The Way Life Should Be

PROLOGUE It was three a.m. and anything was possible -- all he needed was a littleluck. At least that's what Paul Stanwood tried to tell himself as heturned his Range Rover onto the wet, sandy road and its headlights bouncedthrough the shadows and fir. He knew he shouldn't be there. He justcouldn't help himself. When the Rover began to stall on the ruts, Stanwood downshifted to let thetires grab hold, which seemed to do the trick. He was nervous but keptgoing until a sign on a steel gate read: "Sullivan Park Closed at Dusk.Violators Will be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent Allowed by Law." Whatever that meant. He wasn't sure but was willing to take a chance, so he cut the ignition,got out, and began walking the footpath through the gently swaying sprucebefore reconsidering. He stopped and took a deep breath. The rot driftedup from the clam flats below and a full moon burned like a bare bulb offthe dark water of Penobscot Bay. The park was at the end of a long peninsula, a tangle of rock, surf andpine that had once been a saltwater farm. Now it was just a road throughthe woods, a small, unpaved parking lot and an oddly out-of-place payphone. Past the clearing where he stood, a few scattered picnic tablesand a cinder-block bathhouse completed the scene -- not much, really,given the recent sensation. Of course, there was the boat launch. "The only place in town to get off at low tide," according to JohnQuinn, who'd come home to run his family's newspaper. He said the parkwas an embarrassment and that grown men -- no matter their sexualpreference -- should have a sense of decency. Quinn had no idea what was at stake. After being gone a decade, he wasclueless about the changes taking place in their hometown. Paul plannedto tell him as much, once he was sure of everything himself, though he'dbeen warned against it. He shook his head at the thought, when somethingcracked behind him. "Who's there?" he asked. Nobody answered. For a moment he listened to the waves lap the granite shore, the wholetime wondering if those had been his own steps echoing in the darkness.He stopped and spun around. Damn. He couldn't believe how paranoid he'dbecome. He took another deep breath and tried to relax. Easy now, hetold himself. The sun would be up in a few hours and everything would besafe and fresh with the new day. Keeping that in mind, Paul walked toward the bathhouse and steppedinside. The place was a mess. He could make out overturned benches and acracked toilet. The urinals reeked and it was hard to believe the spothad become the object of such fierce debate. Men were being arrested. Thecops were under fire. Neither side would listen to reason and somehowPaul was caught in the middle. What was he supposed to do? As he shuffled his sandals along the gritty concrete and lit a Camel, theflame shined briefly on a wall covered with crudely drawn slogans andpromises that made him laugh out loud. The whole thing seemed suddenlyabsurd, and by the time he was halfway through the cigarette and beginningto relax, the gravelly sound of tires came from the road. A car door slammed and someone began walking his way. "Helllloo!" Stanwood's voice echoed off the low, flat ceiling. "You alone?" came back. "I was." The other voice hesitated. "I thought I saw someone else poking around." "That was just me, admiring the scenery." "Glad to hear it." A figure appeared in the doorway. "I was hoping you'dbe here." "I'm flattered," Stanwood said once he recognized the voice. "But you'rethe last person I'd expect to turn up in a place like this." "I wish I could say the same about you." Stanwood ignored the shot and asked what he had in mind. "A little surprise." The man reached into his nylon WindbreakeShaw, Terry is the author of 'The Way Life Should Be', published 2007 under ISBN 9781416563129 and ISBN 1416563121.