The road into Eastport narrowed to a single track between hawthorn and low stone walls, then slipped beneath an arch of pines that smelled faintly of salt and old leaves. Trisha watched the town reveal itself in the rearview: a patchwork of pale clapboard houses, a squat church with its steeple like a punctuation, and beyond them the long, flat mouth of the sea.
But first, there was the bridge.
"Here it is," George announced, his voice hushed with a kind of reverence. The minivan, after six hours of rumbling along highways and winding through the deep, endless green of the forest, slowed to a crawl.
Before them stretched the lake. It was vast, a great bowl of water so clear and still it held the sky and the encircling hills in perfect, mirrored replication. It wasn't a dark or foreboding water; it was brilliant, a shimmering expanse of cerulean blue and sun-kissed silver, channeling under the old timber bridge they were about to cross. On the far shore, the land rose into soft, forested hills, and nestled in the valley between them and the sea was Eastport, glowing white and serene in the afternoon sun.
"It's incredible," Trisha breathed, her earlier exhaustion forgotten. She rolled down her window. The air that rushed in was cool and clean, carrying the fresh, mineral scent of deep water and the distant, invigorating tang of the ocean.
In the backseat, Amelia finally pulled her headphones off, the tinny sound of her music replaced by the real-world symphony of a lone gull crying overhead and the gentle lap of water against wooden pylons. "Whoa," she said, the cynicism momentarily knocked out of her. She leaned forward between her parents' seats to get a better view.
Mike, who had been absorbed in his drawing, felt the change in the car's motion and looked up. His eyes widened. He tapped his mother's shoulder and pointed, his small face alight with wonder at the sheer scale of the water.
"See, Mikey?" George said, glancing in the rearview mirror. He signed, his fingers moving with practiced ease even as he drove. Water. Big. Beautiful.
Mike nodded, his own hands moving in a flurry of excitement. Blue. So blue.
They rolled onto the bridge, the sound of the tires shifting from asphalt to a soft, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum on the sun-warmed planks. To their right, the channel widened into the main body of the lake, where a few small, traditional dory boats were tied to rustic docks. It was a scene from a painting, impossibly peaceful.
"The man at the last gas station said they trout fish here," George said, his voice full of hope. "Maybe we can get a rod, buddy. You and me."
Mike nodded vigorously, already imagining the quiet companionship of sitting on a dock with his dad.
As they reached the end of the bridge, the town embraced them. The main street, Water Street, was lined with those same pale clapboard houses Trisha had seen from a distance, each with a storybook-perfect porch and vibrant bursts of flowers in window boxes—pink geraniums, purple petunias, and trailing ivy. The lawns were lush and green. They passed the park with its white bandstand, the hardware store ("Corbin's Mercantile – Est. 1910"), and The Salty Dog diner, whose windows gleamed and from which the faint, delicious smell of fried food wafted.
People moved at a leisurely pace. A man in overalls was painting a fencepost a fresh, crisp white. He paused, wiped his brow, and offered a slow, easy wave as the unfamiliar car passed. A woman with a basket of flowers waved from her porch swing. The welcomes were simple, unhurried, and felt genuine.
"It's like stepping into another time," Trisha murmured, her journalist's mind already filing away details: the lack of traffic lights, the pristine cleanliness, the sheer, unadulterated quiet.
"You found us!" a warm, melodic voice called out.
A woman was walking toward them from the pathway of a beautifully kept house with a "Smith" plaque on the gate. She was Black, in her late sixties, with a magnificent cloud of silver hair and a smile that was immediate and radiant. She wore a flowing, colorful caftan and moved with an energy that seemed to vibrate in the calm air. She waved enthusiastically.
George pulled the van over, a wide grin spreading across his face. "You must be Barbara Smith."
"The one and only!" she said, leaning down to peer into the car. Her eyes, kind and sharp, did a quick, friendly inventory of her new neighbors. "Welcome, welcome, welcome to Eastport! The whole town's been anticipating your arrival. I'm so glad you made it through the woods. Makes you appreciate the view when you get here, doesn't it?"
"It's breathtaking," Trisha said, feeling an instant and profound sense of relief. Seeing another Black face, and such a warm one, was a gift she hadn't known she needed. "I'm Trisha. This is my husband, George, our daughter Amelia, and our son Mike."
"A pleasure to meet you all," Barbara said. She focused on Mike, who was watching her with curious eyes. "And you must be the young artist I've heard about. I have a nephew, Elijah, who's twelve. Loves to draw comics. You two will have to have an art summit." She spoke directly to him, clearly and without condescension, making sure he could see her lips.
Mike smiled shyly and gave a small wave.
"Your new place is just down there," Barbara said, pointing toward the two-story brick building with the "Eastport Chronicle" sign. "The apartment upstairs is all ready for you. I stopped by and opened the windows to let the sea air in. And don't worry about groceries tonight; I left a welcome basket on your kitchen table. Some bread from the bakery, jam from my own berries, and a casserole you can just pop in the oven. No one should cook on their first night in a new home."
"Barbara, that is so thoughtful," George said, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you."
"Pish-posh! It's what we do here. Now, you all get yourselves settled. George, the clinic is the little white building with the green door right next to the Chronicle. Trisha, you come by the paper tomorrow when you're good and ready. No rush at all. We'll get you acquainted."
She clapped her hands together softly. "And your timing is just perfect! You'll be all settled in just in time for the festival."
"A festival?" Amelia asked, her interest genuinely captured.
"Oh yes, honey! Our Celebration of the Return. It's next week. There's a parade, a huge picnic down by the shore, games, dancing... it's the biggest event of our year. The very best way for you to meet everyone and feel right at home."
It all sounded idyllic. Normal. Wonderful.
As Barbara gave them final instructions on the best place to park to unload, George looked at his family. Trisha was smiling, her hand resting on his arm. Amelia was looking out the window at the quiet street with a new, contemplative expression. Mike was already back to his sketchpad, likely drawing the nice lady with the big, friendly smile.
The afternoon sun was warm and golden. The air was sweet with the smell of salt and blooming lilacs. The worries of their old life—the noise, the pace, the constant pressure—felt like they had been washed away by the beautiful, wide waters of the lake.
George put the van in drive. "Alright, team. Final stop. Home."