I clicked off the hairdryer.
“Oh, shit. No! Where is it?”
I came out of the hotel bathroom and saw Maggie frantically searching through her jacket pockets and hip bag. Oh, come on, we both knew it was a fanny pack from the ‘90s moved to the hip for 2020s. Coming up empty, she tossed around her unpacked clothes. Nothing.
I picked up a Darn Tough sock off the floor. “What are we looking for?” Damn, I hope she didn’t lose her emergency earrings like the ones she gave me for my birthday. Nice quality cubic zirconia one-carat studs that we keep in our cars in case of an emergency, when we forgot to put our earrings in.
“My mask! She unzipped her duffle and began sorting through her clean clothes.
“No worries, I’ll go to the front desk and get you one on our way into town.”
She sulked like a toddler who lost her tattered and true blanket. “But, it was my favorite.”
“It’s got to be in here somewhere. We’ll find it later. Let’s go to breakfast, I’m starving!”
“You’re always starving.” She smiled and grabbed her fanny pack.
We walked past the infinity pool, toward the lobby of the inn. I went inside and grabbed a mask. Outside in the brisk autumn air, I handed it to Maggie. She gave it a once-over and put it on, as we started walking to town towards the pub. My stomach rumbled.
“I might have dropped it last night on our way back from dinner.” She looked down on the sidewalk in an attempt to retrace our steps from the previous night.
“Maybe.” I scanned the sidewalk and streets, finding fallen leaves, pine needles, and minimal litter.
I had my favorite mask too- the Vera Bradley purple paisley one that I got the most compliments on. It wasn’t too tight and didn’t hurt my ears. Little did we know that cloth masks did little to protect us from COVID, but at this point I hadn’t yet contracted it.
During the quarter-mile walk to the quant pub, where we had a delicious meal the night before, we planned our day of shopping in the village of Bar Harbor, visiting Acadia National Park, and, naturally, what we were going to eat. I know that Maggie would have preferred a six mile, rocky hike being the fit yoga instructor that she was, but we were planning a less challenging, scenic hike due to my limited stamina and back issues.
“I wonder if we could buy a blueberry pie.” I was salivating under my mask just thinking about it.
“Why are you obsessed with that damn blueberry pie?” She smiled through her eyes.
“Do you have to ask? We’re in my favorite state, with everything blueberry.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to eat everything blueberry.” She teased.
“Ha ha ha. It’s just that I woke up this morning thinking about the pie they didn’t have last night because they sold out.”
I opened the heavy wooden pub door and held it for Maggie.
The hostess approached us. “Two for breakfast?”
“Yes, please,” we both answered, then looked at each other and chimed, “Jinx.” We still did silly things like this or placing our fingers in the shape of an “L” on our forward, indicating affectionately that the other was a loser.
“This way.” The woman gestured toward the hallway. We followed her, passing by a window into the kitchen, and saw our waiter from the previous night. “Good morning, Steve!” Maggie shouted. “You cook too?”
“I do it all, Baby!” He flashed a brilliant smile and folded an omelet with his spatula.
We were seated at a table for two in a small dining area near the bar, different from where we dined the previous night. Our small table was adorned with two different April Cornell floral print placemats, utensils snuggly wrapped with simple off-white and blue striped cloth napkins, and a pair of vintage coffee mugs. My mug had a sloth hanging from a tree with the caption “Hang in There,”(how appropriate), and Maggie’s mug had a library card on it. Fitting, since she was valedictorian of her class, an English major at Williams College, and a real bookworm. This was why I chose her to edit my first manuscript, tough & vulnerable. Our Girl’s Four-Day-Three-Night Spa Getaway was my way of thanking her for that and our friendship.
Our server, Brian, introduced himself, poured us coffee, and took our order.
Breakfast was one of my favorite meals, when I ate breakfast out, I ate big. “I’d like an omelet with spinach, mushrooms, and cheddar, please. Can I substitute the toast for a blueberry muffin?”
“Sure thing. Do you want that grilled?”
“Oh yes!” I handed Brian the menu. “I’m making up for the blueberry pie that I didn’t have last night. Steve said you sold the last piece!”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Steve and I always seem to be fighting for a piece.” He leaned over the table towards me and spoke out of the side of his mouth, “Trust me, our blueberry muffins are even better than our pie.”
Maggie rarely eats breakfast and surprised me when she ordered bacon and home fries.
“To friendship.” I raised my sloth mug.
“To us.” She clanked my mug with hers.
As I took a sip of coffee, she leaned in and whispered, “Who do you think gets more ass, Brian or Steve?”
The hot coffee wanted out, but I was able to contain it. I swallowed and stated, “Steve.”
“Me too, Baby.”
We were never short on silly or meaningful things to say. A skill that Maggie has perfected and taught me over the course of ten years of our renewed, lifelong friendship is the art of curiosity. The deeper and more uncomfortable the conversation, the better it was with her, and it didn’t disappoint during breakfast.
I pushed my fork onto the plate, capturing the last couple of morsels of the buttery blueberry muffin, along with the memories I was already making.
Our bellies full for the second time in fourteen hours, we masked up again and left the pub. We walked down the alley and turned onto the side street. The streets were crowded with mostly unmasked people. I tried to take a deep breath, but the mask restricted the air exchange.
“I really think we’ll find your mask back in the room.”
“There it is!” She shouted and pointed down at the curbing at the edge of the street.
“No way!” Passersby would have thought we had found a hundred-dollar bill.
She leapt off the sidewalk and reached down to pick up the mask. It was upside down, with the maroon material visible. She flipped it over to reveal the tie-dyed blue and white pattern. She grinned from ear to ear.
“Smell it!” I blurted, with no clue why. Did I want to make sure she hadn’t suddenly lost the ability to taste or smell? Or was I simply feeling free to be awkward and quirky with the only human I knew how to be.
“Smell it?! Why smell it?!” She stopped in her tracks and bent over, hysterical.
Paralyzed except for her persistent laughter, she uttered, “Stop it. I need to go to the bathroom. I won’t make it back to the inn.”
I howled, squatted, and performed Kegels so as not to pee my pants.
Tarah Friend Cantore compiled personal essays and artwork in her book, tough & vulnerable. Her debut work of fiction was Spiral Bound. Tarah’s poetry and nonfiction work was published in The Bluebird Word, An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash and Medmic in 2023.