Free Lifesaving Lessons by Linda Greenlaw Page B

and business is a five-minute walk from my front door. Kate is a master chocolatier. Need I say more? Black Dinah chocolates are the best, and nobody does pastry like Kate. The June opening of the café filled the void in their chocolate Internet sales and mail boat/UPS winter-shipping chaos in a nice way. The café is the first and only to offer islanders coffee and pastry and free Wi-Fi. (Until my neighbors opened their café, the only option for anyone seeking these things was sitting outside the Town Hall with a thermos.) I didn’t miss many mornings of coffee and scone or cinnamon roll at the café. Kate and Steve became part of my daily morning routine as our evenings together faded.
    A casual observer might note that the usual customers of the café were quite an unusual mix. But that is often the case here on the island. Our saltiest fisherman shares a table with our most noted Wall Street guy. The fisherman’s wife shares warm conversation with an upper-crust summer matron. There is no elite. I feel that magic at the café every time I step through the sliding glass door. The island is the only necessary connection. Being an islander—whether year-round, summer, permanent transplant, or indigenous—levels social, financial, and ideological playing fields.
    And to think that for the first forty-seven years of my life I knew Black Dinah as merely a lump, in fact a poor excuse for a mountain among a few others that cast rather short shadows on Isle au Haut or High Island. Now this relative pimple and its name denote something monumental indeed. Black Dinah is the result of a dream pursued. Hard work, perseverance, passion, and raw talent compose the entire business plan. And the chocolates . . . The chocolates are the perfect reflection of their creator. They are simply the best. Yes, this June was special indeed. And June quickly made way for July 1, the beginning of one of my favorite months.
    Saturday was donut day at the café, and I knew I would need to arrive early if I expected to actually get a donut. Dave Hiltz and Bill Clark would be there waiting for Kate to get out of bed so that they could have coffee and a few of her homemade delights and get offshore before the troop of little boys (including Aubrey and Addison) showed up to clean out the display case. I wasn’t surprised to see both Bill’s and Dave’s trucks parked outside of the café. Nor was I surprised by the greeting I received. Dave looked at me while tapping his wristwatch. “Good afternoon,” Bill said, with his usual lighthearted sarcasm. Bill’s smile is infectious and his blue eyes hold a perpetual twinkle that hint of mischief.
    â€œGeez! Must be nice to write for a living! Remember when you used to have to fish? When’s the last time you were up to see the sun rise?” Dave’s teasing, yet well-deserved jab was delivered from under a ball cap that had seen its share of bait and salt spray. His black goatee was always well manicured, and added a slight sinister air to his constant, fun-loving complaints. Complaining was Dave’s way of communicating. That’s just the way he is. “Well, you’re not missing anything. Fishing sucks right now. But you’re not gonna catch anything if you don’t get out of bed!” July being typically one of the slower months of fishing, I knew Dave and Bill would have been offshore by now if they had good reason to be.
    â€œI’ve been up for hours,” I lied. “I’ve done a day’s work before you haul your first trap.” I poured myself a coffee, splashed in a lavish amount of cream, pulled out a chair, and joined my friends while I silently calculated how many days it had been since I had hauled my traps. I took a deep breath and inhaled the delicious smell of whatever Kate was concocting in the kitchen, which was hidden from view by a curtain hung in a doorway. I looked at the glass