36. Thirty-six
I somehow make myself look like a living being by the time I step out onto the sidewalk and head toward the bustling downtown.
I wander the side streets, taking in the unique architecture designs. Huge mansions and small cottages make the entire town feel like there’s something for everyone.
Well, in the words of Smokey Tony, anyone with money.
Flowers are in full bloom in every picket fence garden box as trees wave green leaves so bright they rival the sun. Remnants of the Fourth of July banners and buntings hang on houses in a kind of picturesque patriotism.
Bar Harbor is a rainbow, realized.
Even the yards where bushes explode chaotically look like they’re by design.
My first stop is a jeweler where a man smiles kindly when I hand him my ring, the gold chain, and the smallest remnants of Arizona gold flakes and explain my idea.
“I need a week,” he tells me, looking at me over the top of his glasses.
I wait for an unbearable wave of sadness to wash me away when I walk away from everything I’ve handed him, but it never comes. Instead—peace.
Three stores later, I’m staring at myself in a fitting room wearing an emerald green dress that cuts low in the front, ties in the back, and hits mid-calf with a pair of ankle boots that are not made of rubber and a set of gold bracelets dangling off my wrist.
I look damn good.
I’m not buying something to hide myself like I have been for the last year, and there is nobody I need to impress. This is all me. My ode to surviving the worst heartbreak of my life and being able to come out alive on the other side.
I doubt anyone notices the forty-one-year-old woman in the green dress attempting to strut, but I do it anyway. I do it with my chin up, my shoulders back, and the slightest smile on my face.
And when I realize I’m hungry, I decide to take myself out on a date.
I walk into the first place I come to, with music playing from inside and the smells of a hot grill. I open the large doors without even looking at the name or menu that’s posted outside. I simply don’t care because I don’t have to.
I’m alone but alive.
A hostess smiles at me from behind a podium. Her dark hair hangs in two braids and there”s a bright pink tint on her lips.
“Just one?” she asks, grabbing a menu.
“Umm, yeah. I can sit at the bar...”
I look and see there isn’t a single available stool except one against the wall—not doing that again.
“Oh, God. That looks packed, and I’m so hungry I might die. So yes, a table for one is fine.”
I smile at her and follow as she walks to a table at the edge of the big room.
I take in the space. The décor is nautical, reminding me of the Crow’s Nest a little, in a New England way. Colorful buoys and lobster traps hang from the walls as strings of lights twist around thick nautical lines of rope across the ceiling. Black and white pictures of puffins, whales, and local lighthouses line the walls.
It screams coastal Maine without being kitschy. A man and a woman sit on stools on a small stage with guitars, singing.
The place is packed. Between the music, the breeze blowing through open shutters, and the smell of seafood, the energy is a life force.
My waiter, a young guy with dark skin and baby dreadlocks, is at my table immediately.
“I’m Dion, and I’ll be taking care of you. Do you know what you’d like to drink? We have a full bar, and our specialty drinks are here.” He smiles and points to a section of the menu.
“Oh gosh, I’m a sucker for a specialty drink. I’ll have…”
I quickly skim the menu. Margarita, mojito, mule, all the usuals. Some with blueberries, because of course.
Then I stop. The Market Made ismade with gin, lavender, lemons, and local Maine honey.
It’s a too-familiar combination.
“This is so crazy,” I say, looking up at Dion. “Who makes your specialty drinks? Like, who comes up with them? I swear to you, I just made this same one you have on here, and I have never ever seen the combination before.”
“Ahh. You got me there.” He overemphasizes a slow shrug. “I would say the bartender, but it might also be one of the managers. I can ask for you?”
“I hate to be a bother, but would you? I just can’t not know how someone else came up with that. And I’ll have one—a Market Made.”
I re-read the drink description to make sure I haven’t missed something.
What are the odds?
Dion returns a few minutes later and puts the drink in front of me. A foggy yellow liquid with small fizzy bubbles float up through the ice toward a swirling layer of purple and a sprig of lavender. The coincidence of it sends a chill up my spine.
“The bartender said this one came from the owner. He’s here tonight. I can ask him to come over if he has time?”
His head tilts to the side.
“I don’t want to be a pain, but if he has time, I’d love that. This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened. Like I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is just a crazy dream.”
Dion pushes his lips together in a line, clearly not seeing—or caring—how crazy it is.
I give him an apologetic smile. “I haven’t looked at the menu, so I need more time.”
“Enjoy your drink. I’ll check back on you in a few minutes.” He tucks his notebook into his apron before walking away.
I stare at the drink sitting on the table while moody chords of music fill the air.
Almost the whole menu is seasonal and locally sourced.
I roll my eyes. Ethan would love this, I think bitterly.
I look at the drink again and swirl it with my straw, the purple dripping to the bottom of the glass. The flavors roll across my tongue with familiarity.
This unique combination, and the man I tasted them with, will not easily be forgotten.
Dion appears again.
“The owner is helping in the kitchen right now. He said he’ll come out as soon as he’s finished.”
“Great.” I smile and hand him my menu. “And I’ll have the lobster mac and cheese with a house salad, please.”
I take another sip of my drink, lean back in my chair, cross my legs, and let my head bob to the music.
As devastatingly sad and alone as I felt this morning, this moment is somehow its polar opposite. I’m relaxed. Even though I’m at a table for one, I don’t notice. I don’t care. I have music and a cocktail—in Maine.
“Ma’am?” Dion’s back less than a song later. “The owner’s here.”
He gestures toward someone standing behind me.
I smile as I set the glass down and stand up, turning to introduce myself.
“Thank y—” My gaze lifts slowly but my smile drops instantly.
I see the eyes before the smirk.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”