Still Water Read Free Page A

minute.” Henry rarely went into town himself. He kept his boat in a rocky bay on the southern tip of the island, and when he wasn’t fishing he was tending to his orchard and the new cider press he was building, which was mostly funded by the investment Matt had made in the venture. Though the amount was small it represented pretty much all the money Matt had. Henry’s cider was the best Matt had ever tasted, and together they planned to bottle it and sell it on the mainland. From small beginnings, as the saying goes.
    Henryjoined Matt on the porch. He was wearing jeans and the same shirt with its long faded pattern that he wore on most days. He had kind of a bandy legged gait, and friendly eyes. The lingering whiff of fish and smoke accompanied him wherever he went.
    “There’s coffee on the stove if you want some,” Matt said.
    Henry went inside and reappeared with a mug. They both looked out on the harbour, and the gulf beyond. The sea was coloured aqua, mottled in shades of light and dark, sometimes approaching emerald, until in the distance it changed, becoming a deeper almost midnight blue where the temperature changed. Already there were boats dotted about, some from St. George and others from nearby islands or the coast. Bass Harbor and Penobscot Bay lay to the north; to the far south; the Cape.
    “That’s a nice suit,” Henry observed.
    It was dark blue, one of half a dozen usually hanging in the closet from Matt’s days as a prosecutor for the DA’s office in Boston. It was the first time he’d worn a suit since moving to the island and he already felt selfconscious about it.
    “I have to see a client today,” he lied.
    “Uh huh.” Henry sipped his coffee. “You goin’ to that meeting tonight?”
    “I thought I might.”
    “Guess you’ll be seeing Ella Young there.”
    “I guess I will.” Matt wondered if the suit had been such a good idea after all. If it was so apparent to Henry that his intention was to make an impression on Ella, then he supposed she would see through him as well. “It’s going to be hot again,” he said changing the subject.
    “Yep.” Though Henry made no other comment his eyes shone with mild amusement.
    The woods behind them were mainly oak and maple, with some firs further up. To the west, over the ridge, it was mainly cedar. Much of the island was covered with woods and cranberry bog. Though there were several villages and a sprinkling of farms in the north, Sanctuary Harbor was the only town of any note. The island attracted a few summer people, some of whom had built big houses on the point. Matt’s own family had once owned a place there, where they had spent summer vacations. The rest of the year home had been Boston, where Matt’s father had run a successful law practice and his mother had occupied herself playing tennis and getting herself elected to the boards of various charities.
    The island hadn’t changed much. Its economy was based on fishing and the service industry around it. It was a working town. Unlike some other islands in the gulf, St. George attracted few tourists, and those it did attract came for that very reason. The few hotels and guest houses were clean and comfortable but they were rarely full. The stores in town catered primarily to the local population, and there was an absence of tourist trinkets and home crafts except for some scrimshaw, an art which was still practised, but these days by few. The bones they used to carve their sailing ships and intricate figures were from the occasional dead minke that beached itself somewhere around the island. The cottages on the hillside seemed to sag under the weight of their years and many could have used a lick of paint. Matt’s mother would have preferred a vacation home on the Vineyard or Nantucket or Cape Cod itself; but his father had disagreed. Once a year he liked to get away from it all, he said. To be someplace where he didn’t have to shave every day or worry he was going to meet