down to Brunswick. There was a little German restaurant on Chamberlain Street — the Wursthause — that was one of Ben’s favorites.
“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital and get checked over?” Julia asked as they walked across the lawn to Ben’s old, green Toyota, which was parked in the driveway.
Ben shook his head and said, “Not really,” as he opened the door for her and closed it gently after she sat down. Then he got in. When he started up the car, the radio came on. It was tuned to a rock station from Portland, but he lowered the volume so they could talk.
“Your father’ll be all right if you’re gone for a couple of hours?”
“We have a day nurse come in and stay with him. And —” Julia patted her purse. “I have my cell.”
Ben nodded and then backed the car out of the driveway onto the street. Julia and her father lived in a nice house, but it was new and modern with lots of glass for the views, the kind of house most locals — Ben included — always bitched about because so many had been built around town in the last few decades. The old-fashioned term for summer people — especially ones who moved to town permanently — was “rusticators,” but these days they were called “flatlanders” … and worse. Everyone around town grumbled about how the flatlanders were ruining the town.
On the drive down Route One to Brunswick, they mostly made small talk about politics and music and movies. Whenever talk came around to his time in Iraq, Ben changed the subject. He noticed that, when he asked about her life and how she had come to live in Maine, other than saying she had been born and raised in Waterbury, Connecticut, she was as elusive about her previous life as he was about his.
One thing he was happy to find was that his initial impression of her had been right. Besides being beautiful, Julia was bright and engaging and funny. She came back with several one-liners that had him laughing. But he also felt a sensuousness lurking below the surface that, given the chance, he was sure would come out. He hoped he would be able to explore this side of her sooner rather than later. In more ways than one, it had been a long, dry spell in Iraq.
“So,” she said, “Everyone in the Cove has a nickname. You’re Gunner.”
“That’s Gunna , ” Ben said with a smile as he exaggerated his Down East accent. “Say it right. Like ‘ lobstah ’ and ‘ chowdah .’”
Julia stared straight ahead. She appeared to be considering something, but then her face suddenly brightened. Turning to him, she said, “So if you were to give me a nickname, what would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ben said after a long pause. “I mean — it’s hard to say. I’d have to know you a lot better.” He took a breath. “To be honest, most of the nicknames we use are pretty mean-spirited.”
“How so?”
“They’re meant to … you know, razz people … make fun of them. Like the fat kid in school who’s called ‘Piggy,’ and —”
He stopped himself before he gave Bunny’s Dawkin’s nickname, “The Organ Grinder,” as another example.
“They get started as a way to remind the person about some flaw in their personality or something embarrassing that happened to them. After a while, they stick. Some nicknames … most people can’t even remember how people got them.”
“So you’re saying you can’t think of one for me?” Julia asked. Her expression had gone flat, and she stared straight ahead at the road. He noticed the knuckles of her hand clutching her purse were white.
“No … No … I’m just saying … It’s usually not a complimentary thing, is all. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”
“Or you don’t know me well enough … to know what my flaws are.”
“I haven’t seen any yet,” Ben said with a smile. “Then again, we just met yesterday.”
Julia returned his smile, making the lines around her mouth deepen. He was filled with a sudden urge to
“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital and get checked over?” Julia asked as they walked across the lawn to Ben’s old, green Toyota, which was parked in the driveway.
Ben shook his head and said, “Not really,” as he opened the door for her and closed it gently after she sat down. Then he got in. When he started up the car, the radio came on. It was tuned to a rock station from Portland, but he lowered the volume so they could talk.
“Your father’ll be all right if you’re gone for a couple of hours?”
“We have a day nurse come in and stay with him. And —” Julia patted her purse. “I have my cell.”
Ben nodded and then backed the car out of the driveway onto the street. Julia and her father lived in a nice house, but it was new and modern with lots of glass for the views, the kind of house most locals — Ben included — always bitched about because so many had been built around town in the last few decades. The old-fashioned term for summer people — especially ones who moved to town permanently — was “rusticators,” but these days they were called “flatlanders” … and worse. Everyone around town grumbled about how the flatlanders were ruining the town.
On the drive down Route One to Brunswick, they mostly made small talk about politics and music and movies. Whenever talk came around to his time in Iraq, Ben changed the subject. He noticed that, when he asked about her life and how she had come to live in Maine, other than saying she had been born and raised in Waterbury, Connecticut, she was as elusive about her previous life as he was about his.
One thing he was happy to find was that his initial impression of her had been right. Besides being beautiful, Julia was bright and engaging and funny. She came back with several one-liners that had him laughing. But he also felt a sensuousness lurking below the surface that, given the chance, he was sure would come out. He hoped he would be able to explore this side of her sooner rather than later. In more ways than one, it had been a long, dry spell in Iraq.
“So,” she said, “Everyone in the Cove has a nickname. You’re Gunner.”
“That’s Gunna , ” Ben said with a smile as he exaggerated his Down East accent. “Say it right. Like ‘ lobstah ’ and ‘ chowdah .’”
Julia stared straight ahead. She appeared to be considering something, but then her face suddenly brightened. Turning to him, she said, “So if you were to give me a nickname, what would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ben said after a long pause. “I mean — it’s hard to say. I’d have to know you a lot better.” He took a breath. “To be honest, most of the nicknames we use are pretty mean-spirited.”
“How so?”
“They’re meant to … you know, razz people … make fun of them. Like the fat kid in school who’s called ‘Piggy,’ and —”
He stopped himself before he gave Bunny’s Dawkin’s nickname, “The Organ Grinder,” as another example.
“They get started as a way to remind the person about some flaw in their personality or something embarrassing that happened to them. After a while, they stick. Some nicknames … most people can’t even remember how people got them.”
“So you’re saying you can’t think of one for me?” Julia asked. Her expression had gone flat, and she stared straight ahead at the road. He noticed the knuckles of her hand clutching her purse were white.
“No … No … I’m just saying … It’s usually not a complimentary thing, is all. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”
“Or you don’t know me well enough … to know what my flaws are.”
“I haven’t seen any yet,” Ben said with a smile. “Then again, we just met yesterday.”
Julia returned his smile, making the lines around her mouth deepen. He was filled with a sudden urge to