FOREWORD

             My destination that October day was a bit far from my Boston office, which was just what I wanted.  I had decided it would take more than a two-hour jaunt to get out of the orbit of the nerve-wracking stress my editorial position dumped in my lap with every postal delivery or email announcement.   I am a freelance editor and ghostwriter but there are many times when I long to pull away from untangling others’ selective memories and attempt to write my own, with the exception of the rare case of compelling knowledge and truth, such as the one I was on the brink of discovering. 

A distant cousin of my mother’s recommended The Kingsleigh Inn in South Bar Harbor, Maine, overlooking the Somes Sound as the perfect getaway spot for healing frazzled nerves and resting one’s gray matter.    And for a divorced woman of a “certain age”, a safe place to hole up without being subjected to judgmental scrutiny.  I called the inn the next day and made a reservation for a long, four-day weekend before I had a chance to procrastinate and glance over at the slush pile awaiting my red pencil.  Within two and a half weeks, I was on the road, car windows down, my suitcase smug on the back seat of the BMW.  I had to smile at my reflection in the rear view mirror, watching my straight brown hair blow into tendrils then whip around straight again.  I couldn’t wait to pull out my new hiking boots and my Burberry plaid scarf and disappear into the tranquil hills, free from proofreader marks and author intrusion and erroneous syntax and usage, just for a few days.  By the time I drove through Bangor, I was letting the last fading shreds of items on my mental “to-do-list” drop off and slide right out the window into the wake of the wind my speeding car was generating.  I followed the signs east to Bar Harbor and ended up arriving an hour ahead of schedule, and parked at the foot of the outside stairway leading up to the quaint bed and breakfast nestled against the side of a hill.  I turned off the engine, and just sat there, listening to the cooling motor tick-tick its way back to a normal temperature.  When I opened the door and got out, my knees buckled and I took a very deep breath, clutched my weekender and climbed up the wooden steps to the glass-paned door over which hung a sign that said “Office.” 

After I checked in and basked in the warmth of the clerk’s radiant smile, I walked up another flight of stairs and unlocked the door to Room Seven.  The view was captivating and I didn’t bother to unpack and arrange my belongings regimentally as I usually did.  No, this was to be a breaking away from the habitual conformity.  I opened the suitcase and wrapped my Burberry plaid scarf around my neck, zipped up my all-weather jacket and headed out, rushing to beat the sunset.  I was hungry for space and cool fresh air in my lungs as deeply as I could inhale it.

I had spotted a narrow footpath leading from the parking lot below, up around the side of the inn and from thence angling up the hill behind the property.  I figured the view of the sound below would be even more fantastic the higher I could get, so I took off.  It wasn’t long before I attained a height up behind and above even the distant throbbing of humanity and the red and gold leaves welcomed me as they swirled around my ankles.  I forced myself to think of nothing and concentrated on my breathing.  I looked up to see a graceful red-tailed hawk gliding above the pines, swirling in parabolas, drifting on thermals, and I reflected he must be laughing to himself at the awkwardness of those of us who are earthbound and plodding along over rocks. 

The path skirted a grove of pines and as I followed the trail, I realized I was nearing the edge of a cliff.  I could hear the pounding surf crashing below and it was a deep pulsing, as if from the heart of the earth itself.  I timed my steps to the insistent thundering waves and my mind wandered along with my thoughts and suddenly I looked up and stopped short.  There, on a weather-beaten park bench placed near the cliff’s edge, a body was slouched down low, almost sliding off the slatted seat.  At first, I thought he or she might be dead.  I instinctively wanted to tiptoe back to the inn and avoid the confrontation I would have to make, either with a dead person or with a live one, since the only way to proceed was within whispering distance of the bench. 

The cold wind seemed to announce my presence with a powerful gust, whipping my scarf in two directions like a whirling dervish’s skirt.  A flock of gulls swooped up from the beach and split the air with their raucous cries, as if upset to find humans near their hunting ground.  I remember feeling the cloying dampness of the oncoming fog on my face, which had not been discernible while I was walking.

The man on the bench sensed my presence and turned, shoving one of his hands deep into a windbreaker pocket.  I stared into a pair of the most intensely penetrating  green eyes I had ever seen.  I deeply regretted disturbing his reverie, and felt guilty for interrupting his peace and quiet up here on this lovely cliff.
 
“Would you care to join me?”  The gentleman had stood up and was gesturing toward the bench.  “I’m not an ogre, you know.   I’m not going to eat you!”  His white teeth flashed in a friendly grin and I saw he was very handsome, obviously enjoying the scenery as I did, and I decided there was nothing to fear.