Fisherman’s Cove is a remote town tucked away in one of many inlets that pepper the Maine coast. It’s easy to travel there by boat, but by car is another story. The cove is at the tip of a small peninsula. It is shielded from the mainland by a huge rock formation that thrust out of the coastline and stretches to both sides of the peninsula.
It was too expensive to carve an easy access road or tunnel. Instead a small road twisted through the rock formation until it wound its way into the small village that barely hangs on to dry land, Fisherman’s Cove.
Edwin Furman visited the town 10 earlier and never broke away. Why he stayed was a mystery to everyone. At first everyone tried a sort of shunning; they would not speak to him unless he spoke first and used the minimum of words. After the two year probationary period he became a mainstay, but always referred to as the “new guy.” And he waited for someone the move in to take the title from him. But to many the locals seemed too hostile to remain more than 6 months. Edwin seemed bright, friendly, enthusiastic, and articulate, but Fisherman’s Cove offered nothing for anyone other than what already existed.
The town was bound and shackled by the rock to the north and the sea to the south. What land was available was taken and no one who lived there was about to allow it to slip into the hands of anyone from the outside.
Edwin worked as a dish washer at the Fisherman’s Hut. A good place with a steady clientele of regulars and the occasional outsider.
It was owned by Silas Carpenter, stock from one of the founding families of the Cove. The restaurant had been ran by his family for 75 years. Edwin was the only person not a Carpenter who ever worked there. Edwin’s chance of advancing from dishwasher was zero and he knew it.
The Hut, as it was called by the locals, closed Saturday at 3:00 PM. It was 3:30 Edwin had just finished his final duties of the day. He removed a plaid coat from the coat rack in the dinning room and slung it on.
“See ya Monday morning bright and early, Silas,” Edwin said.
“Edwin,” Silas said with a friendly lilt in his voice, “you have a minute?”
“I don’t know, Silas,” Edwin said feigning seriousness, “I got big plans, bingo at the fire department. They may have Miss Doty calling the numbers. You know she was a runner up to the Cod Festival two years ago.”
“I want to talk to you for a moment,” Silas said. “Have a seat in the booth by the window.”
Edwin took his coat off and tossed it in the booth and slid in himself. Silas came over to the table with two coffees.
“The bottom of the pot,” Silas smiled, “don’t like to throw anything away.”
“What’s up Silas,” Edwin said blowing the steam from his coffee.