Swing and a Mishap (Summersweet Island 2)

CHAPTER 3Shepherd

“That’s a swing and a miss right there.”“Hey, Shep! I thought that was you. Good to see you again, man.”

I happily smile and shake hands with Kent Freeman, a guy who was two years younger than me in high school and who now teaches social studies at our alma mater. I chat with him on the sidewalk in front of Starboard Sweets for a few minutes before continuing on down Summersweet Lane.

Shaped like a bean in the Atlantic a few miles off the coast of Virginia, Summersweet Island is around four square miles, has seven hundred year-round residents, and two main roads: Summersweet Lane, which I’m currently on, that crosses perpendicularly in the middle of the island, taking you across the longest length from north to south, and Ocean Drive, which takes you vertically up the middle of the shortest length of the island east to west. Ocean Drive will take you from the ferry dock—golf cart and bike rentals and public beach down on the lower west bank—to the golf course and the one upscale hotel on the other side of the island on the east bank. Summersweet Lane’s north and south banks are for the permanent residents and where the houses, long-term cottage rentals, schools, vet, hospital, and other residential necessities are located. The stretch of Summersweet Lane right in the middle of the island that I’m currently walking on is what everyone considers downtown or Main Street. That’s where you’ll find a couple of bars, a diner, a pizza place, one Italian restaurant, the best ice cream stand in the entire world and where I’m currently headed, the grocery store, three small motels, and short-term cottage rentals. As well as a handful of other tourist spots and places for the locals to hangout, unwind, or grab stuff they need until they can get to the mainland or get something delivered.

“Well, hey there, Shepherd! I didn’t know you were in town. Your mom just had lunch with mine last week.”

Stopping on the sidewalk again, this time in front of the arcade, I spend a few minutes talking with Tisa Graves. Our mothers have been in the same book club that does more wine drinking than book reading since Tisa and I were both in diapers and shoved into playpens to fend for ourselves while our mothers day drank and read porn.

On my last trip here, I only went to the high school baseball field and then returned to the ferry dock to go back to Washington when the game was over, keeping my identity a secret so it wouldn’t be splashed all over the tabloids by morning. Now, I have no problem flipping the brim of my baseball cap around to the back of my head, smiling and greeting old friends. It’s not just because it’s a Wednesday night, summer is almost over, and pretty much all the tourists have thinned out, making it less likely my whereabouts will be made public anytime soon. Summersweet Island residents are very private and protect their own. As soon as I got off the ferry earlier, one of the local police reassured me he’d make sure no paparazzi stepped foot on the island, and he’d do everything he could to keep hordes of fans away if word got out.

I didn’t keep to myself a few weeks ago because I was worried the entire world would find out I was on the island by midnight. I kept it to myself and swore her family to secrecy, because I didn’t want Wren to know I was on the island until I was standing in front of her and she wouldn’t be able to run away from me until I had a chance to apologize. Now that I’m making my way down Summersweet Lane, past the arcade, the candy shop, and the diner, and the bright glowing lights from the Dip and Twist are in sight, I don’t care who sees me or knows I’m back.

Aside from the few places to eat, almost all the businesses have shut down for the night. Usually when you walk down Summersweet Lane at 10:00 p.m., it’s bustling with people and activity. Golf carts are whizzing by on the street, tourists are shouting and laughing, island music is playing from the loudspeaker mounted above the tourist information booth, and all the lights from all the businesses are flashing brightly. The end of summer means shorter hours for everyone, the dark storefronts and closed signs on all the windows I walk by and the chill in the air from the ocean breeze making this island feel almost like a ghost town aside from the handful of locals walking home from a late dinner or out for a late-night stroll. No matter what time of year it is, the Dip and Twist never closes before ten and, if there are customers, never closes until the last person is served. Where other businesses strictly close by seven this time of year, since they get less and less customers the later into the season it is, the only ice cream shop on the island will remain open late into the night, because Summersweet Island residents can’t resist its treats and will make damn sure they make up for the loss in tourist revenue during the chilly months.