Page 67 of A Change of Location
“She’s a lovely dog. I’m glad you kept her.”
“I’ll let her know.”
***
Martin’s headache, the product of jet lag and dread, accompanied him from Massachusetts to New Hampshire, and he doubted it would subside before he entered Hannah’s native state.
She broke her silence to ask his mother about her current commissions.
“Before I left La Rochelle, identical twin boys sat for a double portrait. So wriggly, like puppies. I finished that one but had to cancel the August sittings. If parents don’t mind my working from photographs, I hope to take on a few projects to complete by Christmas. Is that the ocean underneath this bridge?”
“The Piscataqua River. It separates New Hampshire from Maine. If you’d like to stop for lunch, I know a place on an inlet near Kittery. Part of the outdoor deck is covered. It’s shady, and there’s usually a breeze. They serve fried clams, lobster rolls, crabmeat salad, and lots more.”
“That sounds perfect. Doesn’t it, darling?”
“Quite.” He’d never been less interested in food.
Picnic tables painted in rainbow colors covered the waterside restaurant’s large outdoor deck. After placing their orders, Isobel inspected the Lobster Pound, where water-filled bays teemed with crawling crustaceans, claws bound by rubber bands.
Martin followed Hannah, who had wandered across the dining area to watch a man tie a motor launch to the dock. Resting his elbows on the wooden rail, he said, “This excursion is what she needs right now. I hope we won’t inconvenience your parents.”
“I doubt they know the meaning of the word.” She put a hand to her hair, tossed by the strong breeze, and faced him. “My small way of reciprocating. You provided me with refuge in Somerset.”
Unable to hold back, he blurted, “God, I’ve missed you.” He wanted to run his fingers through those flyaway curls and kiss her pink mouth and press his palms to her round bottom. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”
“I haven’t either. But there are... obstacles.”
“What, specifically? I know you’re not working.”
“Not yet. I have prospects, thanks to Liz.” Her attention veered to the opposite shore. “Look over there,” she said, pointing at towering evergreens. “Do you see the bald eagle?”
“No. Where?”
“At the top of that giant pine, perched on the snag—the bare branch—near the top. I’ll get my binoculars.”
Off she went, racing up the steep ramp and climbing a set of wooden stairs to the roadway.
“Abandoning us so soon?” his mother called, coming towards him. “What did you say?”
“She went for her binoculars, to get a closer look at an eagle. I didn’t know she was a twitcher.” He scanned the treetops, silently cursing the invisible bird for interrupting a crucial conversational moment. “I don’t see it.”
“On a branch, quite high. Oh—there it goes.”
He watched the enormous dark shape glide above the woodland and out of view. Clutching the wooden rail, he confided, “I’m in love with that woman.”
“Yes, darling.”
“And I’m worried about you.”
“That’s pointless, when we don’t know whether there’s any reason to be.”
When Hannah returned and learned her quarry had vanished, she promised future opportunities to observe America’s national bird.
“I’ll take you to a place where they forage for fish to feed their young at this time of year. Ospreys, too.”
Tucking in to thickly battered onion rings, Martin held out hope for a private bird-watching expedition. He was pleased to see his mother polishing off her crab salad.
Amply fed, they climbed back into the Subaru. Beyond Portland, Hannah left the turnpike to follow a winding roadway bordered by dense forest. Most of the dwellings were constructed from wood, painted white or gray or pale blue, with a neatly cut lawn, colorful flowerbeds, and productive vegetable plots. Farmhouses and their outbuildings were large. Fields of maize stretched to the horizon. Holstein cattle grazed the meadows. He identified equestrian properties by their outsized stables, extensive paddocks, and indoor riding facilities.
