Page 79 of Love Bound

Or sometimes, "How to tighten a soft perimeter."

“Design a sting."

"Container sweeps," or "Safe routes to the airport."

This last one made me blurt out, "in Boston?"

To which he mouthed, "Seoul. Korea."

I'm slowly realizing he loves what he used to do and has always loved it. And now, he's doing more of it again. But I think he's torn.

Finn's also falling in love with Echo Bay. The herb garden is lush and full and he makes sure weeds never take hold over the granite stone.

Yesterday, I hung the picture of Allison up in a small alcove by the front door and helped him write a small description of who she was and the herb garden. I bought a pretty little white frame and printed off the dedication and found an acrylic display to slip it into.

I cried a little when he hung her picture, and he put his arm around me and kissed me. I wished I’d known her. One day, he said, one day he'd show me a video of her, but not yet. He isn't ready.

That's okay. I don’t think I'm ready either.

Laurel had helped him hire several of her friends to run the kitchen, though the decision was made to only offer breakfast this year. Now it's mid-June, and The Inn is about ready to open.

The first set of travelers, a family of four, cancels at the last minute. One of the kids has pink eye and the family is delaying their trip. I find this out while lunging Salty. Cory's little hands hold the lead and Salty trots around the pen as if he's been doing this his whole life. His lines are clean, his hooves are strong. His coat is glossy, and his eyes are always watching us with a soft eagerness to please.

"Oh, that's too bad," I say, noticing how Finn is hardly paying attention. I know he doesn’t need the money, but I thought he was looking forward to hosting his first real guests.

"It's fine. There's another group flying in from Portland next Wednesday," says Finn.

"And it's your birthday party time," interrupts Cory.

I hate my birthday. I never plan to do anything, but Cory's got a weird thing for dates.

Finn just stands there, the blue sky behind him, his face in shadow. "And why don’t I know this?"

I say nothing and kiss the top of Cory's head. It's wonderful he lets us do this now. Then, he drops the lead.

"Cory, what day is Aunt Claire's birthday?" asks Finn.

Cory looks up with bright anticipation doused with a little apprehension. He knows all about birthdays: presents, cake, ice cream, mixed messages, loud children, looks he can't understand, headbanging.

Slipping the halter off Salty I try with, "Oh we don’t need—"

"June twentieth," Cory says, throwing his hand up in the air.

June twentieth. The day Chloe disappeared.

Or, rather, the day we noticed she disappeared.

Geo had everyone get together at Drift End Beach near Tenants Harbor for ice cream and steamed lobster. Fires had been going nearly all day, tended by Devon and Travis, the pyros. Chloe was taking the bus from Portland and I was picking her up in Waldoboro, except she never showed.

Mom and Dad had died the December before and she didn’t have the guts to finish school. According to friends, Chloe bombed her final semester, packed up her car June first, and drove away in a borrowed car.

She just left us.

The bus she was supposed to be on came and went and I sat there for two more hours, using the gas station phone to call Greyhound, convinced she was dead. Her roommates had scattered for summer and no one had phone numbers for them. Geo was out of his mind. Travis left in tears. Laurel practically went catatonic, and it was nearly exactly a year later that Devon had leapt from the bridge.

All we ever learned was that Chloe took off and joined some religious cult in West Virginia led by some asshole with no pupils. That was how her ex-roommate Cheryl described him, anyway. He talked five girls out of not finishing school and took them away to some Jesus camp. And my family was never, ever religious.

So, no. "I don't really celebrate my birthday." I'm hanging up the halter, trying hard not to replay the day nearly a decade ago in real-time.