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Day One: Monthly Letter
Dear Readers, So I did exactly what you probably figured I would do after I finished writing SHORE LIGHTS. Roy and I jumped into the car and raced up to Maine where we spent our anniversary walking the beach, eating lobster, and daydreaming about what we want to be when we grow up. Sometimes it's hard to believe we've been together as long as we have. The truth is, I can't remember a time when he wasn't part of my life. (That's what happens when you fall in love at first sight when you're fifteen years old.) We did a lot of reminiscing while we walked that beautiful beach and there were times when it seemed as if our teenage selves were walking in our shadow. There's something bittersweet about special days, especially as time moves on and people you love are no longer around to celebrate the good times with you . . . and help ease the sting when bad times come calling. My mother would have turned 78 the day after our anniversary and for that, and so many other reasons, she and my father were never far from our thoughts.
"What's this?" he demanded. Zucchini, said his wife. "I don't eat Z vegetables," he said then stormed out of the restaurant. Luckily his wife loved Z vegetables. She ate both portions and never batted an eyelash. Of course now I've been wondering how many Z vegetables there are in his world because I'm still stuck on zucchini. Any ideas?
Now on to business:
With affection, 
In stores now:
Archived letters:
August 2002
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October 2002
We discovered a fabulous lobster pound in Ogunquit. It's on Route 1, set back from the road
in a grove of towering pines. You can eat outside if you like, stretched out in a weathered
Adirondack chair, or attack your lobster in the beautiful main dining room which looks like
the inside of a log cabin, all lustrous wood the color of deep honey. Tiny candles on the
table. Lots of conversations for me to eavesdrop on. (I know, I know. That really does
sound terrible, doesn't it? But it's the writer's number one occupational hazard. We're
dyed-in-the-wool eavesdroppers.) One conversation in particular fascinated me. Two young
men and one young woman (they were, maybe, in their late twenties) were talking about
their school years at the University of Texas. One of the men claimed he dated Angie
Harmon a time or two and remarked about what a lovely girl she was, how sweet, how
nice, and how glad he is that she's so happy with her football player . . . whose name
escapes me at the moment. (I should be ashamed. I know he plays for the New York Giants
but since Roy is a Jets fan, I guess I can be forgiven for blocking out the name of a
home town rival.) The couple directly behind Roy was in their late sixties or early
seventies. The wife did all of the ordering. While he was outside choosing their
lobsters, she ordered zucchini, steamed potatoes, and a house salad for both of them.
He didn't say a word - and I mean not one single word - while they waited for their meal.
She yakked up a storm about the shopping in Kittery, about the Coach outlet, about whether
or not she should bother to send postcards, while he stared down at the puzzle on his paper
placemat and stayed silent. The server finally arrived with the lobster and all of the
trimmings. She bent down to place the zucchini in front of Silent Sam and that's when all
hell broke loose.
