Page 1 of Holding On

Chapter One

Travis Russo

My sister Devon tried to make it all sound so easy on the drive back from Colorado. She flew out to Denver to see some old friends and “somehow” only booked a one-way ticket. So when my summer internship opportunity suddenly dried up, she was around to help me pack and drive back to Maine. It had become pretty clear once I arrived—and they saw me—that the married doctors at the veterinary practice were juggling second, and maybe even third, thoughts about having me stay the summer with them and completing a clinical with their practice.

The couple who ran the clinic blamed it all on Tufts—a paperwork screw up. The thing is, Claire, my other sister, had no problem enrolling me in her own practice, nepotism be damned. But she’s an alum. And even with the same last name, Russo, they probably didn’t realize we’re related.

Not true. Tufts had to know. I’m just being bitter.

The drive only took three days because we swapped turns at the wheel. Plus, Devon is a machine. All my sisters are driven, no pun intended. All four are incredibly talented, beautiful, and intelligent young women.

They’re also slightly overprotective of me, their only brother. And I’m the youngest.

This is why I say she “somehow” booked a one-way ticket. I bet they had a Russo-sister-huddle and decided the writing was on the wall and I would need support extricating myself from the situation.

All I know is I wanted to die when Devon launched herself into Cold Canyon Veterinary Hospital to give them a piece of her mind.

“This isn’t necessary,” I said, grabbing her wrist.

“Oh yes, it is.” And with that, she deftly twisted out of my grip. She must have forgotten how heavy the car door is. She couldn’t slam it the way she wanted to as she exited before walking toward the building. My old Ford station wagon has fake wood panels and is made of actual metal, so instead of the intended effect, it groaned and gently clicked shut. It was also packed with nearly everything I owned.

Three minutes later, she flung herself down in the passenger seat, her small face pale with red blotches, and her straight black ponytail whipping against her face.

“Done?” I gripped the wheel, realizing that was the wrong question. This wouldn’t be done for a long time. I’d be hearing about this for years. I tried a different tactic. “Feel better?”

“Yes,” she said, folding her arms.

“Good.” I turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life.

Quickly, she turned and kissed my shoulder. As she sat back in her seat again, her arms started to unfold. “Maybe,” she corrected herself.

***

Three days later, with Devon behind the wheel, her leg fully turned to lead by some invisible alchemy, we turn off Route 1 and close the last five-mile stretch to home.

I have to admit, as much as I’m pissed about the Cold Canyon fiasco, I’m excited to be back. I haven’t spent a summer in Maine since I started veterinary school, so it felt good to be rolling up Route 1, turning on 131, and heading south to the tip of the peninsula. The smell of Maine saltwater welling straight from the North Atlantic is like no other.

Devon gives a nod to the fire station as we fly by, and then we pass Molly Wilson’s miniature horse farm. Another tenth of a mile down the road Ts off. Go right and you’re in Echo Bay proper, with shops and the wharf and the briny smells of seaweed and seafood assaulting your senses. Turn left and you’ll be on the gravel road that runs by The Inn and half a dozen houses. Then the road dead-ends with a thin trail through some tall pines. Beyond that is our Christmas tree lot and a seaside garden my sister’s boyfriend, Finn Colton, established last year.

I haven’t even been to the garden. Maybe this summer. I did promise Claire I’d take some of our mother’s favorite stones and make a cairn along the edge that faces the sea, like a sundial.

But it won’t be so easy. She had rocks in the vegetable garden, rocks inside The Inn at Echo Bay—rocks Finn had left alone. I didn’t want to be left choosing stones for her on my own.

We park, and Devon kills the engine and sets the Ford’s parking brake. Then she twists around to shove the shoulder strap back. As she starts to open the door, she winks at me. Devon is not a winker. “You’ll never guess who’s spending the summer with us.”

I’m not up for surprises. As generous as Claire has been letting me intern with her, the position is still with my sister—my family—and my ego is bruised. I never get to bail my sisters out of anything, yet they rummage through my life to do what’s best for me. This is the burden of being the youngest.

I sigh. “Who? Just tell me.”

“Don’t be so mopey. Guess!”

“Geo?” George Hamilton had taken early retirement and lives in Stoneham just north of Boston. He raised us after our parents were killed. It would be great if he was out here for the summer.

“Nope, but,” she says, grabbing my forearm and giving it a shake, “super close!”

That’s when I sense movement in my periphery vision. I recognize her immediately, lightly skipping down the steps of The Inn, where the five of us started off growing up. The young woman is in a bright red two-piece and flip-flops, her long legs moving like an athlete’s. My sister Laurel and her young son, Cory, follow behind her.

It’s Maya Hamilton, George’s niece. Twelve years ago, she came for part of the summer and babysat me and Laurel so George could travel and look at colleges in New England with Claire and Devon.