13. Marnie
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marnie
It must be a sign when you get the last open parking spot and it’s right up front by the entrance. As if the universe knew that I was destined to be here at this very moment, and all my decisions today have led me to this exact moment. Divine intervention, or something like that.
Maybe the universe doesn’t concern itself with simple things like parking spots, but I’m choosing to believe it’s a good thing. The exhibit planning is coming along, but it still feels like something is missing.
As much as I hate to admit that he was right, the movie night with Caleb was exactly what I needed.
All night, I kept thinking about the sincerity in his eyes when he told me why he rented out the entire theater for me.
When I wasn’t thinking about that, I was thinking about something else he said.
It makes for great entertainment, but it’s been very detrimental to ecosystems that depend on shark populations.
That one sentence planted a seed in my mind, took root, and sprouted overnight, as if fueled by some fast-acting Miracle-Gro.
Even though it was the weekend, this couldn’t wait until next week, especially with the office being closed on Monday for Memorial Day.
I’ve been needing to determine the education aspect of the exhibit, and nothing was speaking to me. None of my ideas fit with the exhibit theme and story. It all had to tie back to the movie, and I was running out of time to choose something.
I originally thought about covering the island’s history and getting into the details of the financial and economic impacts of the movie on the island, but I could do better.
Not that those weren’t important, but I needed something more impactful.
Something that would be an integral, highlighting piece of the exhibit that would showcase my ability to handle high-profile work.
And that’s when it hit me—marine conservation.
My feet shuffle over the stone path leading to the visitor’s center until I finally reach a sign that reads Felix Neck Wildlife Sanctuary.
Because this education aspect of exhibit planning is relatively new to me, I figured the local wildlife center would be as good a place to start as any.
This would give me an idea of how their education is presented to the public and I could get inspiration for how to format the displays to be appealing to all ages.
I recalled seeing this sanctuary on Josie’s list, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else this weekend. Not when this idea was fresh in my mind.
Maybe that was why I ended up working all the time—a lot of my best work came after a good idea entered my head and refused to leave.
A small bell rings overhead when I push the heavy wooden door open and enter the lobby of the visitor’s center.
I am greeted by a man standing behind the welcome desk, an array of colorful brochures and posters spread across the counter.
He looks middle-aged, with a neatly groomed mustache and a branded shirt that makes him look like an overgrown camp counselor.
“How can I help direct you today?” he asks, raising his fingers to twirl the ends of his mustache.
“I’m just looking around,” I reply. “I’m doing some research.” I gesture to my notebook and keep my purpose vague. I don’t want to get sidetracked—I know exactly what I need out of this visit, and I only have half the day left.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of inspiration for your research, whatever it may be.
And most of the trails have informative plaques stationed throughout.
Take a look at the map outside and see which trails appeal to you.
Just so you know, the main building is closing in a few minutes for lunch hour, but all the trails and outdoor amenities will remain open.
The building will reopen at two o’clock. ”
I check the time. Seven minutes until top of the hour.
Perfect. I can take a quick look around inside and get some initial ideas, and then I can take a trail walk and find some place to sit and work on a new outline to show Josie.
After signing the guest book and adding a donation to the box at the end of the counter, I thank him and step aside, wandering to the nearest display.
The visitor’s center is quite small despite the expansive land the sanctuary sits on.
Natural light flows through the windows and draws attention to the shiny hardwoods that funnel you away from the front desk and toward the back room, where you can find a detailed history of how the wildlife sanctuary came to be.
Everything from its founding to its role in the community to its conservation efforts.
And of course, there is a gift shop for any of your postcard, knickknack, or stuffed animal needs.
Slinging my tote bag off my shoulder, I rummage around for a pen. I finally locate it under my blanket, click it open, turn to the next blank page in my notebook, and begin writing.
Just before the clock chimes for lunch hour, I stuff everything back into my bag and head out the back door in the direction of the trail map.
There are about a dozen different trails that span the grounds, and the map looks more like the tentacles of an octopus with how they branch off from the center.
Half of the trails lead to the waterfront, but only two of them have a stretch of beach that is accessible to the public. The others are a combination of marsh-type terrain and mud based on the photos.
My fingers trace over the different trail lines until I find the easiest path to my desired destination.
I set off down the Black Trail, which leads me to a secluded cove. Or so I thought.
A group of about twenty school children are chasing each other around in the water while dragging a fishing net behind them. A blonde woman stands in the epicenter of the chaos, giving instructions I cannot hear from this distance and pointing at different spots in the water.
There is a clearing on the beach where the tide hasn’t reached yet, so I flip my blanket open and spread it out across the sand, scooping a handful onto each corner to keep it anchored against the breeze, and put pen to paper.
I spend the next half hour with thoughts pouring out until I’ve filled the first ten pages. This gives me a lot to work with, and when I return to the office on Tuesday, I can start plugging the rest of my proposal into this outline.
Jotting down my final words, I close the notebook and swap it out for my book. The same book that I have been trying to finish since Gwen took me out for after-work drinks at the end of April. The night before my life was upended.
Ever since I moved to the Vineyard, I haven’t given any of my usual leisure activities a second thought.
But then Gwen texted me a few days ago to check in and asked if I had finished it yet so we could discuss which brother the love interest should’ve chosen, and I felt bad she had to wait so long.
No time like the present to finish my coastal summer romance on a literal beach. Especially when I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace—toes in the sand and the sun on my skin, gentle waves bobbing over the horizon.
The visitor’s center will still be open for a few more hours, so I can get a few chapters deep before it’s time to finish my task.
But that peace is short-lived.
I’m able to finish one chapter and then the children begin screaming from the water. I instantly shoot up, losing both my sunglasses and my place in my book in the process. By the time my eyes adjust to the sun, the screaming has morphed into laughter.
The woman with them—probably a nature guide—has her head thrown back in laughter, too, holding something large and round in her hands. I can’t quite make out what it is, but it’s moving and looks to be some kind of animal.
The children gather around her in a huddle, pointing and muttering to each other. Then, without warning, the woman—still holding the presumed animal—lunges toward them and roars, prompting the children to resume screaming and run back to the shore.
They don’t stop running until they reach the trailhead, where another woman in a matching polo shirt is waiting for them. She rounds them up into a single-file line and they disappear down a different trail, leaving their supplies strewn across the sand.
Suddenly, the woman standing in the water collapses to her knees. Worried she might be injured, I set my things down on the blanket and start walking towards her.
Her back is facing me, but her shoulders are moving up and down like she’s crying. I pick up my pace and call out to her. “Hey, are you alright?”
The only sound is my feet stomping through the water. Each step causes water to slosh up my leg and onto my shorts, and despite today’s warm weather, it sends a chilling sensation through me.
When I finally reach her, she is not crying, but laughing.
My head cocks to the side as I stare down at her, a slight chuckle slipping past my lips.
The woman’s laughing continues until it turns into full-on cackling. The type of infectious laughter that causes you to join in, even if you have no clue what is going on.
She sits back on her heels, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye. So, she was crying after all, just from laughter. “I love messing with them. Walter and I get a kick out of it.”
“Walter?” I ask, not sure who she could be referencing. With the children gone, there is no one else in the cove but us.
She scoops something out of the water beside her and holds it out.
“Walter. My horseshoe crab. Well, not my horseshoe crab, but he’s as close to mine as he can get.
Walter was the first horseshoe crab I tagged when I started my research.
It helps me track his movement every season and it protects him so he can’t be harvested by fishermen. ”