The Spy Coast

Once again, we are strangers, bound together only by envelopes of cash and a Starbucks gift card, with which he buys coffee to signal when he wants to meet me.

Old age confers anonymity, which makes it the most effective disguise of all.

When I was young and imagined the setting for a perfect retirement, I dreamed it would be a hilltop villa in Koh Samui, or a tree house on the Osa Peninsula, where I would be serenaded by birds and howler monkeys. These were places I knew and loved, places that, in the end, I could not flee to. Because that’s where they would expect me to be. Being

I think of the go bag next to my bed and how easy it would be to drop out, skip town, even skip the country. But this is my home now, and I’ve spent two years building this life, settling into its rhythms. I’m tired of moving, tired of searching for a landing spot. This is it. This is where the wandering stops.

As I stand in line waiting to pay for the groceries, I could be mistaken for just another farmer or housewife or retired teacher. For years, I taught myself not to stand out, not to draw attention, and now it comes effortlessly, which is both sad and also a relief.

“What do you do?” I take another swig of water, a pause to cue up my backstory. “I’m an import analyst for Europa Global Logistics.” “Europa? As in Jupiter’s moon?” “Very good. Most people don’t know that.”

I walk them through the living room, which I’ve furnished in the style of sensible Yankee thrift. The sofa, upholstered in gray wool, was purchased at a discount furniture store in Bangor. The birchwood coffee table, pine end tables, and spindle-back rocking chair were yard sale finds, lugged home with the help of Declan, who’s always ready to lend

In the two years since I moved onto the adjoining property, he’s no doubt gleaned a number of details about me. He knows that I turn off my lights every night around 10:00 p.m., that I’m up early to feed and water my chickens. He knows I’m a novice at tapping maple trees, that I mostly keep to myself, and that I don’t throw loud parties. And today

The question still unsettles me when I later drive into town to pick up supplies. Who is asking for directions to my farm? The query could be perfectly innocent, asked by someone in search of the previous owner, unaware that the woman passed away three years ago at age eighty-eight. She was, by all accounts, legendary for her sharp wit and her bad