Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 36)
PART FOUR
Finding Himself
Who fails finds later triumph sweet
Who stumbles once walks then with care,
And who knows the place to cry “Beware”
To other unaccustomed feet…
chapter 15
Maine, September, 1977
Patrick’s search for a new beginning took him to the far reaches of Maine. Remote and beautiful, it reminded him in some ways of East Texas, though it was not as hot. The trees were just as predominant and he loved the lush landscape. Throwing himself into his studies, he went to classes, studied and worked in the campus library to help with expenses. Although he made few friends, he impressed his professors. With the credits accepted from Rome, his taking heavy course loads, and writing his thesis in the spring, he was able to graduate in August with his master’s degree. A week before graduation, his favorite professor, an older gentleman who had taught for almost forty years, called him to his office.
“Patrick, I have recommended you for a Congregational Church over at Hidden Harbor. It is very small, but I think you, with your youth and enthusiasm can make it grow. The building is historical; it has been there for years, but in those years, no one has really tried to reach out to the people. These people, as you know by now, are rugged individualists; it is a hard life. The population is made up of fishermen, artists, nature lovers and survivalists, but they need God as much as anyone. The right person can succeed there, and I think you are the right person.”
Patrick was elated. “This was just what I was looking for. The Maine seashore brings me serenity.”
“Good, then I’ll set it up.”
He called Stefano and Carmella to tell them he was being ordained on Sunday and then he called his parents.
Not many people from the outside came to live near Hidden Harbor, although there were plenty of tourists heading up to the Harbor, especially in the summer months when the whale watching boats went out. It was also a departure destination for boats to Nova Scotia, and a stopping off place for those going to Acadia National Park and West Quoddy Headlight at Lubec, at the very edge of the Eastern Time zone. But in the winter months he knew almost everything closed down because of the extreme cold. Most restaurants and hotels closed by the end of October and many didn’t open back until Memorial Day weekend and Patrick wondered how he would adjust. It could be a lonely area, but the locals who stayed told him they found ways of entertaining themselves. He laughed to himself, another foreign land.
≈≈≈
The first person Patrick met at the Seaside Diner, one of the few places that remained open, was Carol. She had summered in Hidden Harbor with her parents when she was growing up and when things turned sour in New York City, it just seemed natural to make her way to Maine to continue her painting and photography. Although she still occasionally went back to the City to show her work at the gallery and to see her parents in Connecticut, she had lived here permanently for three years. A tall brunette with long thin legs but an ample bust, Carol had a fresh look, probably as a result of wearing very little makeup and pulling her long hair back in a simple pony tail. No matter how casual she dressed or how much she tried otherwise, her sophistication was evident. In some circles she had been described as having good bones and carrying herself well. Her eyes were the color of strong coffee, definitely too dark to twinkle or to give the slightest hint of emotion.
Because of her family’s financial circumstances, her father was a physician in Connecticut, she had been able to wear designer clothes, attend the best schools and travel extensively, allowing her opportunities and experiences she easily referenced in conversation. Yet in many ways, she was quite regular, a paradox of sorts.
Patrick found himself intrigued by her, and they talked over coffee for more than an hour. During the next several months they saw each other occasionally in town, generally finding their way to the Seaside for hot cocoa or coffee.
Their conversation always led to questions about her art and his assignment as the new congregational minister. He told her it was more difficult than what he expected because so few people remained in the coldest part of the winter and even fewer braved the weather to hear a sermon.
“I can’t say I blame them.”
“But you will visit sometime, won’t you?”
“Are you inviting me?”
“Sure. I thought you already knew that you were welcome.”
“Around here Patrick, people don’t assume anything. I suggest you get out and go door to door, create some winter activities and before long you might have a full house at that little white church.”
“I’ll do that, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“Sorry, but I’ve forgotten the question.”
“Will you visit the church?”
“Certainly Patrick, but it’s been awhile since I’ve been in a church. I hope I remember what I’m supposed to do,” she said, laughing.
Grinning, he teasingly instructed, “Just bow your head when everybody else does. Try to close your eyes and not look around during that time. It’s really easy. What stopped you from going?”
“I never really started. Oh, as a young girl I went some with my mother to the Presbyterian Church. My dad is an agnostic. It’s not that I’m not interested. I am. Traditional religion has not ever been my thing, although I’ve studied Eastern beliefs, different doctrines. As a philosophy minor, I’ve had my share of discussions.”
“I’d like to hear more sometime.”
“Well, I’m usually here about eleven on Tuesday mornings after I give my art lesson at the community center.”
On Tuesday Patrick was at the café long before 11:00, hoping that Carol would really show up. When she did, he immediately felt a little self-conscious. After all, she was from a wealthy family, one that not only admired fine art, but obviously owned a great deal of it, from what Carol had said. Patrick had tried to remember any art in his parents’ house and decided the best he could come up with was the free 8” x 10” calendar of Norman Rockwall pictures his mother brought home from the local pharmacy in December each year and hung on the kitchen wall.
When he finally got the courage to ask her for a real date, she said, “It’s about time, talk about a slow learner.” He laughed his deep laugh and let out a sigh of relief. At almost 28 years old, he knew it was silly to be nervous, but he couldn’t help himself. After all, it had been a long time since he had had a date.
They went to dinner at one of the marina restaurants and then afterwards back to Carol’s small house, a yellow clapboard cottage high on a hill overlooking the water. Colorful buoys hung on one side of the house and lobster boats bobbed in the bay below. The yard was a sea of flowers. They were greeted by the largest Maine Coon cat Patrick had ever seen, and immediately, the cat wrapped himself around Patrick’s leg, as if to check him out and decide on giving his approval.
Carol reached down and picked him up, “Peri, meet Patrick.”
“What’s his name?”
“His real name is Dom Pérignon, but I call him Peri. He was a gift from my friends, Fredrico and Marc, when I left New York.”
Looking around, he was charmed by the entire surroundings. Her art work was fabulous, the detail unbelievable. But it was her photography that really took him in. The faces were alive and told so many stories. He noticed a mystery in some where there seemed to be something purposely missing, not because of a lack of clarity on her part, but rather because of the angle from which they were taken. Many were reflective silhouettes, eerie in their mysticism.
As they shared a bottle of wine and talked until almost three o’clock in the morning, Patrick found himself wanting to hold her and stay the night. When she asked him not to go, he almost stayed but forced himself to return to his small apartment.