Adermoor Cove Part 2: Love Hurts - 2. Chapter 2

“Hey buddy, are you okay in there?” the guy on the other side of the door asked. There came out sounding like theugh.

Lane snickered, wiping his face with the back of his cast. Even after a month of living in Colorado he was still getting used to the Northern accent.

The guy knocked on the door again, making it shake. “C’mon, guy, my little boy out here needs to use the can.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Lane said impatiently. He pulled the nozzle on the toilet and watched his lunch, a half-finished coney dog, swirl down the drain. He wondered where the waste and bile went: did it go in some tank in the bottom of the ferry or was it shot straight out into the ocean? He managed to get to his feet, holding onto the side of the sink with his good arm. The floor swayed underneath his feet, constantly tilting in one direction and then the other; his midwestern senses couldn’t handle the constant motion of being out at sea.

The man on the other side of the door was round-faced and burly. He backed off cautiously, as if Lane was a gangster with a switchblade in hand. “C’mon, son,” he said, guiding a little blonde haired boy into the bathroom. The door swung closed and latched itself from the other side.

Lane made his way to the deck of the ship, gripping the ramp with his good hand. He’d bandaged and splinted his hand as best he could, not wanting to risk going to the hospital. The doctors would ask too many questions and want to take his information. He’d done the best he could. At the moment all he cared about was meeting this Vanessa Stanton and hearing whatever she had to say.

He now stood at the front of the ferry, breathing in the sea air. He decided the sea air was worth the ride: No air smelled like the sea, salty and cleansed; and there was no better sound than the crash of the waves or the cry of the seagulls. On the horizon he could see the pier of Adermoor Cove: a line of sails and buildings underneath a watercolor sky that was steadily growing darker. As pretty as the sight was, however, Lane was not hopeful - he’d been disappointed too many times.

A man in a yellow vest and cap came out onto the deck. He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted, “Docking in fifteen minutes, folks! Fifteen minutes!”

Other than an older, Lane was the only person on the deck.

Twenty minutes later Lane drove slowly through the town square, trying to get a feel for this new, strange and alien place he’d come to. Street vendors were winding down for the night; drapes were being pulled over shop windows. A group of young women around Lane’s age sashayed down the street in matching low cut denim shorts. Lane had come into town just as it was shutting down.

Lane was exhausted. He hadn’t slept much in the three days it took him to drive from Colorado to Maine. Once he’d stopped in a wooded area, tucked away from the interstate. He would drift off for a moment with the driver’s seat tilted back as far as it would go, only to jolt awake because he swore he heard something pacing around outside: something rabid and starving. Then he would surf the news channels on the radio, searching for news on The Rainbow Beret. So far all anyone was willing to say was someone had burned down The Rainbow Beret and The Mountaintop Inn and two bodies had been found. The next night Lane took the risk of staying in a hotel.

Lane was desperate for a place to lay his head down and sleep. He pulled the Mustang over to the side and searched for a hotel on Google Maps. The closest place to where he was, was The Clam’s Pearl. It would have to do for the night.

The Clam’s Pearl was a Victorian house with a wrought iron fence surrounding the property. The house was painted blue with white shutters around the windows and a wrap around porch. The place looked cozy and quiet - like the kind of place where nothing could go wrong.

Lane parked his car a block away and rooted around in the glove compartment until he found a ziplock bag with a number of fake I.Ds, social security cards, and birth certificates, all sorted and held together with rubber bands. He flipped through them all, trying to decide which one he would be today. John Kent, Zach Hanek, Jack Stephens - matching the driver’s license with the social security card.

The gate gave a slight squeal when he opened it. He walked up the meandering concrete path to the porch. Windchimes swung in the cool night breeze, tinkling. A sign read LEAVE YOUR WORRIES AT THE DOOR BEFORE YOU COME IN!!! Are you sure you want me to do that? Lane thought before stepping inside.

Before him a staircase led up to the second floor of the house. A crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling washed the blue welcome mat in pale light. To the right, the parlor was furnished with retro 50’s looking furniture, potted ferns, and a large bookshelf filled end-to-end with books. A young woman stood at the registration desk. She looked up at Lane, her face glowing with the light from the monitor. Her hair had been cordoned off into dreadlocks; black clothes, rose vine tattoos that snaked up both her arms, and a nose piercing belied the cheerful cozy look of the parlor.

Lane fought not to feel a certain kinship.

“Looking for a room?” she asked in a bored voice.

“Do you have any available?”

“Yes. Tourist season is over - at the moment we have nothing but ghosts.”

Lane felt a shiver go up his spine. “Uh, how much is it for one?”

“Sixty-five a night.”

“I’ll take a room for the evening.”

The girl clicked her tongue several times, her face slack. Lane got out the ID - the one he’d chosen from the car - and set it down on the counter. She picked it up and studied it with a frown. Lane felt a nervous jolt pass through him - what if she was somehow able to tell it was false. He kicked himself silently. No one but a cop who knew what he was doing would be able to tell - and he made a point not to get stopped by the cops.

“John Kent?” she said slowly, letting the sound roll off her tongue. She looked up at him, squinted, scrutinized. “You don’t look like a John...”

“Who do I look like?”

“I don’t know...like an Eric maybe. But definitely not a John.” She passed the ID back and he gave her the cash.

“Here’s your key.” She handed him a key ring with a single key dangling from it. “You get room six. Room’s upstairs at the end of the hallway on the right. You should have everything you need upstairs.”

“Thanks,” he said slowly. And he began to climb up the stairs, glad to get away from her.

The room was well-kept compared to some of the shitty dives Lane had been in over the last year: blue cloth curtains, a comfortable looking king-sized bed, with a framed painting of a sea boat surrounded by crashing waves hanging above it. There were even two chocolates lying on top of the fluffy pillows.

Lane went into the full bathroom attached to the room and emptied his bladder. He’d been on the road for hours, wanting to get to Adermoor Cove as fast as he could; to stay awake he’d stopped at several gas stations to fill up on caffeine and sugar. Eyes burning from exhaustion, he sat on the edge of the bed and ate the chocolates; he threw the golden tin foil wrappers carelessly on the floor. He’d pick them up whenever he woke up.

Without getting undressed, he reached over, turned out the light, and stretched out on the bed. It wasn’t long before the crash of the waves carried him to sleep.

...

Lane started his morning with a joint in the bathroom before going down the stairs to the parlor of The Clam’s Pearl. The goth girl was gone and in her place was a middle-aged blonde woman.

“Do you know where I could find something decent to eat around here?” he asked; he was starving.

“Well,” she said, glancing at the computer screen, “it’s noon, so I would recommend The Treasure Trove just the next street over. Most affordable place you can go for lunch. Are you a tourist?”

“I guess I am,” Lane said, feeling a bit cautious.

“Then welcome to Adermoor Cove. I hope this town treats you well.”

Me too, Lane thought.

He stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight, strolling past Cape Cod houses with neatly trimmed lawns and well-kept gardens. Out of the corner of his eye he watched a young couple pushing a stroller across the street. The young mother, her hair tucked beneath a bright pink wool cap, made cooing noises at the young girl.

Lane couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a trivial yet obvious show of affection. It reminded him of how cut off from civilization he’d been for the last two years. He tried to ignore the out-of-place feeling that came with being in a new place where he knew no one and no one knew him.

He reached The Treasure Trove.

Inside was a life-sized animatronic pirate. He stood on a rock, hands set proudly on his hips, his eyes staring in fury. A plaque at the bottom of the statue named him Captain Adermoor; beside the plaque was a red button that said PUSH ME. Well if you insist, Lane thought, and pressed the button. The pirate sprang into mechanical life, shouting, “AHOY MATEY!” and “WHERE BE MY TREASURE!”

Lane was unsure why, but something about the pirate unnerved him a little. He wondered if there were children who had pushed the button and ran to their parents crying.

A young woman who appeared to be close to his age walked up to him. She wore a blue waitress uniform; her dark red hair pulled into shoulder-length pigtails. The name tag on the front of her uniform said ANNABELLE. Lane liked her immediately. “Just yourself?” she asked.

“Yep,” he said.

She asked him if a booth was okay; he said it was. She took him to a booth at the back of the restaurant. Several pairs of eyes followed him curiously as he passed by.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Annabelle asked conversationally once he sat down.

Lane raised an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’ve lived in this boring town my whole life. I know everyone around here - and when someone new comes along everyone knows about it.”

“I’m just visiting.”

She beamed at him. “Well welcome to Adermoor Cove. What would you like to drink?”

He ordered a Coke. She told him she’d be back with his drink. Mouth watering, Lane looked over the breakfast menu. It had been days since he’d had anything substantial to eat. Half an hour later he was shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth and munching on buttered toast when the door to the diner opened and a cop strolled in.

Fuck me! Lane dropped his fork, uncertain of what to do. His first thought was to get out of sight as quickly as possible. The bathroom seemed like the best bet since it was just feet away - if he hurried he could duck out of sight. But the diner was crowded and he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. Don’t lose your shit, he told himself. Just sit there and be cool, act natural.

He took a deep breath, forced his thundering heart to slow down. He watched Annabelle walk up to the cop. From the way they smiled at each other, Lane could tell they were well acquainted. Everyone knows everyone around here - and when someone new comes along everyone knows about it. Annabelle’s words. Had Lane made a grave mistake by coming here?

The cop followed Annabelle, heading for the empty booth just in front of Lane. Shit, he’s coming this way! Lane took a sip of his coffee cup; the cup at least partially hid his face. Suddenly he found he wasn’t so hungry anymore.

After taking the cop’s order Annabelle came back to Lane’s table. “Finished?”

“Yes, I think I am.” He chuckled apologetically. “Guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

He glanced again at the cop. Unfortunately the guy wasn’t bad looking. Late thirties from the looks of it, tall, broad-shouldered. His arms filled the sleeves of his blue uniform, like he worked out. Olive-toned skin, dark brown eyes. Probably Hispanic. Dark, close cropped hair touched with a tint of grey. Just Lane’s type. But as a rule he stayed away from cops. He didn’t have anything against them personally but he didn’t want to go to jail either.

The cop saw him looking and smiled. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Lane said hastily. He slapped a five dollar bill on the table for the waitress. He could feel the eyes of the cop on his back as he walked by. So much for staying cool, Lane thought, ducking out into the sunlight.

Minutes later Lane stood in a phone booth with the pier in view. Grateful to be out of plain view for the moment. He worried, perhaps irrationally, the cop would decide to find him and question him on who he was and what he was doing in town.

He flipped to the S section. It didn’t take him long to find Vanessa Stanton’s address since she was the only Stanton listed. Once back in the car he used the Google Maps app on his phone to pull up her address.

He followed the directions the GPS gave him, driving up a winding road lined with pine trees. After several miles the topography changed from woods to farmland. Cattle and horses lazily roamed the fenced in properties; a farmer stopped at the entrance of a faded-red barn to watch Lane’s car pass by. Seeing it all reminded Lane of the cabin in Michigan. He turned up the radio to distract himself from the feelings of guilt and anger that tried to sneak up on him.

Finally the lighthouse came into view, standing tall beneath a dark blue sky. It waited for him at the end of the road (there was a neon yellow sign that read DEAD END on the right of the road). He came to a dirt driveway which led up to the lighthouse, past a small shed. He came to a stop behind a station wagon and looked up at the tower, open-mouthed. He’d had a passing glance at a lighthouse before but had never been this close to one. He looked down at his phone and thought about calling Vanessa - but what was the point when he was already sitting in the driveway?

What if it’s a trick? a voice whispered in the back of his head; he was relieved it wasn’t Charlie’s voice. What if you drove all this way for nothing?

He ignored the voice and climbed out of the car. He could hear the crash of waves coming from close by. The lighthouse practically sat on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean. He could see a hint of the water from where he stood. A soft gust of wind caressed his cheek gently as if ushering him forward, encouraging him. He walked across the lawn to the porch. A rocking chair rested against the wall next to the door. He imagined Vanessa, an old woman who liked to tie her hair up in a bun, sitting in the rocking chair; maybe she liked to listen to the cry of the gulls as she knitted; or maybe she was simply too sick to do any of these things.

The wooden stairs creaked slightly underneath his feet. Each passing second was more tense than the last. Lane kept wondering if he was making a mistake, if he shouldn’t just turn around and leave - leave the lighthouse, leave the island, leave the country. Why not, I have a fake password. I could go to France, change my name to Pierre. No one would know to look for me there.

But I’m already here. I might as well hear what the old lady has to say.

He raised his fist and knocked on the door. Five seconds hadn’t passed before a young woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform answered. “Hi,” she said. “Lane Hardy?”

“Yes,” Lane said slowly.

“I’m Audrey, Vanessa’s nurse. She’s been expecting you. If you want to come on in she’s just up the stairs.”