Goodnight, My Angel - Georgeotown Book IV - 14. GMA XIV

“I hate you, bruh.” Harley did not look happy while hugging Owen. The two of them and CJ had spent the previous few days together, most of the time on their motorcycles riding through the countryside around Laconia. Now it was time to part ways.

Owen took a step back but kept a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You know you’re welcome to come with us.” The ride to DC from New Hampshire was long enough Harley was heading south this morning and planned to spend a night with Chipper in New York City.

“Can’t and you know it. I need to get home. Promised Danno I’d spend a couple of days helping him complete the project he’s been working on. What with him wanting to move to Hawaii and shit. And I have to be at the dealership on Monday.” Harley started working with Danno while in high school. The owner of Rogo’s restored American muscle cars as a hobby, selling most of them but now and then adding one to his collection. Nobody knew what he planned to do with the ones he currently owned when he sold the bar and the attached warehouse.

CJ frowned and scratched his head. “I still can’t figure out why you keep doing this with him. It was good money while we were in high school, but you have a decent paying job now. I mean, you spend all your days wrenching on motorcycles, and then go tinker on cars with him.”

“I like it, bruh. It’s like working on scooters’ fun, but the cars are a nice change. It also means I won’t forget how to work on cages.” The arrangement had been lucrative for Harley. Danno paid him by the hour but also shared a small portion of the profits with him. It meant the young mechanic did not have to worry about spending money during the two years he spent training in Orlando.

“Okay. I wish you could stay, but I understand. And since this is the last car project… You have a safe ride, okay? When Ozzie and I get back, we’ll give you and Tank some help looking for a place. If the dads don’t have any apartments available, they might know of something else.”

Thanks to the people they hung around with at the motorcycle rally, CJ’s riding playlist had grown. Before sticking his helmet on, he made sure the connection between the Bluetooth earbuds and the phone was active and hit play. Kip Moore’s “Motorcycle” was queued up. “Too bad it’s about a wench instead of a stud.”

“What’d you say?” Owen lifted the front of his full-face helmet; it was tough to hear anything with it closed.

“Nothing. Talking to myself.” CJ gave his husband a thumbs-up and turned his engine on; it was time to get going.

Taking less traveled roads and stopping only once to stretch their legs and admire the bucolic landscape, CJ and Owen arrived in Freeport, Maine three hours after leaving the hotel in Laconia. LL Bean’s flagship store, across from the Tommy Hilfiger outlet, and a block down the road from the Polo Ralph Lauren one dominated the view. The white building with green awnings was by far the largest on Main Street. It might have been the primary thoroughfare in a small New England town, but it felt like an outlet mall.

“What are you looking for?” CJ insisted on the detour to Freeport for two reasons. He wanted to stop at the L.L. Bean store and the prospect of riding US 1. The same road that began in Key West, and he had traveled on so many times.

“The Liston tartan.” Owen sounded frustrated while flipping through the stacks of flannel shirts. “I’ll ask, but I don’t think they have it. These are all probably generic. I may end up buying the blue version of the one you’re getting.”

The shirt and a pair of Bean Boots—officially called Maine hunting shoes—were the reason CJ insisted on the shopping spree. His old pair of the rubber and leather footwear had been stolen from the back of his topless Jeep. The boots, manufactured in Maine since the early nineteen hundreds, were a fashion staple in prep and Ivy League schools; CJ thought they were the perfect shoes for when he had to trudge through wet or snow-covered sidewalks on his walk to and from campus.

“Okay, they don’t have it, so we’ll both have the same shirt but in different colors.” Owen bypassed the stack of iconic red and black Buffalo Plaid shirts and looked for his size on the pile next to them. “We can always dress up like lumberjacks for Halloween. Where to now?”

“Kicks.”

“Ugh. At the rate you buy shoes, we’ll need to make the master bedroom closet even larger before we move to our house.” Rearranging walls on the house’s third floor had allowed them to create an oversized storage space; a section had been designated for footwear.

“Asshole! Stop your bitching. I don’t own that many.”

“Says the man with every color PF Flyers hi-tops ever made. Hey, check those out.”

The sign on the table, rising above the displayed wares, read Hudson Bay Point Blankets. Owen and CJ both ran their hands over the soft, off-white fabric featuring stripes in green, red, yellow, and indigo. The coverings also had smaller bars in black near the edge, not running all the way across.

“I think the black ones represent the size of the blanket. I read about these a long time ago.” CJ’s eyes became somewhat unfocused as he imagined one of those on their bed. “Not sure I’d want it as a bedspread, a little too rustic for what we both like. Maybe for our place in Colorado. But it’d be cool to have a big one on the couch. We could use it in cold months when we cuddle to watch TV.”

Owen nodded while reading a smaller sign on the display. “The short black lines are called points. The more of them, the larger the blanket. Let’s get a king. We need to have whatever we buy shipped. There’s no more room on the bikes.”

“That’s cool. But I want to keep the flannel shirt with. We need to do laundry tonight, and I’ll wash it. I can wear it when we ride at night or if we hit another cold day.” Minimal storage meant minimal packing. Prior to departing Washington, Harley helped rig a removable sissy bar to CJ’s motorcycle, allowing him to strap a bag atop the microscopic passenger seat. The Harley-Davidson luggage doubled as a backrest.

They feasted on lobster rolls at a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant on a side street, and Owen vowed to eat nothing but the crustacean while in the state. Nearly four hours later, after riding along the rocky Maine coast on US Route 1, they checked into a cottage on Mount Desert Island; it would be their base of operations for subsequent days.

They were about to leave a voicemail when the phone signaled an incoming call from the same number they had just tried to reach. “Hello? CJ?” The voice sounded sleepy.

“Oh, shit! I forgot about the time difference.” CJ glanced at Owen sitting next to him and shook his head. “Sorry to wake you up, Silas. Go back to sleep. We’ll call you later.”

“No, no, no. It’s okay. Randy or Tyler will barge in my room any time now anyway. I need to get up and start getting ready.” With each word, the kid sounded more alert. “I’m graduating from high school today.”

Owen chuckled at Silas’ proud tone. “We know that, mate. This is Ozzie. CJ and I wanted to call and congratulate you before we started our day.”

“Thanks. Where are you?”

“Acadia National Park. In Maine. We’re at the halfway point of a two-week motorcycle trip. So what time’s the ceremony?”

“Ten. But we’re supposed to meet Randy’s parents and Ty’s brother for breakfast before then. CJ?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Thanks for what you wrote on the card. And thank you both for the leather portfolio. I love it!” Silas planned to enroll at the Art Institute of Chicago to study interior design.

“We thought it would come in handy. Something to carry drawings, swatches, and whatever.”

“It’s great! It even has loops to hold pens and pencils. I already put the fountain pen Abuelo Abelló sent as a present in there.”

“You got one of those too, eh?”

“Yeah, he said he bought the same thing for each of his sons and grandsons when they graduated high school. He told me I was the first great-grandson to get one.” CJ thought he heard a hitch in his nephew’s voice. He did not get a chance to ask about it. Tyler’s deep voice came through the connection.

“Time to get up, Silas. Take your hand off your dick and go shower. We have to meet the others in like an hour.”

“See? Told you they’d be waking me up. Guess I gotta go.”

“That’s okay, buddy. Ozzie and I need to go eat too. Listen, I’m not sure when, but we’ll see you sometime this summer. Tell Randy and Ty we want your input on the designs they’re working on for our house.”

“For real?”

“Hell, yeah. Just remember, the place’s rented now, so work won’t be done for a while. We love you, Silas.”

“Congratulations again, mate.” Owen and CJ smiled at each other. “He’s a good kid. Ready to call Patrick?”

“Yeah…” CJ scrolled through the contact list and tapped the entry for their friend.

“What’s up, CJ? Where are you guys?” Patrick was his usual cheerful self.

“Yo, Preach!” The new nickname for the Boston University student majoring in theology had stuck. “We’re in your neck of the woods. Acadia National Park in Maine. Means Ozzie and I have added two new states to our list of visited ones.”

“What’s the other one?”

“Hey, Patrick. It’s Owen. We were just in New Hampshire with Harley.”

“Oh, that’s right. So, what do I owe the honor of the call to?”

“We were thinking of stopping in Boston overnight on the way back. Maybe we could hang out a bit and have dinner with you, your mom, and Mac?”

“They would love to see you. And you know they would put you up too. One problem though, I’m not there.”

CJ was surprised. They knew Patrick had a summer job lined up in Boston. “You’re not? Where are you? What happened to the job?”

“I called, told them what was going on with Brad, and that I wanted to spend the summer in Washington to be near him.”

“Wow! Speaking of our favorite hero, how’s he doing?”

“Bah! Good days and bad days. They told us it would take time for his mood swings to level out, but there are times I want to strangle him. He gets weepy, and the rest of the day he’s useless.”

“We’ll make sure we spend as much time as possible with him when we return. If he acts up, I’ll kick his ass. So are you doing anything this summer apart from hanging with your brother?”

“Yeah!” Patrick suddenly sounded excited. “I landed a job with the Caps”—the Capitals were Washington’s team in the National Hockey League—“working in their summer camp for disadvantaged kids.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

“It is, CJ. We get a new group of kids every two weeks, and I get to teach them how to skate and a few basic hockey moves. I love it.”

“Okay, if you’re not in Boston, we’ll skip that stop. We’ll be home in a week or so. Give Brad a hug for us, and we’ll talk when we talk.”

“I will. Be safe, guys.”

Over breakfast, CJ regurgitated information about the national park he had read in the bathroom earlier. He had taken one of the National Park Service’s pamphlets available in the motel’s lobby the previous night. “Did you know this place was first a national monument and when it became a park it was Lafayette National Park before the name was changed?”

Owen’s response was limited to a grunt; his mouth was full of maple syrup drenched waffle. A sip of milk helped him swallow. “No! Really? That’s fascinating!”

“My sarcasm detector just went critical. Am I boring you already?”

“Never!” Owen’s chuckle made CJ shake his head but the smile did not falter. “Honestly, CJ. Every time we visit a National Parks facility, you pick up those brochures and like memorize them. You’re going to pepper me with facts and figures for as long as we’re in the park.”

“Fine! I’ll shut up.”

“No, no. And quit pouting. I do enjoy hearing what you learn. How about we wait until the first stop before you give me any more facts? Instead of oversharing this early, give it to me in smaller doses.”

“Damn! I keep forgetting you have a small capacity brain. We should look into an upgrade.” He ducked to avoid the sweet roll thrown at his face. “Just one more thing for now. Control over the area fluctuated between the French and English a couple of times. French Jesuits started the first permanent European settlement here. But the English burned it down. I’m glad the Brits didn’t pull the same shit with GU. I may have had to go away to school if they had. And then where would we have been?”

Even with maximum speed on park roads being thirty-five miles per hour, riding the twenty plus mile Loop Road should not have taken more than an hour. It lasted three. Every bend of the asphalt ribbon revealed a new vista they had to stop for, admire, enjoy, and photograph. The afternoon they spent in Bar Harbor.

“I see you were serious.” CJ chuckled as the server walked away after taking their order. “Different restaurant, same lunch.”

“I told you I was going to eat as much lobster as I could this trip. Remember how after Israel you said falafel tasted better over there? Even if what we ate in DC was excellent. Same with these critters. Must be a location fixation.”

“Don’t give up the day job. I don’t think you can make a living as a poet. So what do you want to do after we eat?”

The seafood restaurant’s menu described dishes in English, French, and Portuguese. When asked, their server explained French was for the benefit of their many Québécois visitors. Portuguese was due to the owners’ heritage. A multitude of immigrants from the sea-faring nation had settled in the New England region and thrived in the area’s fishing enterprises.

In keeping with the establishment’s roots, Owen ordered glasses of Portuguese wine. As soon as he placed the order, he tapped away on his phone while CJ smiled.

When the server delivered their order, CJ was enthusiastic. “Damn, that tastes good. Tell me about it, Oz.”

“You know something? I think Portuguese would be an easy language to learn. Between French and Spanish, I can decipher most of the strange words. The winery’s Quinta Covela. Not sure what quinta means, but I suspect it’s something about a fifth.”

“That’s right. In this case, I’m guessing it means farm. I’ve heard it used like that in Spanish.”

“Okay, this is a Vinho Verde. Not sure how to pronounce the first word. It means a young, white wine. Something bottled within like six months of production.”

“Pronounce it like niño. That’ll be close enough. I’ve heard other words with N H in them pronounced that way.”

“Okay… I like it when you teach me. It’s the 2017 vintage, made from avesso grapes, and cheeeap! Average ten bucks a bottle retail.”

“We need to get a case or something. I like it. Reminds me of a Liston Verdelho. Dry and kinda citrusy. But a little more mineral. Maybe green apples?”

“Brilliant, CJ!” Owen’s approval elicited a smile from his husband. “We’ll make a wine connoisseur out of you yet!”

“Wine snob’s more like it. Wine’s a perfect example of getting what you pay for. That last five-buck-bottle I brought home tasted like crap. And the funny thing’s people drink it. I’d rather have less of a better slash more expensive one than drink more of the rotgut.

“So, what do you wanna do the rest of the afternoon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe walk around and check the place out?” It was what they ended up doing. Bar Harbor was a quaint seaside town with typical New England charm; they strolled along Shore Path following the edge of Frenchman Bay from the town pier to Wayman Lane. When they inquired about a whale watching boat excursion, they discovered the charters would begin the following week. The town’s population swelled with tourists over the summer, but it was still early in the season, so some businesses remained shuttered.

At low tide, a sand bar connecting the town to Bar Island appeared, making it accessible to walkers. They hiked old roads and trails through the forested island, paying close attention to the time. More than once, they stood still and silent, listening to birdcalls and the whisper of the wind through the pines and birch trees. Warnings about visitors ending up stranded by fast incoming tides remained uppermost on their minds.

Back in town, they walked in and out of antique shops and art galleries. The hand-woven, sea-grass baskets purchased at Island Artisans they had shipped home. They also purchased a large watercolor reminiscent of Hudson River School paintings they thought would look great in the dining room once they moved to their house.

“You go on ahead, okay? It’s too early. Wake me up when you get back.” Owen tried to burrow back under the covers, but CJ yanked them off the bed.

“Oh, no you don’t.” They had reached a compromise the previous night. CJ relented on a pre-sunrise hike up Cadillac Mountain, and Owen agreed to accompany him as long as they rode the bikes instead. “A deal’s a deal. You can’t back out now. Come on, get up.”

The grumbling and arguing did not stop until they were sitting on the smooth, rocky top of Acadia's tallest mountain and the highest point on the Atlantic Coast. The spectacular views of Bar Harbor and Frenchman Bay as the sun climbed above the horizon at last put a stop to Owen’s complaints. “Fine. You win. I admit it. It was totally worth getting up early to see this.”

“Ummm, Oz? I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so.”

“Asshole!”

It seemed everyone they talked to claimed no trip to Maine was complete without seeing one. The Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse was on the rocky southwest portion of Mount Desert Island within the confines of Acadia National Park; it was their destination after breakfast.

The afternoon they spent traipsing around the fishing village of Bass Harbor, talking to fishermen, and watching boats unload their catch. Rugged, grunting men coiled ropes on their vessel’s deck, while buckets of fish were dropped into large, white chests filled with ice. The crews were mostly men, but a woman or two had infiltrated the male-dominated world. They stared in awe as the sun set over the water, and returned for dinner to the same restaurant where they ate lunch, wondering if they had seen the seafood they ordered brought ashore earlier in the day.

Saturday morning, they packed the motorcycles and headed north. Their ride flirted with the Canadian border that paralleled US-1 most of the way; whenever they glanced to their right, they looked at New Brunswick. Their destination, Fort Kent, was the northern terminus of the road that began in Key West. They took pictures in front of the sign marking the spot and checked into a hotel for the night.

Since neither had ever visited Canada, they walked across the international bridge for dinner in Clair. They discussed riding to Quebec City, but Lola being with them, meant they would have to backtrack if they left it locked in the US. Further north-of-the-border exploration would have to wait.

The return to Washington was fast; they rode interstates most of the way. It was also uneventful, except for the murder of crows that toyed with them south of Bangor, and the bone-chilling downpour they rode through in Massachusetts. Monday night, they slept in their own bed.