Summer on Mirror Lake

by JoAnn Ross

  The library closed at six thirty on Tuesday, and that half hour would allow her to take Hannah and Hailey home. Which reminded her that she’d been so buried in work, she hadn’t come out of her office to check on them as she usually did when they’d first arrived after school.

  “And wouldn’t you make a great mother,” she scolded herself, wishing she could blame cold meds for her inattention, but she hadn’t taken any due to that warning about operating heavy machinery. No point in taking any chances. “You’d be the type who’d leave children behind at a rest stop on the way to Disneyland.”

  Yet another reason child rearing was better left to women like Kylee and Mai. And Brianna. And Sarah Mannion, who’d somehow managed to raise all five of her children to adulthood without losing one of them.

  When she found the children’s library nook empty, she decided they must be at the coffee cart, getting the milk she’d always encouraged them to drink every day, which was certainly better for them than the soda Hannah had been buying at Marshall’s on the way from the school to the library.

  Nothing.

  Starting to feel a prickle of panic, she checked the restrooms, finding all empty. She went through the building, calling out their names. No one answered.

  “It’s a lovely day,” she reassured herself. “Maybe they walked home.”

  She called Farrah who, after giving it a thought, said that she hadn’t seen them, either. Assuring herself she was overreacting, Chelsea drove over to the house, and, finding that the bell didn’t work, knocked on the door. At first lightly, then more heavily.

  Nothing.

  She left the porch and was about to go around to the back of the house, when a next-door neighbor came out of his house headed toward a truck with an attached boat trailer. “You looking for Marlene?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Chelsea had already learned the foster mother’s name from Aiden. “And the girls.”

  “She told me she was going away for the weekend to the coast. She probably decided to stay there a few extra days.”

  “But Hannah and Hailey had a snow makeup day today.”

  He shrugged. “I went to school with her back in the day and she was never in the running for a perfect attendance award. I can see her keeping them out if they were having fun.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” While it wasn’t the most responsible thing to do, at least hopefully the girls would be having fun.

  “No problem. Have a good evening. Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  “It’s been perfect,” she agreed, her mind flashing back to the salmon dinner Gabriel had cooked her on the deck of that amazing lakeside home.

  “That’s why I’m going fishing. Gotta take advantage of the couple months of summer Mother Nature gives us. Six months from now, we’ll all be wondering why the hell we stay here.”

  “Because there’s still nowhere better?” she suggested.

  “There is that,” he agreed cheerfully. Then tipped his fingers to the brim of his Bert’s Bait Shack cap, climbed into his rig and headed away, out of town toward the public dock at the harbor.

  Feeling somewhat reassured, and deciding to check back tomorrow morning, she continued on to Sensation Cajun. Bastien had painted the restaurant in a deep rose, which had been a popular color during the Victorian era in New Orleans. It hadn’t been that typical in the Pacific Northwest but, as Desiree had explained to Lily, Brianna and Chelsea during a Monday lunch at the restaurant, along with assuring the building stood out as people came into town on the ferry, Bastien wanted diners to feel as if they’d been whisked away to The Big Easy. The green-and-white awning and black scrolled iron grill added to the ambiance.

  Although at first Desiree had been skeptical when Bastien wanted her to paint her bakery the same color, she’d caved in order to visually connect the two businesses. Seth had done such a good job with the remodel, you never could’ve told that it had once been two separate buildings.

  The patio was lovely, with weathered stone underfoot, lush plants and a fountain in the middle. She thought it odd that Gabriel was the only person taking advantage of the lovely summer evening. Then she had a second thought.

  “Tell me you didn’t buy out the patio.”

  “What’s the point of having money if you can’t have fun with it from time to time? I could have booked one of the private dining rooms upstairs, but the night seemed too nice to spend indoors. And you don’t have to worry. I asked Bastien and he assured me that no one had called in with a special occasion request.”

  “Still, as lovely as the inside is, the restaurant is nearly full. There must be people in there who’d rather be out here.”

  “I’ve no doubt. And they can dine out here next time. This time I want to be alone with you. Unless you’d rather have someone putting our plans for the kids’ library book club on the Facebook page before we even get them finalized.”

  “That’s coercion.”

  “It’s sensible,” he corrected, standing up and pulling out one of the wrought iron chairs for her. The cushions were covered in a striped print that matched the awning. “And if you’re still feeling guilty, consider it saving diners from catching your cold.”

  “Impossible,” she muttered as she nevertheless sat down.

  “If it’s a virus and not summer allergies, like you said, you could be contagious.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m referring to your ability to always turn an argument your way.”

  “Says the woman who wrapped a simple good-night kiss into miles of red tape. I always thought Quinn was a master, but you could hold your own with him. Which is saying a lot given that he would’ve been state high school debate champion if one of his teammates hadn’t cheated and gotten the team disqualified.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  “That’s what Quinn said at the time. But a great deal more colorfully. He claims to be over it, but if you want my opinion, I suspect that despite going on to be a big shot lawyer who got paid to debate, he’s still pissed.”

  “I’d certainly be.” Chelsea shook out the white linen napkin and put it on her lap.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be a woman to hold a grudge.”

  “I’m not. But I also wouldn’t ever want to be accused of cheating. Even secondhand.”

  “Now see, there’s another thing we agree on.” He handed her the wine menu. “There was a guy at Harborstone who was stealing from his accounts. Auditors caught him before the feds did, but there are still times when I go in a finance bar and wonder how many people are wondering if I was in on it with him. Wall Street thrives on gossip, which is also how people get caught inside trading, because someone will have one or more drinks too many and talk about something he’s not supposed to know.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone thinking that about you,” she said. “And I had no idea there are such things as finance bars.”

  “They’re not really designated that way, but they’ve morphed into them over the years. Like sports bars. Or cop bars.”

  “I like the idea of library bars,” she decided. “We could all have intense conversations and arguments over books, like Robert Benchley, George S. Kaufman, and all the others of the self-named “Vicious Circle” who had lunch at the Algonquin Hotel. They had a game, where they had to make a sentence from a word. When Dorothy Parker got horticulture, she came up with “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.’”

  He laughed. “Clever. Though you seldom find finance guys talking about books. Unless they’re business ones. And those are usually audio books listened to in cars or on the train.”

  “That’s rather limiting.”

  “Yeah, well, you have to understand that Wall Street’s like a fraternity, in that it feeds on people’s insecurity and need to fit in. So, if the conversations all revolve around trading, then
that’s what you’ve got to be able to talk about.”

  “I can’t envision you ever being insecure.”

  “You should’ve seen me when I landed at Columbia. I was thrown into the pool with all these students who’d grown up with fathers in the business, so they were light-years ahead of me. Not just on contacts, but knowledge they’d learned growing up.”

  “But you caught up.”

  “Sink or figure out how to swim,” he agreed. “Would you like a glass of wine? The menu suggests pairings.”

  “That’s helpful,” she decided. “Last time I was here I had the gumbo, which was delicious. I think this time I’ll have the étouffée. According to the pairing notation,” she read, ‘a German Riesling has balanced acidity and sweetness that goes well with the spice of the dish.’ Not that I’d honestly notice,” she admitted.

  “Ah,” a voice behind her said, with that familiar bayou accent that had more than one woman in town regretting that Bastien Broussard had put a ring on Desiree Marchand’s finger the same day he arrived in town. “That’s the point of a good pairing, chère. Wine and food are supposed to go so well together that you never think about it. If you had, say, a pinot noir, or a boldly oakey chardonnay, you’d undoubtedly notice something off about the meal.”

  Chelsea smiled up at the chef who’d moved to Honeymoon Harbor solely to follow his long-ago sweetheart and singer for his former blues jazz band. And didn’t that gesture cause more than one romantic heart to flutter? What must it feel like to have a man love you so much that he’d give up a famed generations-old New Orleans restaurant and a singing career and travel to this far corner of the country just to be with you?

  “I’m going to take your word for it,” she said.

  “One étouffée and a Riesling for the lady. And the gentleman?” he asked, drawing a laugh from Gabriel.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me a gentleman. Maybe never.”

  “You’ve been hanging out in the wrong places,” the chef suggested.

  “You’re probably right.” Gabriel closed his menu. “I’ll have the gumbo. And a beer.”

  “The gumbo’s spicy,” Bastien said. “Some people might go with a heavy ale, but my recommendation would be your brother’s Good Vibrations. The light hoppy flavor will balance out the spice.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Any appetizers? One of the Harpers brought in some fresh oysters today, so we’re serving local fresh shucked oysters grilled over an open flame with a cayenne garlic butter. Served with a French bread Desiree made this morning. Or, we can serve them raw on the half shell.”

  When Gabriel gave her a “your choice” look, Chelsea said, “I think I’ll have them the way they’re meant to be eaten.”

  “Bien. Raw it is.” Bastien took the menus. “The server will be out with your drinks and oysters right away.”

  “You’re adventurous,” Gabriel said as the chef stopped at various inside tables to greet diners on his way to the bar.

  “I grew up here, the same as you did. I know people who can tell what beds oysters have been pulled from by the taste of the brine, but my palate isn’t that refined.”

  “The meal choices in town have definitely improved since I left,” Gabriel said. “Not that the diner wasn’t good, especially for breakfast, but it’s still—”

  “A diner. I waited tables there in high school and summers from college. Although you’re right about the improvement in choices, the diner’s still the best place in town for breakfast, unless you want a doughnut with your coffee. But you’re not going to get all that many fishermen stopping by Cops and Coffee for a latte before going out on their boats early in the morning. It’s also the only place around still serving an old-fashioned club sandwich on toasted Wonder Bread.”

  “Gotta stay with tradition,” he said as their drinks arrived, along with a plate of oysters on a bed of rock salt, a quartered lemon, cocktail sauce the server warned them came with a kick of Cajun Tabasco and small loaf of herbed bread with butter formed into the shape of a Louisiana crawfish.

  After they were alone again, Gabriel lifted his bottle of beer. “To our partnership.”

  “It’s your money,” she said, even as she lifted her glass.

  “True. But it can’t do anything without a team to administer it. Which is where you’re going to come in, if we can come up with a workable plan. That, to my mind, makes us equal partners.”

  As the rim of her wineglass touched the neck of his beer bottle, it occurred to Chelsea that whatever happened with her possibly potential fling, she and Gabriel wouldn’t entirely be going their separate ways at the end of the summer. Not with the children’s library book club between them. But that would only be business.

  “So tell me more about Wall Street,” she said. “Is it as cutthroat in real life as it is in fiction?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Honestly, a lot of days it’s worse. Thus the finance bars that, unfortunately, are what help keep the white male patriarchy so strong. The way you get into the group isn’t necessarily due to intellect or merit, but whether or not people want to hang out with you.”

  “It seems that would make it an even more difficult world for women.”

  She took the time to tip an oyster into her mouth, enjoying the bite of brine. Many years ago, her father had taken her out to an oyster farm and taught her that the proper way to eat oysters fresh from the water was to eat the first one naked, so you could get the full taste before adding anything to it. After she’d placed the shell upside down on the rock salt, and caught the intense way Gabriel was looking at her, she wondered if choosing raw oysters had been a tactical mistake.

  “Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “There aren’t many women at Harborstone, or any of the others firms I know. I remember reading a study a few years ago that put them at eleven percent in leadership positions.”

  “So it’s a boy’s club.”

  As he slurped down an oyster, it occurred to Chelsea that if you weren’t accustomed to raw oysters, they might not be the best first date appetizer. Eating them wasn’t at all dainty. It was, in a way, primal.

  “Pretty much,” he said once he’d swallowed.

  “I wonder if that gender gap isn’t because women aren’t getting hired, but because they’re not given the opportunity or encouragement to succeed once they get there.”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve thought about that ever since the study came out, and suspect it’s mostly because, due to the lack of women ahead of them, they’re less likely to find a mentor when they’re starting out. Like I had.”

  “What’s he like?” she asked. “Your mentor?”

  “He died recently.”

  “I’m sorry.” Chelsea wondered if that death had something to do with Gabriel’s out-of-the-blue return home, but decided against prying.

  “Yeah. I was, too. Carter Kensington was brash, bold, taught me the ropes and promoted me at board meetings, which resulted in my being given larger and wealthier accounts to handle in the early days, while I was out scrambling to bring in my own. That’s what’s probably needed.”

  “It sounds like it. Leaning in is all well and good but it seems as if it would be difficult to do without strong mentoring. Mrs. Henderson not only encouraged me to become a librarian when I was young, she was also a wonderful mentor while I was in school and especially when I came back and took over from her.” She squeezed a lemon quarter over her second oyster and added a dab of the red sauce and tipped it back. “Wow, the server wasn’t kidding. This sauce will definitely clear my sinuses.” She took a long drink of ice water, which didn’t do all that much to put out the flames.

  “It’s hot, but good,” he said, having taken another one as well. His hands were large, with roughened calluses that he undoubtedly didn’t
get from pushing paper in New York, but from here, working with dangerous-looking tools. And wood. Although it probably wasn’t safe to go there, she couldn’t help remembering how his fingers had felt trailing down her rib cage and over her stomach and beyond.

  “True,” she agreed, shaking off the erotic memory. “I’ve always found regular cocktail sauce boring... Why couldn’t you be one?”

  “One what?”

  “A mentor.”

  She could tell that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Which undoubtedly had a great deal to do with the dismal lack of women in leadership roles in financial firms. Which was counterintuitive, since a good number of the patrons who came into the library looking for help balancing their overdrawn checkbooks or with managing their credit card debt were men. She couldn’t remember ever having a man show up for the January workshops on how to make and maintain a yearly family budget.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. As he considered her suggestion, he began stroking the neck of the bottle in a way that had her transfixed. “It’s a big firm, but off the top of my head, I can’t think of any woman other than receptionists who work on my floor.”

  “Sounds a bit as if you all are stuck in the Working Girl movie mentality,” she murmured. “Isn’t that a suggestion that finance has a strong institutional culture supportive of conformity?”

  “I can’t argue that. But, playing devil’s advocate, aren’t the majority of librarians women?”

  “White women,” she allowed. “And you’ve no idea how often that disparity is discussed and argued about especially because when there are men, they’re often promoted over better qualified women, proving that sexism is alive and well. Diversity is admittedly a problem as it is in so many occupations. But I’ve found the most successful librarians are innovative and forward thinking.”

  “Like your reading adventurers.”

  She felt the color rush into her cheeks at the compliment and bet his sophisticated, Armani-wearing New York women never blushed. Giving herself time to collect her thoughts, she polished off her third and last oyster. “I suppose that qualifies. But my point was that, from what you’ve told me, Wall Street requires you to give up anything in your personality that makes you unique. So you can stay on a direct track of focusing solely on making money.”