Читать книгу Eastbound Sailing - Todd Foley - Страница 8

2. FIRST IMPRESSIONS, AGAIN

First impressions stick.

When he first came to Cielo for his 13th birthday, Aiden was disappointed by the scenery. Growing up in the city, island life was perceived as tropical and exotic. Palm trees, white sand, clear water.

Ceilo was merely rural. Nothing exotic.

Vast greenery bordered the paved road he was now driving down. Evergreen trees, firs, cedars and ferns. Every now and then some wildlife popped up. Rabbits, mainly, and the occasional deer.

He looked to the left for a street sign indicating the name of the road. After a quarter mile, he saw one that read “Canoe Drive.” Cute.

Aiden’s second visit to Cielo – he had referred to it as a “God-forsaken rock” – started off with the same level of excitement. The road winded through the greenery, then opened up to the countryside. Vast fields, scattered with cows and lambs, and occasional horses. The livestock don’t run on a schedule and they have nowhere to be. They simply graze, sleep and meander. They exist in community.

Simple, Aiden thought. Too simple.

A large farm house stood on the right side of the road. Two stories, wooden frame, painted grey. It had a covered porch with no furniture other than a small clay flower pot; the begonias looked like they were starting to wilt.

Most homes in the country are on farm property. Some farms have livestock ranging from cattle and horses to pigs and lambs; others are strictly agricultural, a place where nurtured soil can produce a harvest of vegetables.

He got his focus back and kept his eyes peeled for the landmark that he and Dad searched for 17 years ago: Scarlet Lane.

After driving a few more miles, he spotted the street sign and turned left onto the small dirt road that went up a modest hill clouted with cedar trees. At the top of this hill was Dad’s log cabin.

Strange how it almost seemed like yesterday that he first pulled into this driveway. The cabin itself was relatively small, a simple two-story structure, roughly 500 square feet with a small covered deck. At age 13, it felt like a castle. Maybe more of a fortress. Castles evoked feelings of wonder and adventure; fortresses felt like prisons, and Aiden was held captive. Not by force, just discontentment. He didn’t like drastic change. Staring at the cabin through the windshield, he felt the same sentiment.

Aiden got out of the car, looked around and noticed that the half-acre property was equally modest. The surrounding cedar trees sheltered the cabin from storms, but also from the sun. A lone maple tree just to the left of the porch showed that September was indeed coming to an end, as a few brown leaves graced the driveway.

“Showing its age more and more,” Aiden said under his breath as he surveyed the property.

He pulled his hands out of his jean pockets, walked to the Civic, pulled out his duffle bag and made his way to the front door. The one detail he distinctly recalled was that the key was hidden under a loose floor board beneath the hand rail. Kicked up the board, pulled out the key and opened the door.

The small area room had a couch and a chair next to the wood stove in the far left corner. The adjacent wall had a step ladder that led up to the sleeping area. A small kitchenette was set in the opposite corner of the ground level. Surprisingly, the cabin didn’t smell too musty.

Aiden didn’t have to open the cabinet to know there was no food. Hungry as he was, he had no interest in looking around the cabin and reminiscing, so he dropped his bag, grabbed his keys and started up the car. Time to go grocery shopping.

He got back in the car, drove down the dirt road and turned onto Canoe Drive. The road continued through farm land and eventually curved south along the ocean, bordering the shoreline for several miles. The sun was beginning to set in front, casting an orange hue across the water that reflected back to the clouds.

Aiden rolled down the window. For some reason he felt drawn to the salty scent he rediscovered on the ferry ride.

There it was again.

Refreshing.

Just over the crest of the hill, he saw the town – the commercial hub of the island. Not much more was needed for a population of 3,000. To Aiden it all felt so foreign.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, all things considered.

Canoe Drive continued on past the town so Aiden hung a left onto Borough Boulevard.

That was it – the town is known to locals as the Borough, Dad had said.

It was coming back to him.

Slowly.

The main drag through town was bordered with small trees. Condos, homes, small businesses, studios and restaurants. Then he spotted the grocery store. All he really needed at this point.

Aiden parked the car in the small lot, got out and locked the doors.

“You’re not from around here, are you,” came a deep voice from behind him.

Aiden turned around and saw a tall man getting in a grey pickup truck.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You locked your car,” the stranger said. “Nobody locks their cars here.”

“I just got here today,” Aiden responded, “still getting used to ‘the island way.’”

The stranger rolled his eyes to the side. “Fearful mainlanders always lock their cars and look over their shoulders. They’ve got a stressed-out mentality when they come here.”

Aiden was taken back by this guy’s brashness – his first encounter with an islander in over 17 years.

He couldn’t think of a response before the stranger shut the driver-side door and drove away.

So much for island hospitality, Aiden thought.

Even in a safe island community like Cielo, he lacked the trust to leave his car unlocked.

Not out of prejudice or anything personal against the island culture itself; he had just developed street smarts over the years.

Aiden would rather lack direction than walk through life blindly, as it seemed the locals did so carelessly.

At times, it struck Aiden how trust was lacking in most areas of life. Be it personal security, romantic relationships and even platonic friendships.

Even when it came to a beat-up Civic with nothing valuable inside apart from McDonalds coupons and a few CDs.

He couldn’t bring himself to care, so he walked through the store’s automatic double-door entrance, picked up a shopping basket and made the rounds. At this point all Aiden really cared about was dinner so he started at the meat and produce sections. He picked up a sirloin steak, a handful of mushrooms, a couple bell peppers and potatoes. There were some fresh herbs on sale, and he picked up thyme and basil.

Rounded the corner and found the spirits aisle. Scanned the wine selection and noticed a local section, with “Cielo Vineyards” gracing the matte label. He chose a bottle of merlot.

Aiden may have lost his sense of trust and wonder but he picked up a sense of taste.

Cooking gourmet meals was his creative outlet. Thanks to Dad’s inheritance, Aiden pursued that hobby more through an increased grocery budget, meaning more alcohol for cooking. Wine has a way of drawing flavor out of anything it comes in contact with.

Following Dad’s death, though, alcohol was a side-effect of Aiden’s deepening apathy and depression. He didn’t care to fight the cravings.

He grabbed a second bottle off the shelf.

While the Borough was far more subdued than the city life Aiden was used to, it did guarantee short check-out lines. He walked up to the cashier and placed the groceries on the conveyor belt. The cashier, a lady who looked to be in her 50s, scanned the items.

Quick and painless.

“$52 even, please.”

So much for painless.

“$52? For just these groceries?” Aiden asked in shock.

“Yes, sir. The bottles are $18 each, the steak $6 and the produce comes to $10.”

“Isn’t that a little steep for produce?” he asked.

“Not when you buy local,” the cashier responded. She looked Aiden in the eye, then softened her gaze.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“You’re the second person to ask that in the last 10 minutes,” he said.

“Sorry, not trying to pry,” she said. “Just a little insight into how things work around here: a box of local produce isn’t just a box of produce. This is the heart and soul of the farmer. Time and energy are poured into the craft.”

Here comes the hippie island rhetoric, Aiden grumbled to himself. “So I’ve heard. It’s ‘green,’ I get it. It’s just steep price to pay for a meal.”

She held his eyes with hers. “You consider yourself an investor?”

Aiden didn’t have time for this; his rolling eyes made that clear.

“I like to make my money count, and I enjoy quality. That what you’re looking for?”

The cashier, seeming to have lots of time on her hands, went on. “Islanders live...they live within the environment, for lack of a simpler phrase.” She spoke gently, but with conviction. “People invest themselves deeply into bringing out the best of the island, be it farming, construction, painting, cooking – you name it. When the island’s at its best, nothing can compare with its beauty. But if neglected or poorly attended to, the island loses its luster. It becomes barren.”

Aiden struggled to connect the dots, but he pressed on. He may get socially withdrawn from friends and family, but dialog with strangers was something he could handle.

“I’m failing to see the connection between a ‘barren wasteland of an island’ and overpriced groceries,” he said.

She looked at him again with the same relaxed but strong expression. “That’s what happens when we start importing cheap crap from the mainland. Like it or leave it. That’s just how things are on Cielo.”

“Well Granola it is,” Aiden responded with a mix of sarcasm and disdain. He gave her his Visa card, signed the receipt and turned toward the exit. If his first two interactions were any indication, idle hands aren’t the devil’s playthings but rather a state of being on Cielo.