The
Maine
Events
The Maine Events
By
Rodney Riesel
Publishedby Island Holiday Publishing
EastGreenbush, NY
Copyright © 2021 Rodney Riesel
All rights reserved
First Edition
This is a work offiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents eitherare the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Special thanks to:
Pamela Guerriere
Kevin Cook
Cover Image by:
Rodney Riesel
Cover Design by:
Connie Fitsik
To learn about my other books friend me at
https://www.facebook.com/rodneyriesel
For Brenda,
Kayleigh, Ethan
& Peyton
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter One
Allen Crane pulled into York Beach around noon on August 23.It was a Sunday. Two days earlier the weather report predicted a washout, butthat wasn't the case at all. A few puffy white clouds dotted the sky. It wassunny, and warm. He was surprised by the amount of traffic, and the amount ofpeople. He lowered his window in anticipation of the aroma of fresh salt air.He breathed in deeply. There was no salty smell, just the odor of dead fish.The brake lights in front of him came on, and traffic came to a standstill.Allen went ahead and lowered the rest of the windows in the old black Cherokee.
Frankie was asleep on the back seat, but he opened his eyeswhen he heard the hum of the window motor. His eyes slowly closed again, and aseagull cried out. Frankie was on his feet with his head out the window in aninstant. Two seagulls were on the sidewalk fighting over a dead crab. Frankielet out a low, quiet growl, followed by a few loud barks, as he fixed them in apiercing stare.
“Quiet down, Frankie,” Allen commanded.
The dog barked once more for good measure. He turned, andstuck his head between the front seats.
“Always gotta get in the last word, don't ya?” He reached upand scratched the old dog on the head.
The red Mustang with Massachusetts plates moved ahead aboutthree feet and stopped again. Allen did the same.
Why did I leave so early? he wondered, as he inchedalong York Street.
It was less than a five-hour drive from his hometown ofHerkimer, New York, and check in wasn't until three.
“What are we gonna do for three hours, pal?”
The Mustang rolled forward again, and Allen took his footoff the brake. He gazed out over the water. He could see the Nubble Lighthouseoff in the distance now. His eyes returned to the road.
“Jesus Christ!” he hollered, slamming on his brakes, anddriving Frankie's chin into the console.
Luckily, he had brought the Jeep to a halt about two inchesfrom the Mustang.
Frankie managed to get back on his feet.
“You okay? Sorry about that. Guess I better keep my eyes onthe road.”
Frankie glared at his master.
“I said I was sorry.”
Allen fiddled with the radio and settled on a countrystation. Kenny Chesney was singing “Happy Does.” He tapped his thumbs on thesteering wheel.
I should try and write a song, he thought. Howhard can it be? If I can write a book, I should be able to write a song. Ofcourse, I can't sing, or play an instrument. I guess someone else could sing,and I could just tap my thumbs on the steering wheel.
The next time the cars moved ahead, it was about twentyfeet. Allen hoped that was a good sign.
“Lobster Cove,” he read aloud. “We ate there last time wewere here.” He thought for a second. “What was that, seven years now? Wow, thatwent by fast. That was before your time, pal. They had a great breakfast. Weate there two mornings in a row. They had a Lobster Eggs Benedict. I wonder ifthey still have it? Maybe we'll check it out tomorrow morning.”
The line was moving at six miles per hour now, and Allenhadn't touched the brake pedal in at least fifteen seconds. Just as he wasabout to get a little too excited, the Mustang's brake lights lit again.
Dammit!
Three ladies on bicycles whizzed by.
Shoulda rode my bike. I woulda made better time.
A long-haired kid rode his skateboard on the sidewalk, pastthe no skateboarding on sidewalksign.
“He probably won't be reading one of my books,” Allenmumbled under his breath.
He looked over at Frankie. The dog was sound asleep in theback seat again.
“Why don't you drive, Frankie, and I'll sleep for a while?”
When he reached the corner of Tabernacle Road, Allen couldsee the Sunrise Motel sign.
“A block to go, Frankie.”
The dog lifted his head for a second, more in annoyance thancuriosity, and dropped it back to the leather seat.
The traffic began moving faster and the Mustang stepped onit. The driver honked at a woman pushing a stroller in the crosswalk andswerved around her.
“Masshole,” Allen grumbled, and brought his vehicle to astop, letting the woman cross.
The thirty-something brunette smiled and gave a half-wave.
Allen nodded. He waited as the same long-haired kidskateboarded into the crosswalk behind the woman. The kid didn't wave or giveany other gesture of thanks. He hopped off the skateboard halfway across thestreet and carried it the rest of the way.
“Mom,” Allen heard the kid say, but the rest was inaudible.
Allen gave the Jeep some gas, and took a left into theparking lot.
The Sunrise Motel was a motel in every sense of the word.There was a parking lot, and all of the twenty-four guest rooms entered fromthe outside. This particular motel was L-shaped, with twenty of the rooms beingon the three-story long side of the L—facing the ocean—and the remaining fourrooms on the two-story shorter side. The office was on the first floor, tuckedinto the corner where the two sections of rooms met. The doors and widow frameswere painted yellow. The walls, trim, and railings were white.
Allen backed into a parking space at
