Free On Little Wings by Regina Sirois Page A

time.” Sarah pulled over and parked so I could look longer. An annoyed car zipped past us with a rude swerve. “They think we’re tourists, coming to look at the fishermen,” Sarah said with a laugh, nodding to the disappearing car. “That’s why they got mad.”
    “They don’t like tourists?” I asked in surprise.
    “Not …really.” Sarah let the words out grudgingly.
    “Why?”
    Sarah deliberated, opened her mouth and closed it again thoughtfully before delivering a prudent answer. “Smithport is an old place. It is fiercely proud of its history and it tends to be just a bit … exclusive. Newcomers aren’t exactly embraced.”
    My pride rankled at her words. “So they don’t want me here?” I challenged.
    “Oh, no!” She said with a relieved laugh. “You do not fall under that category at all. There are a lot of people curious to see Claire’s daughter. You are a true Smither, without a doubt. Even if you didn’t know it.”
    “A what?” I asked
    “Oh, a Smither. It’s what we call each other. So,” Sarah said happily, as if all my worries had been put to rest, “do you want to see Shelter Cove now?”
    I nodded, my eyes still riveted to the men on the docks. They moved with a sharp focus, never still, never distracted. I wanted to stay longer, walk down the crooked planks for a better look, but Sarah reversed the car back into the street.
    The road to Shelter Cove followed the rocky banks, unwilling to leave the side of the ocean after working so hard to find it. Some scrawny pine trees tried to obstruct the view by pushing between the water and the street, but they didn’t get far. The ocean reappeared again, watching me, following me, tugging her foamy white skirts along the jagged rocks to keep up with the car. Her restless body defined everything in sight. Her waves crashed against the broken boulders that glistened like beached whales. Her endless blue framed the boats on the horizon, painting the heavy, metal vessels with sentimental strokes. Even the sky seemed nothing more than a massive looking glass for the ocean to admire her swirling face, the clouds imitating the waves as they heaved across the azure dome.
    The houses farther down the road lacked the grandeur of the structures on Main Street, but did not have the shabby, run-down feeling of Shanty Street. Here they nestled into the trees, contented and natural. No neighborhoods existed in Smithport, only clusters. A few homes huddled together, followed by the untamed wilderness, followed by another group of buildings, like tiny, inhabited galaxies scattered across the universe of the landscape. Sarah turned down a gravel road with trees nearly touching their tops high above the car. Haven Lane. Turning one last time, the car coasted into a short driveway and sat idling before Sarah slowly turned the key and killed the engine.
    “This is it,” she said. The square yard pushed the trees away from the house, but could not tame the sand and rocks. Grass grew intermittently between the sandy bare patches and clustered stones. In the middle of the struggle between lawn and wilderness stood a bright, orderly home. A small brass plaque reading Shelter Cove est. 1901 hung beside a faded, red door. The thin, white paint did not completely obscure the sheen of weathered wood, but every imperfection felt carefully calculated to add to the charm. Two colorful, decorative floats, just like the ones littering the boats on the docks, swung from the porch railing and flower boxes sprouted red pansies beneath the windows framed in black shutters.
    Sarah didn’t speak while I took it in. The silence pressed in on my ears, but I couldn’t break it. I felt the Past push against the car window, its hands thrust to the thin glass, waiting to clasp me the moment I exited. I would meet ghosts here. Not the kind that haunt and wail, but the ones that make you remember. The very air seemed to be a memory. I could never explain it, but I felt it in the