I saw you in SoHo once, Martha. You walked out of a gallery as I walked down the street. Broome, I think it was. We smiled with our eyes in that friendly way that strangers do when their eyes meet. Only you were Martha Stewart, and I was just me.
Castine makes me think of you, I think you would like it here. I heard you have a house in Southwest Harbor, on Mount Desert Island. When I worked as a waitress in Bar Harbor it was always a dream to one day live on that quiet side of the island.
I was just out walking on Perkins Road, you would love the houses here. You could don your table with matching place mats and napkins with rings, a glass bowl filled with shells as the centerpiece. I wonder how you found Southwest Harbor, how did you choose it? Have you been to Castine? I can see you riding along these windy island roads, blonde hair blowing in the breeze, your assistant jotting notes as you pick your new seaside home.
Friends often tell me I remind them of you, but I was making shaped cookies before I even knew of you! I'm writing from the wide porch of the Castine Inn, in a white wicker chair with a view of the sea. In this moment I feel like the queen of Castine, but with no one around to bother me. Have you ever wished that you were just me?
Written with Guinness and herbed potato chips, made by the innkeeper, on the wraparound porch of the Castine Inn.
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