The Harpswell Inn is a historical Bed & Breakfast located on one of Maine’s famous “finger” peninsulas. Situated upon a waterfront location, the Inn provides a stunning view of Maine’s natural beauty. Explore the local islands and villages and enjoy day trips to historical sites, return each evening to peaceful serenity away from crowds of tourists. We look forward to hearing from you. 108 Lookout Point Road Harpswell, Maine (207) 833-5509 reservations@harpswellinn.com w w w. H A R P S W E L L I N N. c o m nine stones sPa ® Fiction 150 p o r t l a n d monthly magazine through the swinging leather doors of the main reading room, called out “T Went,” hoisted my chair above their heads, and carried me out in it, whooping and grunt- ing all the while. A couple of hours later, I sat in that same chair on the porch of the hockey house, pumping and pour- ing from the keg, checking out the star-lid- ded sky, and thinking this wasn’t so bad, when I looked up and saw Kate standing there with two empty cups. “Double fisting?” I said. She almost smiled. “For my friends. Had to get outside.” I nodded, tried to be cool. “Quieter out here.” “Is it always like this?” “Wait till the Jello shots come out.” “I plan to be long gone by then.” I pointed behind her, above the roofline of a row of three-deckers across the street. “Venus is in the crescent phase, about to disappear.” She looked. “When it’s closest, we can’t see it. Only 27 million miles away.” What the hell am I saying? The light from inside flashed green in her eyes. “Why does it disappear when it’s closest?” “It’s reflecting all the light away from earth. If it was daytime and we had a tele- scope with a solar filter, we’d see a black dot moving across the sun.” “Hockey player and star gazer?” “I haven’t been a hockey player since we were first years,” I said, patting myself on the back for not saying freshmen. “Must be weird, living here.” “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes.” A dimple flashed in her cheek when she smiled. We talked about classes. I told her about Milton’s blindness, his daughter writing for him, and how my hockey buddies still couldn’t accept that I’d found something that wasn’t on ice. A guttural roar came from inside— probably someone doing a funnel. “Wanna get out of here?” I said. “Where?” I shrugged. “I like to walk at night.” She was still holding the two plastic