It was still hot outside but the cold spray from the ferry's wake cooled Alison's skin. She leaned against the metal railing on the upper deck. The sun was low in the sky; it was starting its descent somewhere behind the island. Peaks Island grew larger in her field of vision as they made their way towards the dock. Once the boat let out a loud hiss and a metal buckling sound, it came to a stop. The passengers moved out slowly, a mass of people. A lot of people, Alison thought watching from the deck above. They were bottlenecked then they dispersed once they got on to the wooden dock and started up the hill to the main road. She waited even after the most of them were off the ferry. The upper deck was empty, and now the cars below were being directed out one by one in a single line out to ramp on the wharf. Once nearly everyone had disembarked Alison made her way down the metal stairs and pulled her bike from the rack.

There were two men who worked on the ferry and in the few weeks she'd been in Maine she'd come to recognize them and exchange smiles or hellos. One of the men was older, around her father's age. The other was closer to her own age, maybe 25. She knew his name was Kevin although they'd never been introduced. She'd heard the other man call out to him from the engine room or he'd yell Kevin's name from the lower deck. Those first few weeks on Peaks Island, Alison had taken the ferry into Portland everyday -- looking for a part time job at a restaurant or a couple of times she had worked temp office jobs in town. She gave up looking for work and since then she mostly she rode her bike around Portland. Once she'd even taken her aunt's old car onto the ferry and drove up and down coastal Maine. She had never been to New England before and from what people had told her Maine had it's own culture. She agreed. Nearly everyone who worked in a store or restaurant had a sort of brusque impatience. Some were downright rude. Alison was from California, northern California. It wasn't like  she hadn't witnessed her share of attitude or arrogance. But that wasn't what the people in Maine were. They were sort of mean. No smiles. Stern looks. weathered faces. One time a woman at a deli counter yelled at her, finger pointed to the sandwich board. "Read the menu. Don't ask questions." A lot of the people Alison encountered in Portland city proper were perfectly normal and Peak's Island was friendly enough. Most of the homes there were summer places and inhabited by wealthy people or renters. The friction was mostly apparent in the small coastal towns up and down the coastline--old time Mainers.

She loved Peaks Island; it was beautiful. Nearly every house was on or near the water, the blue-gray Atlantic surrounded the rocky shore. There were private, preserved areas that were easy to get to; Alison often rode her bike around the island and pulled off on to a road and walked down to find a secluded beach, usually rocky but always with a sheltered place to sit alone and write.

Alison was a writer.

The two men who worked on the ferry were there every morning at 8:00 and went back and forth from Peaks Island to Portland all day until after dinner time. The younger of the two, Kevin, was handsome. He was completely different from any men she'd known in college and she could guarantee there were no men like him anywhere in the state of California. While on the ferry, she'd look up from a book or journal, adjust her sunglasses and sometimes she'd see Kevin looking over at her. It was that feeling of attraction that was harmless and subtle. It just added a little something to her morning. If she had the chance she'd look up over her book, through her sunglasses and she'd examine him. Maybe they both were like anthropologists studying the habits of inhabitants of a remote culture. When she did get the chance to look at him, she noticed how strong he seemed. He was taller than her and his skin was tanned from being out on the water all day. His hair was a light brown and faded by the sun.

She'd realized at some point during one of those voyages between Portland and Peaks, that Kevin was going to ask her out.

She could tell he wasn't arrogant—in her 20 minute analysis to and from Peaks Island. When she realized that fact, everything about him made sense. Still, Kevin wasn't Alison's type. Maine wasn't her type of place. Feeling like a foreigner made everything somewhat fictional about her experiences there. Alison had come to Maine with the sole purpose of being alone and writing. She told all her friends in California that she'd be gone for the summer and would likely not be in contact again until Fall when she returned. She knew that she could have stayed in touch easily with social media. In fact, she was the type to post lots of pictures of her life, every day. ordinarily she was a very social person and that was precisely the reason for this sojourn. She needed to think. She needed to write. It was temporary, but now that plan was starting to change. Once she'd settled in the cottage, she thought maybe she'd even stay longer. Alison had this idea that she would remain there for some time, write a book and then another. It was a beautiful place to write a first novel and she hoped that leaving her old life for a little while would break the terrible inertia that had taken root in California. She could tell Maine would be inspiring any time of year.

Alison's great aunt had a large house and a small cottage on a few acres on Peaks Island. Aunt Meredith rented out the big house during the summer and kept the cottage for when family wanted to visit—no on ever did. Alison's aunt had inherited the real estate and had no serious interest in spending time there. Alison's mother had told her that aunt Meredith had been looking for a caretaker. Someone to stay in the cottage and manage the summer house rentals. This would involve showing the place to prospective renters, talking on the phone with them, scheduling it out for the summer and cleaning when guests left. She'd also have to be available to coordinate repairs with the handyman if needed and stock the place with toilet paper, soap—that sort of thing.

Ordinarily Alison would never have been able to stay alone in a cottage on the water. She was the scared type, her parents always had said it was because she was a writer—she could consider the possibilities that weren't likely . Make connections that weren't there—push her imagination towards a frightening plot. Old horror movies scared her and at first when Aunt Meredith told Alison's mother about the cottage, Alison had said no way, but come to find out, although you needed to take a ferry out to the island, it wasn't remote at all. It was almost like any other Portland neighborhood. It was actually zoned as Portland city proper. So, while there was open space and plenty of bike paths that led out to the rocky coast, there were also neighbors very close by. That was true in the case of the cottage. It was right up against another small year-round house. Both shared beach space out front. A woman named Mary lived in the place year round. She was an artist, and her husband Daryl was a science fiction writer. They had two small wooden studios on the property. Daryl's was close to the Alison's cottage and she knew when he was out there writing because he liked to listen to Opera while he was working. Alison hoped to get to know them well. Even before she'd met them she'd already come to think of them as a long lost aunt and uncle.

The larger house that Aunt Meredith owned was a little ways up a rocky path and sat on several acres. It had its own beach. That house was much larger. It was a show place. When she inherited the place, Aunt Meredith was advised to have the house renovated, updated and decorated. Her mother recalled seeing pictures of of it before the remodel; it had been a large, rambling place but in disrepair. Despite it's beauty Alison could have never stayed in the big house alone; she would have been terrified in that big house surrounded by property that -while was very beautiful during the day with its expansive lawn and rose gardens, with its patio and lush path out to the beach- at night all she could imagine was darkness on all sides, the rhythm of the ocean lapping the shore. Taunting even. In the darkest hours she knew her minds capacity to conjure a less-than human deranged killer standing out there watching her through those large windows theat had no curtains or shades. It made her shudder to think about it.

Just as she was lifting her bike out she heard him. Kevin  the ferry boat operator.

"Need some help?"

 Alison realized she'd never heard his voice before that and she didn't know why but she found an intimacy in it. She turned to him and smiled. "Oh sure. Thanks."

When he walked over to her and stood before her, she felt smaller and more delicate. It was likely his height. He stood about 6'1 and she was only 5'5'. It caused her to look up at him when they spoke. She was also smaller framed, thin. He lifted the bike out of the rack, placed it on the ground and held it by the handlebars.

"I can walk it out for you." He offered.

"Oh. I can do it, but...sure that would be great." Alison smiled. She found his help sweet. He had a gentleness about him. It seemed, although she couldn't know, but it seemed the cause of this tenderness was her. Because he liked her. He walked the bike out of the dimly lit, metal deck interior that still smelled like car exhaust. A bright sunny day assaulted them as they exited the boat. The harbor smelled like the ocean. He stood holding the handle bars.

"Oh" he said and shook his head, "I'm Kevin."

"I'm Alison." She held out her hand for him to shake and he smiled. She could tell it was because her gesture seemed somehow formal to him. He extended his hand and shook hers.

"Nice to meet you. I've seen you go back and forth. Did you just move here?"

Alison nodded and the wind caught her hair and blew it into her face. She pulled it back. "I'm here for the rest of the summer. I'm taking care of my aunt's summer rental."

"Not a bad place to spend the summer."

"Yeah. That's how I feel. I may stay longer. I'm working on a book."

"Is that right?" He seemed impressed. Kevin was about her age, she could see that otherwise he was very different from her. A part of her recognized that she made these comparisons from a place of judgment. For that, a little guilt eked in. She knew that she was in no position to judge anyone. Besides, it wasn't like he wasn't handsome. He was. The sun and sea water must have made his hair lighter in places. It complemented his tanned, slightly burned skin. He had green eyes and despite his rugged masculinity, she could tell in these few minutes they'd known each other that he had a quiet respect reserved for the girls he liked. Alison could tell he liked her. She'd seen chivalry before but Kevin's way was something all together different. Strong but devoted to a woman he loved, she imagined  if she were writing a character, a quintessential all american, working class boyfriend, he would be just like Kevin  

She was getting ahead of herself.

"If you do stay longer, it's cold here in the winter. The ferry ride back to Portland's a bitch." 

"it's only twenty minutes."

"Damn cold twenty minutes." He smiled.

"I'll bet it's pretty that time of year."

"Yeah."

Then it arrived. The awkward silence. There is never a perfect moment for asking a stranger if they'd like to go out on a date. The whole moment was so imbued with discomfort and fear.

"OK" she said.

 He was still holding the handle bars of the bike. "Oh. Yeah. Here's your bike."

She took hold of it and he released it.

He let out a breath and looked at her. "All right. I'll see you soon." He turned and started to walk away.

"Were you going to ask me out?" she called after him.

He turned back to her. He raised his eyebrows, started to say something but it didn't come out.

"I just thought that's why you walked me out. It's ok if not." She said. Alison didn't look down or turn away. She waited. Her behavior was close to that kind of demanding quality a spoiled girl has but it wasn't obnoxious. It had a sweetness despite how direct it was.

"Would you like to?" He asked.

"Really, you weren't going to?"

She could see he felt embarrassed. He nodded. "Yes. I was."

"I'd like to," Alison said. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Sure. We could ride our bikes around peaks and get something to eat."

"That sounds fun. Or, I can bring wine and get some sandwiches from the store."

"OK" He nodded and waited.

She laughed. "OK."

"So after the 4:30 boat?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Maybe I'll get the food in Portland and we can leave from here."

"Why don't you bring the wine—I'll bring the food."

Afterwards, Alison rode her bike back through Peaks Island. She thought about Kevin. She wasn't 100% sure about him. He really wasn't her type. In the few weeks that she'd been in Maine she'd become accustomed to his brand of of New England handsome. It wasn't the New England Yacht Club appeal; the pressed khakis and pale blue shirts, weather worn from sailing. It wasn't the ivy league baseball hats. Kevin's handsome was what you'd call rugged, working class. They didn't have men like that in California. There were working class men, of course but none that worked on fishing boats or repaired yachts. Kevin was a uniquely coastal Maine human phenomenon. 

https://youtu.be/9BpgTjpn_58