Chapter
1 ~ Mist
Morning
wasn’t her favorite time. But no time was. It began with little fanfare, little
fervor. Abby liked it that way. The stillness beckoned her to come out and
simply be. She could merge into the unfolding scene with little expectation. It
was quiet on the docks – a place to gather her thoughts, or not to have any. A
slight chill in the air caused her to shudder, then pull her russet colored
shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders.There
she stood, staring into seeming nothingness, alone in the silence.
The
water lapped effortlessly against the sides of the boat, its sound hypnotic and
soothing. It reached into the tortured recesses of Abby’s mind, seeking to
offer her some semblance of peace. She stared across the water, embracing the
stillness. Abby was fascinated by the morning fog, and how it obliterated any
delineation between water and expansive sky. This was Oregon. Its endless
beauty and intense natural forces were raw, primal, untainted. Her Uncle
Patrick had been right - it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen.
Yet, its splendor did nothing to kindle joy in her. The rugged scene inspired a
sense of loneliness, hopelessness, emptiness, smallness... as if she were the
horizon, lost in fog.
“Nice
morning, hm?” The greeting came from a few steps behind her. Abby cringed and
gritted her teeth. She didn’t answer; she didn’t want to be bothered. There was
no energy to spare for discourse, nor interest. Maybe he’ll go away?
Abby did not turn around, or in any way acknowledge she had heard him. The last
thing she wanted was to face another human being, to deal with their
expectations or judgments. Oh no... she just wanted him to go away.
“Ah, ma’am?” Reluctantly , she turned to face the
man behind her. Her cinnamon eyes narrowed, clearly sending the message she had
no desire for conversation.
“Yes,”
she replied in a cracked, annoyed voice. Clearing her dry throat, her mind
wandered briefly. What did I drink this morning? In the past few days,
since arriving in Winchester Bay, she had not said a word to anyone. She had
pretty much stayed on her uncle’s boat, dejected. And that was the point –
isolation, seclusion, rest, not discussing the weather with a local fisherman.
She didn’t want to be bothered.
“We
don't get too many newcomers around here,” his tone was warm and amiable. “My
name’s Craig, and you are...?” Abby wasn’t looking for friends, so his
reception was undeniably cool. As his gaze swept over her, he couldn’t help but
notice the indifference; as though he were a ghost, his presence barely
registering. He held out his hand, anyway.
“Craig
Port, Ma’am,” a more formal attempt. “Pleased to meet you.”
Abby's
lips twitched into an annoyed grimace as politeness forced her to take his
hand. When she shook it, she noticed his skin was rough; enough callouses to
show he spent time working. A long- sleeved flannel shirt, with frayed edges,
covered his athletic frame. The jeans he wore had a few holes , too. His leather boots were scuffed with a bit
of dried mud defiantly clinging to the rubber sole. The brim of his cap was
pulled down low over his forehead, darkening his green eyes in shadow. Above
square lips framed with smile lines, the curves of his bristled cheeks were
flushed crimson from being outdoors. Only the curls of his brown hair were at
odds with his relaxed demeanor; they did not seem the slightest bit out of
place.
“Abigail
Miles,” she offered in return. “I'm just visiting for a little while,” she
added, hoping this would dispel his interest.
“With
family?” Craig prompted, attempting to continue the dialog. Abby felt uneasy
with his question. He was overstepping the line of friendly curiosity into
being nosy.
“No,
no... my uncle... his boat,” she said in a hurried, dismissive fashion, not
wanting to reveal anything. “I really should be going.” Abby
1 ~ Mist
Morning
wasn’t her favorite time. But no time was. It began with little fanfare, little
fervor. Abby liked it that way. The stillness beckoned her to come out and
simply be. She could merge into the unfolding scene with little expectation. It
was quiet on the docks – a place to gather her thoughts, or not to have any. A
slight chill in the air caused her to shudder, then pull her russet colored
shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders.There
she stood, staring into seeming nothingness, alone in the silence.
The
water lapped effortlessly against the sides of the boat, its sound hypnotic and
soothing. It reached into the tortured recesses of Abby’s mind, seeking to
offer her some semblance of peace. She stared across the water, embracing the
stillness. Abby was fascinated by the morning fog, and how it obliterated any
delineation between water and expansive sky. This was Oregon. Its endless
beauty and intense natural forces were raw, primal, untainted. Her Uncle
Patrick had been right - it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen.
Yet, its splendor did nothing to kindle joy in her. The rugged scene inspired a
sense of loneliness, hopelessness, emptiness, smallness... as if she were the
horizon, lost in fog.
“Nice
morning, hm?” The greeting came from a few steps behind her. Abby cringed and
gritted her teeth. She didn’t answer; she didn’t want to be bothered. There was
no energy to spare for discourse, nor interest. Maybe he’ll go away?
Abby did not turn around, or in any way acknowledge she had heard him. The last
thing she wanted was to face another human being, to deal with their
expectations or judgments. Oh no... she just wanted him to go away.
“Ah, ma’am?” Reluctantly , she turned to face the
man behind her. Her cinnamon eyes narrowed, clearly sending the message she had
no desire for conversation.
“Yes,”
she replied in a cracked, annoyed voice. Clearing her dry throat, her mind
wandered briefly. What did I drink this morning? In the past few days,
since arriving in Winchester Bay, she had not said a word to anyone. She had
pretty much stayed on her uncle’s boat, dejected. And that was the point –
isolation, seclusion, rest, not discussing the weather with a local fisherman.
She didn’t want to be bothered.
“We
don't get too many newcomers around here,” his tone was warm and amiable. “My
name’s Craig, and you are...?” Abby wasn’t looking for friends, so his
reception was undeniably cool. As his gaze swept over her, he couldn’t help but
notice the indifference; as though he were a ghost, his presence barely
registering. He held out his hand, anyway.
“Craig
Port, Ma’am,” a more formal attempt. “Pleased to meet you.”
Abby's
lips twitched into an annoyed grimace as politeness forced her to take his
hand. When she shook it, she noticed his skin was rough; enough callouses to
show he spent time working. A long- sleeved flannel shirt, with frayed edges,
covered his athletic frame. The jeans he wore had a few holes , too. His leather boots were scuffed with a bit
of dried mud defiantly clinging to the rubber sole. The brim of his cap was
pulled down low over his forehead, darkening his green eyes in shadow. Above
square lips framed with smile lines, the curves of his bristled cheeks were
flushed crimson from being outdoors. Only the curls of his brown hair were at
odds with his relaxed demeanor; they did not seem the slightest bit out of
place.
“Abigail
Miles,” she offered in return. “I'm just visiting for a little while,” she
added, hoping this would dispel his interest.
“With
family?” Craig prompted, attempting to continue the dialog. Abby felt uneasy
with his question. He was overstepping the line of friendly curiosity into
being nosy.
“No,
no... my uncle... his boat,” she said in a hurried, dismissive fashion, not
wanting to reveal anything. “I really should be going.” Abby
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