Page 106 of The Singing Trees
This life seemed too perfect, Annalisa thought, when a loud whistle filled the air. “What in the world is that?” she asked, glancing at Celia and Nonna, whose ears had perked up too.
“Ah, it must be lunchtime,” Glen replied, glancing at his Rolex. “That’s the fire station whistle. It goes off every noon and nine p.m.”
“You’re kidding?” Annalisa thought about Walt’s shop and those noon and midnight bells.
“That’s how you know the tourists from the locals,” Glen said. “The tourists are the ones who jump at noon.”
Tears filled Annalisa’s eyes, and she said to Nonna, “What are the odds...?” Was this Walt saying hello from his spot in heaven? Was this why he’d fallen in love with Bar Harbor in the first place, Graystone being as connected to time as his shop in Portland?
Annalisa felt the hairs rise on her arms, and she went and put an arm around Nonna. “We’re moving here, all three of us. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Chapter 39
THEFARMERS’ MARKET
Three months after they moved to Graystone, Celia had grown into a little handful, a mini-Annalisa always looking for trouble. She would throw temper tantrums that rivaled any that Nonna or Annalisa had ever thrown, and Annalisa was sure that God was paying her back for her devilish behavior as a teenager.
Now that the US was out of the war, the country was working its way toward a better place—even with the whole Watergate thing going on. If only Elvis was in a better place as well. To Annalisa’s great dismay, her favorite singer wasn’t taking care of himself and was going downhill quickly, gaining weight and losing his musical direction. She wished she could speak to him and tell him about her own journey and how there could always be light found ahead.
Annalisa, Celia, and Nonna had moved into Graystone in late May, only two weeks after first setting eyes on the place. Glen had chased after Annalisa most of the summer, until she’d finally convinced him that they’d be better as friends. It wasn’t that she was still avoiding love; it was just that he wasn’t the one. Now that she’d had the real thing, she couldn’t settle for less. But maybe one day...meanwhile, Annalisa was painting more than ever and had opened a gallery downtown that was already becoming the talk of the art community.
She’d proved herself as a curator just as she had as an artist and had found her niche by carrying works by artists who nearly dripped with passion. Though she had no set rules, the artists she worked with didn’t paint lighthouses or lobsters. Be it the abstract expressionist or the pop artist or the portraitist whose work hung in her gallery, they all worked with tremendous heart, so much so that a serious buyer couldn’t walk out of Annalisa’s gallery without wet eyes.
In constant search of new artists, Annalisa traveled all over New England, chasing leads from the gossip in the art community. When she found artists she wanted to represent, they looked at her like Annalisa had once looked at Jackie Burton, and those eyes of admiration and respect were what kept Annalisa going.
These trips over the summer were her chance to get a break from being a mommy, and there was no place she liked visiting more than Portland, which always reminded her of her journey. After a particularly fruitful two days in August—the Plymouth overloaded with new acquisitions—Annalisa stopped by the farmers’ market on the way home to peruse the new artist booths and to visit Eli and buy a cinnamon bun.
Annalisa was in a particularly saucy mood, and she’d been thinking about dating even more lately. Being back in Portland reminded her of that brave woman who had left the Mills to start a new life. The one thing she’d been missing was romantic love, and it had required quite the journey for her to admit that fact.
Now, she felt full of all types of love, from her relationships with her artists and buyers and friends to her daughter and Nonna and her family back in the Mills. She’d come to love the Mancusos so much that she often wished she could move them all up to Bar Harbor. They liked the Mills, though, and she couldn’t blame them. As much as she’d wanted to run from it, the truth was that she’d only been wanting to run from herself. The Mills had nothing to do with it. In fact, she was living the small-town life she’d run from, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
It was in these musings that life decided to disrupt her plans once again. Carrying a bag full of a variety of cherry tomatoes and a beeswax candle, she was working her way toward Eli’s booth when she stopped to check the time. She’d promised Celia she wouldn’t come home late.
She drew out Walt’s Waltham pocket watch from her purse. Three minutes past ten. She could be home before two if she hurried. She snapped closed the front of the watch just as someone called her name.
She turned to find Mitch Gaskins—Thomas’s best friend—looking at her. He sat on the hood of a parked car, holding an ear of corn. Several kernels were caught in his beard. The past gripped her like a strong hand grabbing her ankle while she was sleeping, and she remembered meeting him for the first time at the football game, while he was home after basic training.
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Annalisa.” He laid his corn down on a plate, slid off the hood, and reached for the cane leaning against the car. Had he been hurt during the war? Balancing himself, he came to a standing position and looked at her with an astonished grin. “Never thought I’d see you again.”
Annalisa smiled back and dropped Walt’s watch into her purse. “I can’t believe it. Mitch Gaskins. Is that really you?”
“In the flesh,” he answered. “Most of me, at least.”
They hugged, and Annalisa felt the murky waters of the past tugging her harder. She was happy to see him, but this was a reunion for which she was not prepared.
“Where are you now?” he asked, resting against his cane. “I figured I’d run into you if you were still here.”
“No, I left last year,” she said, glancing around, suddenly terrified that Thomas might be with him. “I’m up in Bar Harbor. I’m actually on my way back—just had to stop for a few goodies.”
“Bar Harbor? I never would have guessed.”
“You and me both,” she agreed. “And you? You live here?”
“Yeah. Ever since I came home.” He looked to his leg. “I took a bullet to the knee, so my tour ended early. My dad and I opened up a couple of auto shops, one near the mall and the other in South Portland. Thomas is here, too, you know?”
“What? He lives in Portland?” Hearing his name was a bucket of ice over her head. Her attempts to pretend like his name wasn’t all over her brain during their chat fell short.
“No,” Mitch said, rubbing his beard. “He’s still living up in Davenport, one more year to go at Weston. But he’s here at the farmers’ market. Did you see him?”
