This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
In need of a break before opening the next box, Tom stepped over to the screen door to survey the surroundings. Across Gull Lane, to the south, were more homes like his, built on pilings with carports underneath, wrap-around porches surrounding the upper floors, and for some, a crow’s nest on the roof for optimum viewing. They sported a variety of colors: A couple shades of green, a sky blue, a hot pink, a lemon yellow, a mauve and a bright purple. The salmon color of his home fit right in.
The historic life-saving station, one of the main attractions at his newest place of employment, was just beyond their backyards and featured a more conservative color scheme. It was painted charcoal gray with white trim and white shutters. Thick shake shingles covered the roof that supported a watchtower, also painted charcoal gray with white trim and topped with a pelican-shaped weather vane.
He stepped onto the porch and took a few steps to the corner, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. The closing mechanism was among a few items in need of fixing.
Looking directly east, toward the ocean, the neighboring houses and their yards dominated his view. He could see slivers of ocean between the homes lining Mariner’s Way, a road running parallel to the beach, when looking slightly left of his neighbors, to the northeast. Fortunately, Mariner’s Way and the houses stopped at the museum property, which stretched to the beach and provided an unobstructed view of the ocean to the southeast. He planned on spending a lot of time looking in that direction.
Tom turned slowly to his left until he faced north, where more houses with similar designs and color schemes lined a street parallel to his. He continued his slow rotation to the left and when his back was turned to the ocean, he brushed his shoulder-length hair away from his face and raised his right hand over his brow to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked west. Three cars, two heading south and one heading north, passed by on Route 12, the island’s main thoroughfare. The traffic would be a little heavier by the time the Memorial Day weekend ushered in the summer vacation season, but with spring just a few weeks old, an air of tranquility prevailed.
The Seaside Marina sat across the two-lane highway, on the sound side of the island. Less than one mile of land separated the sound and the ocean in this section of Seaside. Through conversations and some research of the area, Tom had learned that the distance between the two bodies of water during the past 200 years had been as much as a mile and a half and as little as three-quarters of a mile. The island was always shifting, always changing shape.
A breeze coming off the sound picked up, adding a biting chill to an already cool afternoon. Even with the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky, his thin t-shirt was not nearly enough for the current conditions. Tom crossed his arms and scanned the surroundings for another moment before returning inside and noticing he missed a call. He looked at the number on his cell phone. It was a local number and the caller had left a message.
He dialed his voicemail and listened:
“Hello Mr. Miller. My name is Jake Lamonica. I’m a reporter for the local newspaper, The Seaside Beacon. Welcome to town and congratulations on being named director of the Seaside Life-Saving Museum. I would like to interview you this week and introduce you to our readers. Let me know when you have 30 minutes to spare. I would be happy to meet you at the museum or we could meet here at The Beacon office at the Seaside Mall.”
Tom was expecting the call. The chairman of the museum board had told him the renowned journalist would be in touch.
He returned to the kitchen where three unopened boxes remained and set the phone on the counter. He opened the box labeled glasses and began placing them on a shelf above the toaster oven. The utensils were next and as he loaded them into a drawer to the right of the dishwasher, he convinced himself he was ready, or at least he would be in a couple of days, to answer any questions asked of him. He picked up the phone and tapped the call back button.
The reporter answered on the first ring. “Newsroom, Jake Lamonica speaking.”
“Hello Jake, this is Tom Miller, the new director of the Seaside Life-Saving Museum. I would be happy to talk to you Wednesday morning if that works for you.”
“What time?” Jake asked.
“How about nine? We can meet at the museum,” Tom said.
“Let me see. . . . Yes, that works,” Jake said. “I’ll see you then. I plan to bring a camera to snap a few photos of you too.”
“That will be fine. See you then.”
Thoughts of how the interview might go ran through Tom’s head as he unpacked the plates next and then went for the small box near the pantry, the one containing the only food he brought with him — a box of spaghetti noodles, a half-empty jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread, a box of cereal, a few cans of soup, two cans of tuna fish and a mostly full bag of pretzels. He could make do with the slim pickings for one night, but he was anxious to do a little exploring and decided it was time for a road trip, one that would include his first dinner out and a grocery run.
Seaside had a small grocery store and a couple of convenience stores, but Avon, a bit larger town 20 miles to the south, had more to choose from. Tom headed that way. Shortly after leaving the Seaside town limits, signs greeted travelers to the national seashore. Sanddunes and occasional glimpses of the ocean replaced scattered development on the east side of the highway while a combination of marshland and pine forest occupied the west side, with occasional glimpses of the sound.
Route 12 also featured wide shoulders and Tom was looking forward to riding his bicycle along the stretch, which in addition to being scenic, was flat. The only thing flat in his previous hometown was his driveway. The rest of the time he was either straining up a hill or coasting down one.
At a public beach access, he pulled into a mostly empty parking lot to have a look.
Tom followed his shadow along a winding, wooden staircase that led to a walkway over a dune. The walkway took him to a deck with benches and a couple of faucets for rinsing sand off legs and feet.
A man, a woman and their dog had the beach to themselves. Tom watched for a moment as the dog, perhaps a black lab, dashed into the waves to retrieve a tennis ball. As the dog made another sprint into the surf, Tom’s stomach reminded him it was being abused. He headed back to the car already anxious for his next visit.
Scattered development returned on both sides of the highway as Tom passed the “Welcome to Avon” sign. He pulled into a strip mall that had both a restaurant and a full-sized grocery store.
*****
It had been a long day by the time he put the groceries away, but thoughts about Wednesday’s interview made him a little uneasy. He would sleep much better if he put in some time preparing. He opened a beer and turned on his computer with plans to brush up on his talking points, but then got the urge to learn what he could about Jake Lamonica.
Information about the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner was abundant. He had his own website and his history was also well-documented across the Internet. In a career spanning more than 40 years he had traveled the globe and, in addition to the Pulitzers, had won an Emmy Award as host of a TV news show and a variety of other prestigious awards.
After graduating college with honors, he took a job with the Associated Press and went to Africa to cover a range of humanitarian crises. He won his first Pulitzer at age 32 for opening the world’s eyes to genocide in parts of Africa. After a number of years there, he was assigned to the Middle East to cover a variety of conflicts. A bomb blast in Afghanistan nearly killed him and he returned to the U.S. to recover.
When he was able to work again, he was assigned to The White House to cover national politics. He won his second Pulitzer for uncovering widespread corruption in campaign funding. His work resulted in jail time for a handful of lawmakers and staffers and influenced changes in campaign finance rules.
Lamonica became a frequent guest on a bevy of network news shows and spent a couple years co-hosting one of them. The show quickly topped the ratings as Lamonica proved he was a gifted broadcaster too.
Citing health issues, he announced his retirement about seven years ago and moved to Seaside. Three months after his arrival though, The Seaside Beacon reported that the “one and only Jake Lamonica” had decided to come out of retirement to try and save “the island’s number one source for local news.”
Tom yawned and stretched, then noticed he’d been researching Jake Lamonica for nearly two hours. He chugged the last couple sips of beer number two and headed for the bedroom.