised him from the dead so we’d know we have life forever with God. I am sorry for the times when I’ve failed to convey that love to you because I’m a human and I make mistakes. I love you, and your Mom may be the only one who loves you more 🙂 Don’t forget to call her. 

It’s weird, the first time I wrote this letter, when you were five and one, respectively, I wanted to give you lots of do’s and don’ts, a lot of practical advice. 

Things like don’t forget to eat breakfast, don’t forget to brush your teeth, don’t forget to say your prayers, don’t throw yourself into the wrong relationships or hang out with the wrong people, don’t forget to vote because your voice matters. 

Things like, Don’t be afraid to say no. Sometimes, not doing something is the best answer. I’m still working on that.

Or when you get a job, tithe, because God gave you the skills and the opportunity; and save too –I wish I had started earlier. Tip big. Someone worked hard to bring you that meal.

But as you’ve gotten older, I find myself more focused on painting the broad, wide picture, because I know you’ll make mistakes and that’s okay. Your dad has made plenty of mistakes himself, even in how I’ve helped raise you, and God has clearly had a hand in how you have turned out. God made you uniquely, to be who you are, for the plan God has just for you. 

That said, I’m passing this on from Mom: When you have a choice about making the right decision or the wrong one, Do what’s right. She says that we’ve taught you the difference between right and wrong. You know the difference, so make good choices. Pray about it, get good advice – not just the advice that agrees with you, and move forward. Don’t trade in your own expectations for yourself just because someone does something unkind to you. It’s not fair but it’s the right way to live. Your Pepaw always used to tell his swim teams that we couldn’t control what people were doing in the other lanes of the pool during a race, only the person (us) in the lane we were in. It’s still true out of the pool, and letting go of worrying about what others are doing will free you up to be yourself. 

I don’t think I’ve always done a good job at this, but take your time. Enjoy the ride. Every stage of your life has prepared you for the next stage, so don’t worry about being ready for what lies ahead. Relax; don’t take yourself too seriously. You’ll find that there are plenty of laughs to be had when you can laugh at yourself. 

Know that the road you walk is full of ups and downs, forks in the road, pitfalls, safe havens, and obstacles. I know that God has a plan for each of us but worry less about staying on the path, and focus more on following Jesus moment to moment. Your path might take you somewhere no one else has been before, or somewhere no one else expects you to go. If you’re following Jesus, none of that will matter. 

Boldly share grace with the people you meet. The outcast, the stranger, even your enemy. Most of us think we have more enemies than we do – recognizing they’re just a stranger we haven’t made into a friend yet will soften the hard edges, and keep you from wasting time on controversy and grudges that are unnecessary and unhelpful. Life is too short to stay angry, so let it go. Grace is free to give but the return on investment is an abundant life of love. You don’t need to agree with someone to show them grace; you don’t need to impress on people how right you are. Learn from the people you don’t agree with. 

Be for serving others. Serve in church, serve out of church. Serve people you know and people you don’t. Make service an earmark of who you are and what you’re about. You should because it is what Jesus would do, but you should want to because you have for your early lives, so why stop now? Be the light be sharing with those in need. Don’t settle for sitting and watching life go by when you can stand up and make a difference with your hands, your feet, your voice. Mentor someone who needs someone to listen to or an example of how to overcome a problem. Share your time, as well as your money and talents. You’ll end up building relationships rather than just making connections. People aren’t commodities; they’re the imago Dei standing before you. 

Stand up for the underdog. Be the kinds of men who refuse to watch while someone else suffers. Use your privilege as educated white men to stand for the things that you know are right. Stand up for those who are persecuted. You don’t have to agree with them, like them, or believe what they believe, but it’s not right when the majority holds someone down. The majority can be a group of people, or just the bully on the playground. There are bullies everywhere, but they run screaming into the night when people stand up to them. “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing” is a good quote to keep in mind. No one seems sure who said it first, but I know Batman said it, and it’s true. Boldly pursue Jesus. You don’t need to be a Methodist if that’s not where you’re called. God will lead you where you need to go as long as you’re listening. Listen for the still small voice of God in Scripture, from your friends, in church and outdoors. 

Speaking of friends: choose good ones. Good friends don’t always tell you want to hear, but they tell you what you need to hear. They will stand with you when you would otherwise feel alone; they will correct you when you are out of line. Your Mom is the best friend I have ever had, and I pray for you two that you will find a friend like her to spend the rest of your life with. People ask me how you can know when she’s the one, and I know in my own heart that you will know for yourself – and other people will see that beauty in your relationship. You are worth so much because you have God’s image on you, so don’t rush it. Enjoy the ride and when you meet the one, I can’t wait to meet her, too. 

As you take off, to celebrate your birthday with your friends, and get ready for whatever comes next, I want to remind you: call your Mom, she misses you. 

It’ll be on speaker phone, because I miss you too. 

I love you, buddy. 

Dad

Now that you’ve turned 18 and are preparing to head out on your own, here are a few things I want to remind you of. I’m proud of you and who you are becoming, and hope that these things, which I’ve tried to teach you as you’ve grown, will stick to you and guide you as you enter adulthood.

Speak softly and allow for God’s voice to guide your words. Words carry so much power, and yet we fail to use them well. Compliment others, be kind to others, and help them to be affirmed that God loves them and you, so much. Someone’s mom, might’ve been Eve, said a long time ago that if you didn’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. It’s still true.

Remember that God has a plan for you. In Jeremiah 29:11-14, it says that if we seek God with our whole heart, we will find him. I hope that you will always seek after God and see that the plan God has for your life is awesome!

Be yourself. You are a child of God and made in His image. Don’t obsess over how you look. Don’t worry about what other people say. Don’t try to fit in. You know who and whose you are. You were born to stand out.

Whatever you do, do it well. Pursue joy and not happiness. Find something you love to do and embrace it. Make it your calling, not a job, and you will go to work happy more days than not. Your mom and dad will be proud of you regardless of what job you choose, so do it well.

Form relationships, not connections. The world is full of people who are either givers or takers. Break the mold. Be compassionate and gracious, and show others that they are important. Your Pepaw taught me that it was important to recognize every person’s worth, regardless of their place in the world—from those serving you, or taking out your trash, or your bosses, or your enemies—God loves us all the same.

Be a good friend. Find people who will challenge you to be better and support you when things fall down around you. Don’t worry about who looks cool but who is full of the things you know you want to be. Speaking of cool, don’t sweat that either. It changes. Remind me to tell you about the white neon pants I had in the eighth grade.

Be trustworthy, honest, patient. With your friends AND your enemies. Hopefully you got your Mom’s personality.

Remember who you are, and whose you are. You are my sons, and you are God’s sons. I have prayed over you since you were little, “Mommy loves you, Daddy loves you, and God loves you. May you grow up to be a man after God’s own heart. You’re a good boy buddy.” No matter how big you get or where you go, I will be praying that over you.

Speaking of which, call your mom. She misses you.

Don’t be afraid to say you’re sorry. You’re not always right. I’m not either.

Eat your vegetables. Drink lots of water. Try to not get addicted to caffeine. It’ll save you money and health later.

Exercise. They told me my metabolism would slow down. I didn’t believe them. They were right. Get up and go play something. Just not yet… I’m not done.

No matter what happens, love your brother. He’s your family, and you guys should always have each other. I know you guys want to wrestle all the time, but remember that when push comes to shove, he’s got your back.

Read something. Sports Illustrated is fine, but try a book sometime! Yes, it’s okay to read comic books—let the story move you.

Read your Bible. Pray. When you don’t know what words to say, SING! If you can’t sing, hum.

Find a church where you can hear the word of God, and know that you are loved by the people there. Don’t worry about finding the perfect church- none of them are- but find a church where you know God is there and you get fed. Get involved with church- serve in whatever way you can. Don’t just be a taker!

Speaking of getting involved: don’t just coast. Whether you’re in school or working now, get involved. Make your world better. Your Memaw always said I was happier when I was pouring my life into other people, and she was right. This life isn’t about you, or me, or someone else. It’s for all of us to share together.

Wash your clothes. Don’t put the red clothes in with the whites. You’ll end up pink. It’s no good.

Get a haircut. Take frequent showers. Don’t forget to brush your teeth. I’m supposed to tell you to floss…

Give more than you get. Give away time. Give away clothes. You will always have what you need, and if you don’t, your mom will buy it for you.

Speaking of which. Call your mom. She misses you.

Say thank you. Hold the door.

Do what’s right. We taught you the difference between right and wrong. You know the difference, so make good choices. (That’s from your mother– I asked her what one piece of advice she’d give you one you turned eighteen!)

Be a good listener. People want to know you care. Listening shows them. Your dad is trying to learn to talk less—he’s been trying for 30 years.

Don’t let the sun go down on your anger. I know that’s tough, but aim for never holding a grudge. Never lose a friend over something dumb, even if it was their fault.

When you get a job, be friends with the secretary. They know what’s really going on. If you don’t believe me, ask Gram what she knows.

Go to church, or small group, or something. We all need accountability. Your dad has been in a small group for years with guys who call me out when I’m being an idiot. We all need that. Especially guys.

Know that God loves you so much that he sent Jesus to die on the cross for you, and raised him up three days later. Treat others like Jesus died for them too—he did! All that other stuff? Worry about it later.

Have fun. Enjoy being outside, playing games, being on a team. Play hard. We play like we practice relates to sports, to work, to life. Do your best.

Have what everyone else thinks is a bad sense of humor—you got that from your mom.

Stand up for those who are persecuted. You don’t have to agree with them, like them, or believe what they believe, but it’s not right when the majority holds someone down. The majority can be a group of people, or just the bully on the playground. There are bullies everywhere, but they run screaming into the night when people stand up to them. “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing” is a good quote to keep in mind. No one seems sure who said it first, but I know Batman said it, and it’s true.

Laugh a lot, just not at other people. Laughing at yourself is still the best. It’ll keep you humble, and you’ll always be entertained.

Don’t be afraid to say no. Sometimes, not doing something is the best answer. I’m still working on that.

I don’t have any regrets, which is strange because I’ve made plenty of mistakes. I should’ve eaten more vegetables and drunk less Coke; there are plenty of times I should’ve kept my mouth closed. But I’ve learned that being ashamed of what I’ve done or hanging onto what could’ve been doesn’t really help: what you do right now, tomorrow, when the opportunity arises, that’s what matters. Win right now.

Be punctual. (I can only hope you learned this from your mom.) Whether it’s school or work or for a date, someone is counting on you.

 

When you get a job, tithe. God gave you the gifts and skills and opportunity you have, and it’s the right thing to do to give back what’s His already.

When you get a job, save. Your dad wishes he would’ve started earlier. You’re going to want to do something and need the money, and you’ll have it if you saved up. By the time you read this, your mom will probably have already reminded you five times… and used me as an example.

Tip big. Someone worked hard to bring you that meal.

Dream big. Dare to do the impossible. Believe that you can do anything. Sometimes you’ll fail, but where you’ll get to while dreaming is pretty amazing.

 

I hope you find a woman who you love as much as I love your Mom, and that she loves you back. Don’t force it. Your dad took plenty of wrong turns—but in the long run, they all led to your Mom. Be okay with getting it wrong, but guard your heart for the right time. You’ll know. Don’t worry about finding the perfect person, but find the perfect person FOR YOU. And when you find that person, make sure that you tell her what she means to you. She’ll be the person who drives you crazy and makes you wish you were a better man. She’ll love you even though she knows what you’re really like, and she’ll encourage you to be the man God wants you to be. You won’t be able to imagine your life without her. Propose. Marry her! But until then, guard your heart and your affection– you are a great gift from God, not to be taken lightly or wasted. Getting married is no walk in the park– it takes hard work and commitment– but dating should be fun.

Society seems to think that might makes right, but I have an admission to make: I’ve never regretted not throwing a punch, or not sticking it to someone. But I’ve wished I could take back something I said, or someone I hit. Just because you don’t fight back doesn’t mean you’re wrong or weak or a coward. You don’t have to be proven right when you’re right – you need to be comfortable enough in your own skin to just know. Sometimes, it’s the stronger man who doesn’t have to settle things with his fists, or have the last word.

Remember that hope never fails. I’ve always told you that the good guys always win. It’s true. Sometimes it just takes awhile. Go watch Star Wars or The Princess Bride. Maybe Spiderman (the Tobey Maguire one). We know already how our story ends—Jesus already won.

Live to please an audience of one. I don’t mean me or your mom, but if you’re going to please one of us, make it her. You should be living to please God with who you are and what you do.

You will be someone else’s example, somebody’s hero. Are you setting an example you’d want them to follow? No pressure.

Speaking of being an example: I did my best. I’m sorry for the times that I failed at that, days I didn’t have enough patience, or didn’t show you the best way I should have. I thank God for the gift of you, and pray that we’ll continue to grow up together as you enter into your own.

For the days when you don’t want to go to class or work or to get out of bed, remember these things. Remember that God has a plan for you, and if you don’t know what it is, keep searching. Remember that your mom and dad love you unconditionally, and that you will always be our boy. (Even though by now, you’re probably taller than I am.)

 

I’ll never get tired of saying this: I love you. You are a great son and a wonderful person. I will always be proud of you, and I am always here—a phone call or car ride away. Don’t be afraid to tell people that you love them. Ever.

And one last thing: call your mom. She misses you. It’ll be on speaker phone. Because I miss you too.

Love,

Dad