Authors: Catherine Clark
Maine Squeeze
Squeeze
Banana
Splitsville
Catherine Clark
10/10 a/k/a “The Longest Day of My Life”
11/18 The Next Morning, Back Home ⦠Finally Thawed
Chapter Number 57 In Which the Tom Lives Up to His Name; Or Not.
Thanksgiving Morning (pre-poultry)
Thanksgiving Afternoon (post-poultry)
12/23 ReallyReally Late or Early on the 24th
Chapter 1“You're not just going to leave me behind, are you? You're not going to strand me on this island. Are you?”
“Don't make fun of me. Just don't.” I looked at my boyfriend, Ben, and raised one eyebrow. “But are you seriously that upset about my being gone for a day?”
“Well, no. But it is kind of lousy,” Ben said.
Ben and I had just gone for an early-morning walk so we could have a little time together before I drove my parents to the airport. When they first told me they were leaving the island for the summer, I'd had that exact same reaction, which was why Ben was teasing me about it.
I'd kind of panicked at first. I don't know why. It wasn't like it was a deserted island or that I would be strandedâI lived there year-round. By the way, it's just referred to as “the island,” like a lot of islands off the coast of Maine, and I'll keep it that way because (a) I'm too lazy to change everyone's names, and (b) I don't want to incriminate anyone. If you've been there, you might recognize it, but I'm going to keep some things mysterious in that Jessica Fletcher/Cabot Cove/
Murder She Wrote
âreruns kind of way.
Not that there will be any murder in this story. Unless crimes of passion, crimes of the heart, count.
Anyway, my parents would be landing in Frankfurt, Germany, tomorrow, while I'd be showing up for my first day of work at Bobb's Lobster. Something about it didn't seem quite fair.
“When do you think you'll be back tonight?” Ben lingered in the doorway of my house, his hands on my waist.
“Maybe seven? Not too late,” I said. I'd drop my parents at the airport in Portlandâfrom there they'd fly to Boston, then overseasâthen I'd pick up my friend Erica and drive back.
“I wish I could go with you.”
“Would you really want to listen to my parents chanting along to German-language tapes in the car because they haven't quite mastered the language yet?” I asked. Not that they'd gotten the hang of French, Spanish, or Italian, for that matter, but that wouldn't keep them from spending ten weeks in Europe. Nothing would. Not even the prospect of leaving me and Ben alone all summer. (Well, only if
his
parents would leave, too....) I wasn't actually going to be “alone” alone, anyway, because three of my best friends were moving in.
I thought back to the night two months before when my parents told me they were going to Europe for ten weeks. At first I thought we were all going together. I was really excited, but then I realized I was not included, that they'd be sipping wine in the Alps while I schlepped melted butter at sea level.
But I couldn't begrudge them this second honeymoon conceptâthey deserved it. And did I really want to trek all over the world with my parents? I pictured my dad wearing a pair of lederhosen and doing a jig around a beer hall in Austria, while I cowered in the corner, hoping no one would guess we were related.
Then I pictured me, here, alone in this house. Me and Ben. Alone. It sounded too good to be true. I was afraid that they'd make me stay with Uncle Frank and Aunt Sue.
It's not that I don't like my aunt and uncle. I just didn't want to live with them. My aunt has this blueberry addictionâshe spends the whole summer trying to invent new recipes using blueberries. She eats so many that I could swear her skin sometimes has a blue tint. And if my uncle told me one more time that I should
paint
instead of doing collage art ⦠I would go nuts.
Fortunately, my parents suggested my friends move in here, rather than me move in with my aunt and uncle. I'd be eternally grateful for that.
Ben smiled. “You're right. I can probably skip the German lesson in the car.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But it's our first day off from schoolâand our last day off before we start working full-time. It'd be great if we could just go hang out on the beach or something.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “We'll just have to make up for itâwe'll find an extra day somewhere,” I said. “We'll both call in sick or something. Middle of July.”
“Okay, it's a plan.” Ben nodded. “Maybe we'll be sick for two or three days. No, wait. I don't want to lose my job.”
Ben was so psyched about his first summer on the island. He'd gotten a job working on the ferry, which we called “Moby” for obvious reasonsâit was large, white, swam, and carried lots of people inside it. He'd be one of the guys taking tickets, tying up at the dock, loading bags of mail and unloading carts of groceries and other supplies, handing out life jackets in the event of an emergencyâwhatever was needed, except for the actual navigation and driving of the ferry. That was left to a few guys on the mainland and a couple on the island: John Hyland, a grumpy, retired fisherman who hated “summer people” and never smiled (his wife, Molly, ran the island post office and wasn't much friendlier), and “Cap” Green, who talked your ear off and told you more about the tide, the neighbors, and his health than you ever wanted to know.