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Chapter Eleven:
(Frankie)
Dawn’s Subaru had a new jasmine scent courtesy of some air fresheners she’d clipped to her middle AC vents. My eyes lazily drifted toward the window as we entered the Old Port. Sunlight spilled down on the hundreds of tourists milling about.
We drove by the Ocean Gateway, morning sunlight reflecting off the harbor. That was Dawn’s favorite word to hear me say. She grinned anytime I said it. “Habbah,” she’d tease as I rolled my eyes.
A massive white cruise ship rested at the docks, having brought a few thousand passengers to Portland from god knows where. They’d start showing up in the last half of May, sporadically through the summer, and finally arrive in full force in early fall, just before winter hit and made everything colder than a witch’s tit.
Inappropriate thoughts about a certain driver sitting beside me bubbled to the surface, and I cleared my throat.
I followed that up with a yawn and shook my head back and forth. Dawn giggled and handed me a Moonbucks coffee I hadn’t even noticed sitting in the console.
“You know me so well,” I sighed in relief, taking a sip of lavender oat milk latte.
“You’re pretty regimented,” Dawn said. “It’s not hard to learn your patterns.”
I looked her over. The black blouse and dark pants gave her a more “business casual meets witchy” look. She’d even toned down her eyeshadow.
“Is that what you’ve been doing in between writing astrology columns? Learning my patterns?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dawn winked.
“I’ve been studying you from every angle these last few weeks,” she said.
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I almost choked on my coffee. Sensing she should move on, the witch mercifully changed topics.
“So, why are we going to this conference again when you’re clearly exhausted after staying up until god knows when looking over. . .,” her voice trailed off, waiting for me to finish.
“An investigative piece on leaking pipes in the West End the city has known about for three years now and seemingly taken no action on,” I completed her sentence.
Sighing, I stifled another yawn and prayed desperately to God that this caffeine would kick in sooner or later.
“It’s the New England Press Cooperative. They have an annual conference in Boston. Every newspaper editor from Burlington to Providence will be there,” I said as we drove by a cargo ship entering the port with several red and brown steel containers. It blocked my view of the few sailboats in the water.
Commercial Street wove around the peninsula’s eastern border passing through the Old Port. Dawn stopped so a few tourists wearing sunhats and carrying bags from the Unholy Donut could cross over to one of the piers.
I loved that our city had a working waterfront, and clearly, millions of other visitors who came here to eat in some of the highest-rated restaurants in the country did as well. Portland was an entirely different place in May and June than it was in January. And it would only get more packed as we approached July and August.
“I thought you said the Lighthouse-Journal hadn’t gone to the conference in a few years,” Dawn said.
“We haven’t. Budget shortfalls mean conferences are typically the first thing to get axed for newspaper staff. But this year is different. I’m actually an invited guest.”
Dawn’s head turned toward me so fast I was worried she’d need a chiropractor.
“You’re a guest speaker? That’s so cool! What are you going to talk about?”
I smiled and twirled my index finger around my ponytail. For some reason, I was having trouble meeting the witch’s excited eyes.
“Not quite a guest speaker. The conference organizers just asked me a few months ago if I’d be willing to join a panel of family-owned newspapers in the region. There aren’t many of us left, and go figure, they want me and two other editors from Vermont and Connecticut to discuss the challenges of keeping a newspaper in the family given ongoing media disruption.”
I probably sounded like I’d read that straight from a pamphlet, but when I finally glanced over at Dawn, she was all smiles. Was she. . . actually impressed? Or was this just a polite act from a woman who had tried on multiple occasions to get into my pants? A woman who would have succeeded if I could get more than three goddamn hours of sleep at night.
Her green eyes were lit with what seemed like honest-to-god enthusiasm for my craft.
“Anyway, they’re paying for my room and meals. Plus, I can meet folks who are in charge of press grants our paper desperately needs and hopefully leave a good impression.”
We drove past several piers, including the entrance to DeMillo’s, a large parking lot that led out to a boat restaurant people flocked to every year. No local I’d ever spoken to frequented the place, but folks From Away just had to eat there.
If you want to pay $35 for a lobster roll, that’s your God-given right, I thought. Welcome to Vacationland, bub. Enjoy your $400-a-night Airbnb that took an affordable housing unit off the market.
“Well, I’ll be sure to attend your panel tonight. There’s also one tomorrow morning I’m interested in on keeping comic strips alive in 2024,” Dawn said.
We left the Old Port, and it wasn’t long before a worn brown and white two-story diner came into view with its worn exterior. A set of stairs led up the right side of the restaurant.
“Ah, Becca’s. You don’t look a day over 75,” I smiled.
Visitors often viewed the diner as the quintessential restaurant where lobstermen ate breakfast or lunch, coming ashore after an early morning of backbreaking work. Some still ate there, and I never had any issues with the place. Its reputation as a Portland staple was powerful enough that Gov. Janice Mylls ate breakfast there the morning after winning her reelection in 2022.
The diner sat wedged between a few industrial spaces with their own piers and docks. Then, just as soon as we spotted it, the restaurant was gone.
“I’ve never actually eaten there. Is it good?” Dawn asked.
I shrugged.
“It’s fine. I’ve never had a bad meal there. I do interviews there sometimes for stories. Folks are friendly enough. Becca’s still retains some of its salt-of-the-Earth flavor that keeps so many people coming back.”
Stretching and feeling a familiar pang in my chest, I grunted.
Sure wish that would stop, I thought, grimacing.
“Are you excited to learn about journalism from all the industry pros tonight and tomorrow?” I asked.
“Strangely enough, I am. I was actually emailing back and forth with a guy named Dorian Fletcher this week about the conference. He writes the horoscopes for a few newspapers in Rhode Island. I’m gonna see if he has any sage wisdom to share. Apparently, he’s been syndicated for almost a decade now.”
My heart fluttered in a good way for once as I tried not to stare too long at the witch. She was. . . learning about the most important thing in my life. Dawn Summers was spending her own money to travel to Boston and attend a conference just to get a better picture of what made me an inky wretch.
Rubbing my arm, I couldn’t help but smile and look up at the Casco Bay Bridge as we drove under it. Butterflies in my stomach scattered to every inch of my abdomen as I realized I’d be spending an entire two days with my colleag— I mean pal.
An entire Friday and Saturday in Boston together while I did my best to wait for these festering feelings to fade away in a “Mr. Stark. . . I don’t feel so good,” moment.
A few minutes later, the blue and white Amtrak logo came into view as we pulled into the Portland Transporation Hub. Every time I came to this place, I couldn’t help but think, Shit. They really tore down a beautiful and historic train station for this awful location?
We grabbed our bags and walked inside a long carpeted room with a long wooden counter that served as the ticket desk. Behind the transportation hub, a handful of busses docked and waited for passengers. Behind the busses stood a rail line where the Downeaster train would pull into the station.
Five times a day the train ran between Brunswick and Boston. We were all set to board the 11:48 a.m. locomotive.
“I can’t believe you’ve never ridden the train before,” I said, sitting down in a row of metal seats by the Downeaster platform exit.
Behind us, a family of seven waited to board a coach bus that would take them to Logan Airport.
“What can I say? I grew up in Cedar Rapids. We didn’t have Amtrak in our town. There’s only one train, and it runs through the southern half of the state. The closest station was like an hour away,” Dawn said, sitting down beside me. She leaned close, and our legs touched. When I raised an eyebrow at her, the witch looked in the opposite direction.
I see you, I thought, shortly before a shiver traveled from my thigh to my brain. And I wish I could see more of you.
My brain betrayed me with a few more thoughts before an announcer called for Downeaster passengers to board from platform C.
Dawn and I nodded to each other, stood, grabbed our bags, and walked down a long enclosed walkway where a conductor held the door open for us.
There, waiting on the rail for about 12 or 13 passengers, stood the Downeaster. A diesel locomotive followed by a cafe/business seating car, four coaches, and a rear locomotive. Another conductor stood by the train and directed passengers to business class or coach.
Dawn and I got in the rearmost coach as it was the least full and sat right in the middle, placing our bags on an oversized luggage rack above the seats.
“Wow. That was a lot easier than boarding a plane,” Dawn said, reclining in her seat.
I just grinned.
“Told ya. Trains rock. Wicked easy to get on and off,” I said.
It wasn’t long before the train pulled away from the hub and began its southward journey to New England’s biggest city.
After crossing the rail bridge over the Fore River, which was my favorite part because it almost looked like the train was hovering over the water, we clipped along at a good pace toward Old Orchard Beach.
The Downeaster raced by houses, across large fields, between patches of forest, and occasionally within sight of the coast.
Dawn checked her phone before turning to me and asked, “So, when was the last time you went to Boston?”
My heart skipped a beat as a woman’s face rocketed into my memory. It’d been a trip like not unlike this one about six months ago. I even sat in the aisle seat, just like then. But sitting beside me then was a marketing executive, not a witch.
The pain must have been obvious on my face because Dawn slowly took my hand.
“FeeDee?” she asked in a softer voice.
I shook my head, chasing away a single name I’d tried my best to burn out of every memory since then.
“Um. . . I went on a trip to the aquarium with my girlfriend at the time,” I said, as more home videos started playing in my head of us holding hands and watching the harbor seals, walking past the jellyfish exhibits, and smiling at the penguins. “Margaret.”
My heart skittered off the rails and crashed into a rock wall as her words echoed through my mind, “I’m sorry, Frankie. That’s just not what I want for us.”
I blinked away tears as my ducts betrayed me in the worst possible way. I didn’t want Drawn to see me crying over the former love of my life! Fuck.
Shitbiscuits, I thought, taking a shallow breath and willing my eyes to stop watering.
“I’m guessing I don’t want to know what happened?” Dawn asked in a low voice.
Shaking my head, I cleared my throat again.
“There’s not much to tell. We wanted different things. We went different ways,” I said, looking outside as we crossed the border into New Hampshire.
An awkward silence filled our two seats as behind us, two men were debating whether a hotdog was a sandwich. If I hadn’t been in such a dour mood, I would have turned around and recommended a YouTube chef who had a podcast about that very subject.
Dawn and I mostly fiddled around on our phones for the trip south.
A couple of hours later, we pulled into Boston North Station. A freight train had delayed us by about 20 minutes, which wasn’t too bad all things considered.
Boston North Station was a huge block of a structure where Downeaster trains terminated. If you had a connection to any other Amtrak train like the Acela or the Lake Shore Limited, you had to hoof it to Boston South Station, a solid 20-minute walk. It wasn’t fun with luggage in tow.
Several pigeons waddled and pecked at different parts of the room. A kiosk with drinks and snacks stood next to a cashier checking his phone.
Several exit gates stood on all different sides of us. I showed Dawn how to scan her Amtrak ticket and be let through the turnstile. It took her a few tries, and I tried not to giggle.
On the other side of the turnstiles stood a Sunken Donuts and a few other restaurants next to a sports memorabilia shop. Above Boston North Station stood a sports arena where their hockey and basketball teams played.
Dawn called us an Uber, and 20 minutes later, we walked into the Shilton Boston Park Plaza Hotel overlooking the Boston Common.
This hotel had hosted the conference for the last five years, though I’d only gotten to stay here once.
A marble pathway led up to the front desk, and I could already see a number of folks walking around with New England Press Conference lanyards and badges. It depressed me the ratio of men to women I saw walking around with lanyards, but that was newspapers for ya. At its peak or at its weakest, the industry would still be dominated by men.
And I’m proud to be pushing back against that, I thought. Even if my newspaper will fold in three years if we don’t boost our subscriptions soon.
The clerk who greeted us wore a black jacket that covered almost all of the ochre skin on his arms. A gold nametag was pinned to his chest. “Bayani” was engraved on the nametag.
His black hair was cropped short, and he wore a million-dollar smile.
“Welcome to the Shilton Boston Park Plaza. Do you have a reservation?” he asked.
I gave him my name, showed my driver’s license, and he typed a few keys on the computer.
“Okay, you’re on the conference guest list, so I don’t need a credit card from you for incidentals. You’ll be in room 507, and the elevators are just around the corner. There’s also a stairwell on the opposite side of the lobby if you need to get your steps in like I do,” he said, flashing us another grin before tapping the Fitwit activity tracker on his wrist. It rested on a black band.
Bayani had a tall, lean body, so clearly he got more steps in every day than I did.
“Did you have a reservation as well?” he asked, turning to Dawn.
“Oh, no. I didn’t have time to make one. I’ll just take whatever you have available,” she said with all the carefree attitude that Dawn Summers carried with her everywhere.
To nobody’s surprise, however, Bayani grimaced and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. All our rooms are booked for the conference this weekend.”
The witch’s face paled, and I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and ask, “What were you thinking?! Why didn’t you book your room months in advance, put the details in two separate calendars (digital and paper), and then call this morning to reconfirm your reservation like a normal paranoid adult?”
Silence filled the front desk as Dawn literally froze.
I sighed.
“It’s fine. She can stay in my room,” I mumbled.
Dawn looked over at me with a face of apprehension.
“Oh, Frankie, you don’t have to do that. I can really just find another hotel. I’ll bet the Five Seasons has spare rooms.”
I crossed my arms and adjusted the bag on my shoulder.
“Really? Because I’ll bet they’re also booked full as that’s the overflow hotel for people who made conference reservations but missed the cutoff to stay here,” I said.
Like any adult with minor (and totally manageable) travel anxiety, I’d kept up to date with the conference’s email newsletters reminding folks of deadlines to register.
Dawn’s voice was caught in her throat.
I looked at Bayani.
“May I have a second keycard for her, please?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, working his magic on the machine and handing a plastic card to Dawn.
She took it shyly and followed me to the elevator after I thanked the clerk.
I wasn’t upset. But I was flustered. My foot kept tapping. She was going to be staying in my room tonight? My hotel room?!
What the fuck were you thinking? I thought, furiously. She could have tried one of the other hundreds of hotels in Boston.
But then that would have made meeting up for panels more difficult since she’d have to get a ride between here and wherever she ended up. And they’d just eat up more time going back and forth. This was easier. . . logistically. Yeah, that’s right. This was about logistics. And absolutely nothing else.
I was sweating by the time we arrived at the fifth floor. Dawn hadn’t said anything. We found room 507 easy enough next to a locked staff laundry facility.
Tapping my card on the sensor, a little green light flashed, and I heard a small clicking noise. Opening the door, we walked inside to find my biggest shock yet. The blood in my veins turned to ice in spite of the fact that I was sweating. Honestly, between the warm front and cold front meeting, a small tornado might form inside my body at any moment. Helen Hunt would race toward the storm in a yellow jeep, yelling at a man beside her in the passenger seat.
“Well, shit,” I muttered. “They were supposed to give me a room with two queen beds.”
A thin black and gray patterned carpet covered the floor everywhere except for the bathroom. A long wooden shelf supported a flat-screen TV showing photos of Boston’s skyline and playing soft instrumental music.
There, sitting against the wall next to a writing desk and a nightstand was a queen bed covered in a white comforter.
A quick phone call down to Bayani confirmed the worst. My room had been changed at the last second due to some unforeseen circumstances. And there weren’t any travel cots available for us to borrow.
This is all The Morrigan’s fault, I thought, rubbing my temples while my heart tried desperately to find its normal rhythm again. It failed spectacularly.
“You look like you’re freaking out,” Dawn said, crossing her arms. I still hadn’t lowered my bag from my shoulder. Because the moment I put it on the ground, time would resume, and this would be our room for the night. OUR room. And OUR bed. Fuck me.
“I AM freaking out. Do you not see the dilemma here?”
“They. . . forgot to fill our ice tray?”
My voice suddenly took a shrill tone. I was almost screeching to the point only bats and billionaire orphans could hear me.
“There’s only one bed!”
Dawn shrugged. Then a wicked grin overtook her lips.
“Oh, that’s no big deal. When we go to sleep tonight, we’ll both just shout, ‘No homo!’ in unison.”
I scowled at her with all my might, and the witch, as usual, deflected it.
“What’s the big deal? We’ve already slept together,” she said, her smile somehow growing more devious.
I stomped my foot.
“That was an accident!”
Dawn put her hands on her hips.
“No, you falling asleep before I fucked you silly was an accident. Us sleeping together during the movie was just a happy coincidence,” she said.
I stood there stammering all the more, looking for some loophole, argument, or comeback. All had forsaken me. Perhaps if I’d gotten more than two hours of sleep last night I could’ve come up with something.
But instead, my face turned the shade of a tomato, and Dawn slowly took my bag, setting it gently on the bed.
In my head, I let out one final shriek. FUCK!

Was scrolling through Dreamlight Valley’s Instagram account and saw that “The Remembering” Update with the Fairy Godmother came out exactly one year ago today.
The Remembering concluded the story of The Forgetting, but since then we had nothing new when it comes to storylines, besides Eternity Isle…which is Paid Content.
When are we going to get a new storyline thats not behind a Paywall? There’s still SOOO much to explore (Skull Rock, Treehouse, Cave in Frosted Heights & Dazzle Beach ect).
All the game seems to be now is just Unlocking Characters and their Friendship Quests, going to Realms, doing the Starpaths and buying Premium Shop Items…it’s getting repetitive and quite boring honestly!

Was scrolling through Dreamlight Valley’s Instagram account and saw that “The Remembering” Update with the Fairy Godmother came out exactly one year ago today.
The Remembering concluded the story of The Forgetting, but since then we had nothing new when it comes to storylines, besides Eternity Isle…which is Paid Content.
When are we going to get a new storyline thats not behind a Paywall? There’s still SOOO much to explore (Skull Rock, Treehouse, Cave in Frosted Heights & Dazzle Beach ect).
All the game seems to be now is just Unlocking Characters and their Friendship Quests, going to Realms, doing the Starpaths and buying Premium Shop Items…it’s getting repetitive and quite boring honestly!

After we dug out the dirt, we levelled everything out and lined the space. We had just bought a piece of under-sill siding to check the colour of our house and it turns out, it is the perfect thing to attach to the brick wall and hold up the pond liner! Don’t worry about water going over it, it’s sealed behind. We had some fun at a lady’s house who sells water lilles. We picked three: a James Brydon, a Black Princess, and a mini coral one she didn’t remember the name of. The bags we tried planting them in did not turn out well so they are all now in pots with rocks on top. All three have done very well. We also have a pretty purple taro and a purple Iris to grow nice and big. There’s a log in case any rats get in 🤣
So far the clients of the shop have been very excited to see what comes. I am also excited!

This sub was a huge help in our trip planning. Thanks for all the great tips and recommendations.
Recap of our 7 nights…
Flew into LIB, and took a taxi to Playa Hermosa
2 nights at Hotel Bosque Del Mar. Nice dinner and drinks at the hotel restaurant. Resident pooch, “El Guapo” was sweet, and the staff was super friendly. Massage from Olga was 10/10.
We enjoyed smoothies and nachos at Roberto’s. Lovely sunset view from Aqua, but the food was just OK. Beach was great for swimming, and did a little snorkeling at the very South end by the rocks.
2 nights in Potrero at Bahia del Sol. Good happy hour drinks during sunset, and my poke bowl was tasty. We ventured out for dinners at La Forketta, and El Diablito. Both of which were fantastic. The “Vicenza” pizza at La Forketta may have been the best in my life, and I’m old enough to have tried plenty of pies. Service was great, and the handmade raviolis were delicious. El Diablito was by far the most fun, and best service, of the restaurants we went to during the week. The flight of tequila warmed us up. We enjoyed the variety of salsas that came with our chips. We did the sunset snorkel cruise with Panache in Playa Flamingo. The crew was great, and helped my wife feel comfortable on her first snorkel trip. Now she can’t wait to go again!
Overall we liked the beach in Hermosa better, but the town and dining options better in Potrero. Maybe we’ll check out Coco next time.
After 4 nights in Guanacaste we took a Tropical Tours private shuttle to Fortuna. Our driver was great. I think it might have been Mario Andretti in disguise. He grabbed some beers for us on the way which was appreciated, and pulled over to point out a coati along the roadside. Using a dried river bed as a main road was a new experience for us.
3 nights at Paradise Hot Springs Resort. The thermal pools were nice to relax in, but closed a little early. Thankfully we had our own jacuzzi, so we took advantage of that when the pool closed. 2nd massages of the week were bliss. Fortuna was nice for a bit of shopping, and we ate at Soda Viquez and Soda La Hormiga. Both excellent. My sea bass with avocado sauce at Soda Viquez was probably my favorite meal of the week. $12 USD very well spent. We did a guided Mistico Hanging bridges tour (Anderson was a great guide) where we saw some spider monkeys, poison dart frogs, and a couple vipers (no sloths on this day). On our last night we took the moonshine sunset Arenal lake cruise, where our guide Otto fed us snacks and local drinks, and taught us to merengue.