The Chesapeake Bay is the largest estuary in the United States. The word itself, “Chesapeake” is derived from the Algonquian Indian word meaning a village “at a big river.” The majestic Chesapeake Bay is over 200 miles and with its many tributaries such as the Choptank, Nanticoke, Pokomoke, Patuxent and others both large and small, have all played a vital role in the economic and political history of this region. Over time, however, it has become increasingly difficult to nurture and sustain this delicate and increasingly fragile ecosystem, repeatedly stressed by man seeking progress. Now, the inevitable industrial pollution, poisonous runoff from land development and bad farming practices have all contributed in slowly strangling this fragile ecosystem. This snippet of a story, a mere moment in time, is far less grandiose than the Bay but in a way, very much a part of it. The story takes place somewhere deep in Maryland’s Eastern Shore, in an idyllic, peaceful spot that has changed very little with time, a stone’s throw from a little creek that feeds into a tributary and ultimately into the mighty Chesapeake Bay itself.
Jack Dearborn was just glad to be off Route 50 and barreling on back roads that were flatter than a pancake, straight as an arrow with fields after fields of corn lining both sides of the road; the corn stalks were tall and green and leafy almost reaching up to the sky. An hour later after having crossed the Bay Bridge, Jack finally guided his classic green 1965 MGB GT carefully though the narrow driveway entrance, the car tires crunching softly over the graveled driveway which had once been all oyster shells and parked in front of a graceful, white framed, black shuttered classic tidewater “telescope” house – so called because the house was made up of several units, each of descending height, thus giving one the appearance of fitting together like the components of a collapsible telescope. Belle View, a registered national historical landmark, had originally been built in the late 1600’s by a wealthy merchant to accommodate his large family. One generation after another, one or more family descendants had lived here through the turmoil’s of the Revolutionary War, Civil War, the Great Depression, two world wars and the rise and fall of family fortunes.
Though it was going on late afternoon, it was still sufferingly hot and the Eastern Shore August humidity clung to Jack like a rug bent on slowly suffocating him. Stepping out of the car, he was greeted with the familiar aromas of fresh cut grass, a mustiness coming from the creek, pine, charcoal smoke from somewhere and fresh paint. It all seemed to come together and make this spot unique. The afternoon silence was momentarily disturbed with the sound of an inboard engine purring softly; Jack turned just as a handsome sailboat appeared from around the creek slowly motoring out to deeper water towards the Bay. The skipper wore a red baseball cap, aviator sunglasses and looked confident. He smiled and briefly nodded in Jack’s direction before turning his attention to the helm. On board Jack noticed an attractive woman ably arranging the lines in that same relaxed and assured manner, two small children sitting at the bow seemed hardly able to contain their excitement at the prospect of an evening cruise. A golden retriever sat calmly by the entrance to the cabin below as if guarding the family home. Just across the creek from Belle View, and situated on a piece of land that jutted out into the water was a stately Georgian home with perfectly manicured green lawns slopping down to the water’s edge. Jack had no idea who lived in the big house other than the couple was supposedly from New York City and initially just summered on the shore but now had traded their Park Avenue apartment to live there year around. Jack could easily understand why. The house stood caddy corner with a front view onto the creek and another towards the expanse of the river. Windows stretched across the front of the house and on the ground floor, from one end to the other, French doors afforded one a breathtaking view of the creek and the river beyond. They had built an elaborate set of stairs leading down to a dock where a sharp looking little 48ft sloop docked waiting to take them someplace, anywhere. For Jack, the majesty of the view from across the creek, was something he never grew tired of admiring.
Jack grabbed his bag from the car and walked around back to where the neatly manicured lawn met an elegant flagstone walkway to a small picket fence surrounding a kidney shaped swimming pool. Tables, umbrellas and easy chairs flanked either end of the pool along with an assortment of inflatable mats and chairs. As expected, he found Billie lounging by the pool wearing a bathing suit in name only, an over-sized wide brimmed straw hat, her favorite drink a Maker’s Mark bourbon Old Fashioned soaking a coaster and the ever present cigarette in a long black vintage sequined cigarette holder. Looking over her fashionable sunglasses, she had the beginning of a pout then smiled and said:
“Jack darling, it’s ghastly hot outside and why on earth are you still standing there? Go put on your trunks and you should know by now where the towels are to be found.”
Jack grinned “Thanks Billie, you’re swell, I think I can manage that one quite easily” and turned towards the house.
Billie called after him “and fix yourself something real cold, the bar’s been open for hours, then come and entertain me, I’ve been so lonely all day with absolutely no one to talk to.”
Sometimes it seemed as if Billie lived in another world, in another time. She once told him that “if ever I could put myself in some sort of time capsule I would most surely go back in time to the 1920s and never, ever mind you, even think about coming back. I would most likely be in Paris, you know.” She seemed particularly emphatic on that one point. For some reason Billie found the 1920’s a fascinating period, the music, the dress, the lavishness of it all and she would start to obsess over it after a few Old Fashioned’s and would swear that one of her relatives had haunted her body, mind and soul “you know that’s possible don’t you Jack? Oh tell me you do.” That kind of conversation is tough to deal with but when laced with Bourbon, well it’s just downright crazy.
After Billie’s parents and her only brother, who she “simply adored,” had all passed away, Billie lived alone on the family estate with her steady companion, “darling Kikka” a slightly more neurotic Cocker Spaniel. Bertina, or Bertie, the housekeeper came by three days a week to look in on Miss Billie just in case she needed some groceries or something special from town and would straighten up the house however necessary; her son Amos who, according to Billie, was known to take an awful long time to mow the lawn around the pool area always when she just happened to be sunbathing; Amos would also rake the leaves and trim the hedges in the Fall and come winter time, would show up to dig out Billie – that is when his car could make it through the long deep snow covered road which never, ever saw a county snowplow.
Billie may have been living alone but Jack recalled (or maybe he had been told) there had been a succession of male suitors all of whom had attempted to rise to the challenge of wooing Billie each one professing to have been more successful than the ones before, at least that was the word among certain good ol’ trust fund boys who had little else to do than drink at the Golf or Yacht club bars, discuss the latest girl in town who might be “up for grabs” and think about the upcoming goose season. But even if there had been a successful suitor, no one it seemed, had stayed around for too long because, in Billie’s words, she found them “boring, dull and not at all peppy” adding quickly, “not at all like you Jack.” He would ponder that statement a while wondering when the next shoe would fall. Granted she was appealing in more ways than one, even a little crazy at times that was true, but they made each other laugh and she was even a great cook when she put her mind to it. Jack admitted to himself that he had skirted the edge but never thrown his hat in the ring. Throwing caution to the wind was a fine thing to do, sometimes, but for now he was keeping his powder dry at least as long as he could. He knew he had a bad habit of finding crazy dames appealing.
Jack emerged in his plaid swim trunks, a white over sized monogrammed bath towel in one hand and in the other a tall gin and tonic with extra limes. He dove in neatly and swam easily underwater reaching the other side and surfacing with a splash which made Billie shriek,
“You are simply awful Jack Dearborn, now you’ve made me all wet!”
She dove in after him and continued the splashing contest, both laughing like two children. There in the late afternoon heat, they languished by the pool for as long as they possibly could knowing full well that the setting sun would give way to an army of super sized, dive bombing insects the size of small helicopters. You heard the buzzing which signaled that an attack was imminent and indeed they would gather in a formation ready to dive, anxious for the taste of human flesh, lathered in sweet smelling suntan oil.
That evening, having retreated from poolside they found refuge on the deck with an expansive view of the creek. Billie and Jack, still in their bathing suits, feasted by candlelight on a sumptuous meal that included thick, rare T-bone steaks that Jack had worked on the grill, sweet Eastern Shore corn on the cob dripping with butter, salt and pepper, juicy jumbo slices of beefsteak tomatoes with a dash of mayonnaise, salt and pepper and a tossed green salad with a vinegar and oil dressing. This was all wonderfully paired with a chilled, crisp Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and a lovely, remarkably bold, Chianti Classico. For desert, Billie came back to the table with two dishes of chewy brownie squares topped with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream. It was a quintessential American summer feast.
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With the last glows of a deep red sun slowly sinking and finally disappearing over the horizon, they waited patiently for the event. Suddenly, the sky lit up with a magnificent burst of multicolored fireworks, one after another each one reaching up to the end of the sky then finally trailing down harmlessly somewhere over the inky blackness of the water. From across the creek, the neighbors were putting on a fireworks show; you could see the magnificent house all lit up and one could almost peek inside each time the large French doors were opened. Outside, shadows moved about on the lawn, a bit of laughter here, a round of applause there, and then another giant sunburst would open up over the creek. Jack told Billie, because he knew she would appreciate the reference, that he felt a little bit like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s character Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, Nick was Jay Gatsby’s neighbor and more than once would observe the comings and goings at the house across the water. Billie clapped her hands,
“Oh Jack, I just simply love that and from now on I shall call you Nick, you won’t mind will you? I hope not.”
Jack assured Billie that it was perfectly fine if she wanted to call him Nick “but only in private because others just simply would not understand.”
Together they watched the remainder of the fireworks display, the house across the creek all aglow, the party sounds, the clinking of glass, the music, the laughing, and the clapping as each succeeding firework reached higher than the before illuminated the sky and the creek below. Then it was over and quiet again. Jack lingered outside a while longer absorbing the moment and finishing his cigar. He could hear the faint notes coming from inside, Bessie Smith singing Downhearted Blues “Gee but it’s hard to love someone when that someone don’t love you”. Billie was getting worked up again playing her records. “Nick” she called out at first, then again “Nick, are you ever planning on coming inside?”
“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay….You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” (The Great Gatsby)
Jack and Billie together in Paris? Yes, it’s possible. Part II- Promise Me We’ ll Always Have Paris