The House Across the Creek

The Chesapeake Bay, the largest estuary in the United States, takes its name from the Algonquian Indian word meaning "village at a big river." This majestic bay has long been central to the region's economic and political landscape, spanning over 200 miles and cradling numerous tributaries like the Choptank, Nanticoke, Pocomoke, and Patuxent rivers. Yet, as time has passed, the challenge of preserving this fragile ecosystem has grown, with the relentless push for progress exacting a toll on its delicate balance.

Though far more modest in scale than the grand Chesapeake, this story—a brief moment frozen in time—finds itself intimately tied to the bay's legacy. Along Maryland’s Eastern Shore, a picturesque haven lies a stone's throw from a peaceful creek winding its way into a tributary and eventually merging with the Chesapeake. Here, despite the march of time, the landscape remains largely unspoiled, a serene escape seemingly untouched by the rush of modern life.

Jack Dearborn, an international attorney with a reputable firm with offices on K Street in Washington, D.C., was relieved to be off the crowded Route 50 and now barreling down back roads as flat as a griddle and straight as an arrow, with endless rows of soybean and cornfields stretching out on either side. The towering corn stalks, lush and green, nearly kissed the sky, destined, Jack knew, for the large poultry plants near Salisbury. An hour after crossing the Bay Bridge, Jack carefully steered his classic British Racing Green 1965 MGB GT through the narrow, almost hidden entrance, the tires softly crunching over a gravel driveway that had once been paved with oyster shells.

He parked in front of "Belle View," a graceful, white-framed, black-shuttered Tidewater "telescope" house—so called for its architectural style, in which the structure appears to collapse like a telescope due to the series of smaller units, each progressively lower than the last. Built in the late 1600s by a wealthy merchant, Belle View had been home to generations of his descendants, standing witness to the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Great Depression, two world wars, and the ebb and flow of family fortunes. Now a registered national historic landmark, the house still carried the echoes of history within its walls.

As the late afternoon sun bore down mercilessly, the heat radiated from the ground, and the air seemed to hang heavy with the infamous August humidity of the Eastern Shore. Jack felt it cling to him like a damp, suffocating blanket. Stepping out of the car, he was greeted by a familiar symphony of scents—the sharp tang of freshly cut grass, the earthy musk from the nearby creek, the resinous aroma of pine, faint wisps of charcoal smoke drifting from a distant grill, and a fresh hint of paint from some unseen project. Together, these elements blended into an intoxicating bouquet that filled the air, imbuing the place with a distinct, almost nostalgic charm.

The quiet was suddenly interrupted by the low hum of an inboard engine. Jack turned just in time to catch sight of a sleek sailboat rounding the bend. With a laid-back confidence, the skipper deftly motored her up the creek toward the deeper, open waters of the Chesapeake Bay. He wore aviator sunglasses and a red baseball cap, giving Jack a casual nod and a quick smile before turning his attention back to the helm. Two children perched excitedly near the bow, barely containing their eagerness for the evening sail, while a sun-kissed, long-legged woman managed the lines with the same easy competence as the skipper. At the entrance to the cabin, a golden retriever lounged contentedly as if guarding the heart of the floating home.

Jack watched the boat slowly vanish into the distance. Across the creek from Belle View, a stately Georgian home stood on a piece of land that jutted into the water. Its perfectly manicured lawns gently sloped down to the water’s edge, a sight that never failed to catch his eye. Jack had long been intrigued by the house across the creek, though he knew little about its owners—only that they were a couple from New York City. Originally summer residents, they had since traded their Park Avenue apartment for a permanent life on the Eastern Shore. Jack could easily understand why.

The house was nothing short of spectacular. It boasted panoramic views of the creek, the river, and the distant horizon. Large windows and French doors spanned the entire façade, offering sweeping views from any room inside. The owners had even constructed a grand staircase that descended to a private dock, where a sleek 48-foot sloop rested, ready for adventure.

From his spot across the creek, Jack never tired of admiring the grandeur of the home, the dock, and the ever-changing landscape beyond.

Jack grabbed his bag from the car and headed back to where the neatly manicured lawn met a flagstone walkway, which curved toward a small picket fence enclosing a large kidney-shaped pool. Flanking either end of the pool were tables with umbrellas, easy chairs, and an assortment of inflatable floats. As expected, Billie was lounging at one end, dressed in what could barely be called a swimsuit, topped with an oversized wide-brimmed straw hat. Her favorite drink, a Maker's Mark Old Fashioned, was sweating on a coaster beside her, while a cigarette, held in a long black vintage sequin holder, smoldered lazily between her fingers.

Peeking over her stylish sunglasses, she started with a pout but then smiled and said, "Jack, darling, it's unbearably hot, and why are you still standing there? Go put on your trunks. You know where the towels are by now."

He grinned. "Thanks, Billie. You're swell; I think I can manage all of that quite easily," he said, turning towards the house. She called after him, "And darling, fix yourself something real cold. The bar's been open for hours, and I was hoping you would come and entertain me. I've been so lonely all day with no one to talk to."

Billie often seemed to inhabit a world of her own, as if suspended in a different era. Once, with a wistful smile, she confided in him, "If I could step into a time capsule, I'd whisk myself straight back to the roaring 1920s, never to return. Paris, of course, would be my sanctuary." Her insistence on this detail was unmistakable. The 1920s had an undeniable pull on Billie—the lively music, the glamorous fashion, the indulgent lifestyle. Yet, at times, her fascination veered into obsession, especially after a few Old Fashioneds. She’d passionately insist that an ancestor had somehow possessed her body, mind, and soul. "You know it’s possible, don’t you, Jack? Please, tell me you do." These conversations were always challenging, especially when Bourbon blurred the lines between fantasy and reality.

After the passing of her parents and eventually her beloved brother, whom she "simply adored," Billie lived alone on the family estate. Her only constant companion was "darling Kikka," a Cocker Spaniel, oddly more neurotic than Billie herself. Three days a week, the housekeeper, Bertina—Bertie to those who knew her—would stop by to check on Billie, ensuring she had groceries or any special requests from the town’s lone greengrocer. She’d also tidy up as needed. Bertie’s son, Amos, whom Billie claimed had a habit of taking his time mowing the lawn, especially when she happened to be sunbathing by the pool, would also handle the leaves and hedge trimming in the fall. In winter, Amos would attempt to shovel the driveway, provided his car could navigate the long, snow-buried back road—one the county snowplows had never once touched.

Jack recalled that Billie may have been living alone, but there had been talk—whether he'd been told directly or pieced it together himself—that a string of suitors had tried their luck with her. Each one, it was said, had claimed to outdo the last in winning her favor. This was the usual chatter among certain trust fund boys, who spent their afternoons lounging at the Golf or Yacht Club bars, drinking in mass quantities and speculating about which of the latest girls in town might be "available." At the same time, they idly planned for the upcoming goose season. Even if someone had briefly won Billie's attention, none had managed to stick around. Billie had dismissed them as "boring, dull, and not at all peppy," adding with a sly smile, "Not like you, Jack." He’d chew on that comment while waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sure, Billie was appealing in more ways than one, even a little wild at times. They made each other laugh, and she could cook up a storm when she wanted to. Jack had skirted the line with her but never quite crossed it. Sometimes, he thought about throwing caution to the wind—but for now, he'd play it safe.

Emerging in his plaid swim trunks, Jack carried a monogrammed bath towel slung over one shoulder and a tall gin and tonic with extra limes in his other hand. Without hesitation, he dove into the water, swimming easily beneath the surface until he reached the far side of the pool. He surfaced with a splash, sending a spray that made Billie shriek in surprise.

"You’re simply impossible, Jack Dearborn! Now I’m all wet because of you!" Billie shrieked playfully as she dove in after him, resuming their water fight with the glee of two carefree children. The afternoon heat weighed on them, but the cool pool was their sanctuary. They lingered as long as they could, aware that the setting sun would soon summon an aerial assault of insects—dive-bombers the size of small helicopters. You could hear the distant hum of wings, warning of the impending attack. Soon, they’d swarm in formation, hungry for the sweetness of suntan oil-lathered skin.

Reluctantly abandoning the poolside, they retreated to the deck, where the creek spread out like glass before them. Still in their swimsuits, they indulged in a candlelit feast that Jack had masterfully prepared. Thick, rare T-bone steaks sizzled on the grill, accompanied by sweet Eastern Shore corn on the cob, dripping with butter and sprinkled generously with salt and pepper. Juicy slices of beefsteak tomatoes gleamed with a dash of mayonnaise and seasonings, while a fresh green salad glistened in a light vinegar and oil dressing. The meal was perfectly complemented by a chilled, crisp Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and, for contrast, a bold Chianti Classico. Dessert was Billie’s masterpiece—chewy brownies crowned with scoops of vanilla ice cream, a fitting finale to their quintessential summer feast.

As the last rays of the sun disappeared, leaving a streak of deep red across the horizon, they waited in the growing dusk. Then, as if on cue, the night sky exploded into a dazzling display of multicolored fireworks, each burst painting the heavens before tumbling down into the inky waters below. Across the creek, their neighbors had put on yet another extravagant show, the finest that New York had to offer. Through the brilliant flashes, the grand estate on the far shore was illuminated, the French doors revealing glimpses of guests mingling on the lawn. Laughter and applause echoed across the water with every new sunburst overhead.

Jack leaned closer to Billie, his voice soft and amused. “I feel like Nick Carraway watching Gatsby’s parties at his giant estate” he said, knowing she’d catch the literary reference. Nick, the quiet observer, watching the grand spectacle of wealth and indulgence just beyond his reach.

Billie clapped her hands,

"Oh, Jack, I simply love that! From now on, I shall call you Nick; you don’t mind, do you? I do hope not." Jack smiled and assured Billie it was fine, "but only in private—others wouldn’t understand."

Together, they savored the final moments of the fireworks. Across the creek, the house shimmered in the afterglow, pulsating with the rhythm of the celebration: the clink of glasses, the lilting strains of music, and bursts of infectious laughter. Each brilliant explosion of color drew ripples of applause from the gathering, echoing with each crescendo in the sky. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the display ended, leaving behind a deep, hushed stillness.

Jack lingered outside, finishing his cigar, lost in the fading beauty of the moment. From inside the house, he could hear faint notes of music—Bessie Smith’s voice drifting through the air, singing Downhearted Blues. "Gee, but it's hard to love someone when that someone don't love you." Billie was getting herself wound up again. "Nick," she cried once, then again, louder. "Nick, are you ever planning on coming inside?"

"If it wasn't for the mist, we could see your home across the bay....You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock." (The Great Gatsby)

This story is adapted from the author's upcoming fourth book, "Whispers of the Americas: Tales of Food, Culture, and Anecdotes Across Two Continents," which will be released in Fall 2024.