No Forever Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  She’d spent so long striving for greatness, working tirelessly to build something for herself, that she hadn’t stopped to look around in a while. Maybe she’d spent so much of her attention trying to make it that she’d failed to realize she’d already made it.

  “Do you think there will be a franchise?” Joey asked. “That could be cool. You’d be a jetsetter, flying around the world to visit all of your restaurants.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t be mine,” Sara said. “The restaurant would belong to someone else.”

  “But you’re the chef. You’re the brains behind the idea.” Joey wagged his brows. “You’ll be famous.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Sara had realistic expectations for what this deal could mean. The main thing was that it would let her, once again, focus on the food. On the big reason she’d started Little Bull in the first place.

  “But the money would cover what I still owe on the lease and on all of my loans,” she said. “Way more than cover it, actually. I’d have enough to not worry about bills or anything for… well, for a while. A year, at least. Maybe longer.”

  “And you’d still be the chef at Little Bull, so you’d still have a paycheck coming in, right?”

  “Right. True.”

  Sara flashed back to her microscopic basement apartment in New York City. The flaking paint, the water damaged ceiling in the kitchen, the window that leaked every time it rained. She’d had to work so hard to afford that place and it was a verified dump.

  Now, she had a townhouse she actually liked. And while it was affordable, Sara tried to imagine what it would be like to never think about rent. To never worry about the bills. The vacation she and Joey had just taken? There could be more of those. Trips Sara could pay for herself.

  “Then I don’t see why you wouldn’t accept,” Joey said. “Have you talked to Patrick? What did he say?”

  Sara groaned. “Nothing. He was annoyingly aloof. You know him: beep-boop, the human computer, ‘Have you done the calculations?’ He didn’t want to sway my decision. But he said I had two good options in front of me.”

  “There you have it. You have two good options. Also, be nice to Patrick.”

  “You’re right. Sorry, Patrick. But, yeah, but I don’t know what I want.” Sara sat back down on the edge of the table and nervously braided the end of her hair. “If I refuse, then things will keep on as they are. Which is nice. I like how things are.”

  “Things are pretty good,” Joey said, nudging her in the arm with a wink and thrusting a thumb at himself.

  “I meant with the restaurant, you buffoon.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “And if I accept, I’ll still work with my staff, run the kitchen, and make the menu. But I wouldn’t have control over other stuff.”

  “Oh, you mean like prices and overheads and payroll and all of the things that make you want to pull your hair out?” Sara looked up at Joey, and he shrugged. “I’m not trying to sway your decision, either, but it’s true. You complain about all of that stuff weekly.”

  “I know.”

  “While we were in Charleston, all you could talk about was how nice it was to have some of the pressure off your shoulders for a few days. And it sounds like, with this deal, you could get that pressure off your shoulders forever.”

  The more Joey talked, the more Sara felt herself swaying.

  He was right. She hated running the business side of things. It made her feel out of her depth and stressed out. It was her least favorite part of every week. With this deal, she could spend all of her time in the kitchen. She could spend all of her time doing what she loved.

  “Did I help or did I make things worse?” Joey asked, reaching over to squeeze her knee.

  Sara laid her hand over his. “You helped. A lot. I think I’ve made up my mind.”

  His face went blank, and he leaned towards her, eyes wide, expectant.

  Sara took a deep breath. “I’m going to accept.”

  Again, in the blink of an eye, Sara was off the table and wrapped in Joey’s arms. He spun her around and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

  “I’m so proud of you, Sara. You’ve built something amazing here. You deserve this.”

  He set her down and she wobbled on her feet, lightheaded from the spinning and the adrenaline.

  “I have,” she agreed, her spine straightening with her newfound confidence. “Right? Yeah, right. I have. I have.”

  Now, all that was left was to sit back and enjoy the spoils of her hard work.

  8

  Eliza

  It took all of Eliza’s strength to open the car door.

  All of her focus to put one foot in front of the other to get across the parking lot.

  All of her willpower to step into the elevator, hit the button for the third floor, and step out again when the chrome doors slid open.

  By the time Eliza made it to Dr. Silver’s office, she was an empty shell. But she was here. That was more than she could say for the last two appointments she made with Dr. Silver.

  The first appointment, she’d had a work emergency. Or rather, whatever constituted an emergency in the life of a small town inn’s social media manager. Her mom had gotten locked out of the Sweet Island Inn’s Instagram account, and Eliza couldn’t leave their two hundred and fifty four followers in suspense, now could she? She had no choice but to rush over and walk Mae through the password recovery process, and to miss the therapy appointment in the process.

  The second time, Eliza had to take Winter to the park. She’d planned to leave both girls with Oliver during the appointment, but he’d worked late the night before, Winter was bouncing off the walls, and Eliza felt guilty leaving him alone with a hyper toddler and a teething one-year-old. If Oliver had known about the appointment, he would have let Eliza go. But he didn’t know about it.

  Because Eliza didn’t tell him.

  The appointment was unnecessary anyway. A paranoid precaution. On the other hand, one measly appointment couldn’t hurt, could it?

  But now that she was here—God, did it hurt! Standing in front of the therapist’s reception desk felt like shoving her feet into a bonfire. Heat roared through Eliza’s legs and into her chest. It licked along the vulnerable, exposed parts of her until she felt prickly and blistered all over. Along with one dull, repetitive thought: I don’t need to be here.

  Eliza Patterson was nothing like the dark-haired woman clutching her purse next to the potted fiddle leaf fig in the corner. That woman’s face was pale and turned down in a frown. She kept her eyes pinned to the floor, as if she was too afraid to raise them up and look into anyone else’s.

  I don’t need to be here.

  Eliza wasn’t like the bearded man pretending to flip through a car catalog, his leg bouncing madly as he waited—up and down and up and down, relentlessly.

  I don’t need to be here.

  She wasn’t like this patient or that one, this crazy or that one, this manic-depressive, that bipolar, this overly anxious, that or this or that or this. She was normal. Competent. Perfectly in control.

  So being here at all was pointless. Eliza should just go back to her car and drive home and—

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Eliza blinked. The receptionist was smiling at her. It seemed patronizing, the kind of smile spared for children when they’ve just told you a nonsense story you can’t understand. Eliza knew it well.

  Eliza straightened her shoulders and smiled right back as best as she could manage. “Eliza Patterson for Dr. Silver, thank you.”

  The woman blinked, smiled again, and nodded. “One moment, please.”

  Good. She doesn’t suspect anything. I look normal, competent, perfectly in control.

  Eliza watched as the receptionist pecked away at her keyboard. A moment later, a frown flickered across her pleasant face. “It looks like you’re running a little late. Dr. Silver is actually waiting for you.”

  Eliza opened her mouth and closed it. She could feel her tongue ting
ling already. Feel the tightness in her chest, the buzzing between her ears. She took a breath. “Car trouble. Sorry.”

  “Perfectly fine.” The woman stood up, smoothing out her skirt. “You’re still within the fifteen-minute window. Come on back.”

  Eliza followed the woman to a frosted-glass door and down a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with nondescript paintings: boats sailing into the sunset, Brant Point Lighthouse peering out over a turbulent sea, dirt paths winding around wood-shingled house. Flat paintings, dead paintings, the kind of paintings that made you feel not a thing when you looked at them.

  “Here you are.” The woman rapped lightly on the door.

  “Come on in!” The voice was female. Eliza stiffened, leaning back slightly from the door. She’d imagined a man. Maybe bespectacled. Wearing a wool suit, with elbow patches.

  A few too many glasses of wine were to blame for all this. Oliver had been gone at a gig and the girls were in bed. One glass turned into two turned into… Eliza didn’t know how many. She didn’t keep track. Why bother? She didn’t need to. Nothing was wrong with her.

  I don’t need to be here.

  But the internet had a way of pulling you in certain directions when you let it. At some point, her wine-addled brain had scheduled an appointment at this therapist’s office. She only remembered what she’d done when she saw the confirmation email in her inbox the next morning.

  But then, the Instagram debacle and the Winter-to-the-park fiasco. After each missed appointment, Dr. Silver’s office dutifully called to reschedule. Eliza agreed to whatever they suggested without checking her calendar or making a note in her phone.

  This woman could be a quack for all she knew. Probably was. A swindler who would diagnose Eliza with a thousand disorders, claim she needed weekly appointments, and then swallow up all her money. Money she didn’t have. Did her insurance cover therapy appointments? That was another thing drunken Eliza hadn’t checked.

  The door opened. Dr. Silver stood up.

  She was a short woman. Just a hair over five foot, Eliza guessed. Petite, poised, and put-together. “Come on in, Eliza,” she said, as if the two women knew each other. It was meant to be welcoming, but Eliza felt off-balance. This was a game and Dr. Silver had the advantage. “I’m glad you could make it. We’ve been missing each other.”

  “Yeah, the last two appointments, I was, uh…” Eliza said, her voice trailing off.

  She walked across the room on stiff legs. The door closed behind her, but Eliza resisted the urge to turn and look. She felt trapped. Was this claustrophobia? Why did the room feel so small?

  It was probably the bookcases. Tall, towering shelves filled with thick volumes.

  One of the prop department guys from Dominic’s movie last year had let the Bensons in on a little movie magic trick. Whenever they need a shot with a library in it, they bound old phone books in leather. Maybe these shelves were like that—a trick meant to make anyone who walked in feel small.

  “Oh, it happens,” Dr. Silver said with a smile as she came out from behind her desk and claimed the black leather chair across from the sofa. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

  “Me, too.”

  Liar.

  “Good. I like my patients to be here willingly,” the doctor teased. When Eliza didn’t laugh, she sobered up and continued, “Now, I don’t usually jump into things so quickly. But you are running a little late, and based on your entry questionnaire…”

  Oh God. What questionnaire? Eliza didn’t remember filling anything out. The woman was flipping through a thick file folder. Page after page after—

  “…You’re an open book.” Dr. Silver looked up and gave Eliza a warm smile. “That’s a good thing. It gives us a lot to start with.”

  How much was a lot to start with? It had only been a couple glasses of wine. A few, at most. Could you black out on a few glasses of wine? Eliza had no memory of what she might’ve confessed to a blank form.

  Dr. Silver’s nails were clipped short and sensible. That seemed appropriate. It would’ve been odd for a woman in her line of work to have perfectly lacquered nails. Or would it? Maybe not. Eliza wasn’t sure. There was a lot she wasn’t sure of.

  She ran her finger along words Eliza would kill to see and then sat back in her chair, hands folded over the piece of paper. “You said you’re feeling unfulfilled and unsatisfied, but you didn’t specify in what areas,” Dr. Silver said.

  It wasn’t a question and it certainly wasn’t a personal attack. But Eliza felt like she was being sliced open. Like Dr. Silver had come at her with a scalpel, splitting her chest wide.

  “Would you say those feelings are related more to work or your home life?”

  Eliza shook her head. “I stay very busy. I enjoy my job. My girls are beautiful. My husband is helpful.”

  All true. Drunk Eliza must have been exaggerating.

  “Loving your family and feeling unfulfilled are not always mutually exclusive, you know.”

  Eliza blinked.

  “To put it another way…” Dr. Silver said, crossing one leg over the other. Her olive-green pants were cropped at the ankle, revealing a stripe of tanned skin just above her leather loafers. “…you can consciously be grateful for your life, yet still feel like something is wrong. Like a car with a check engine light. The car can run seemingly perfectly for ten miles, a hundred miles, a thousand miles. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t still something a little off under the hood.”

  Car trouble, Eliza had told the receptionist. That was a lie. Her car worked fine. Brent changed the oil for her once every few months.

  “My life is great,” Eliza said aloud, spackling on a thin smile.

  Dr. Silver glanced down at the paperwork again. Eliza wanted to rip it out of her hands. She also wanted to know what she’d written. They were her words, after all. Should she have been given a copy? That seemed only fair. She felt like she was in a play and didn’t know her lines.

  “You mentioned here receiving a prescription for an antidepressant?” she asked.

  Dr. Silver wasn’t afraid of eye contact. Not like the frail woman in the waiting room. She looked people right in the eyes. Direct. Focused.

  Eliza stared back, only remembering to blink when her eyes began to water. “From my obstetrician,” she explained with a half-shrug. “She thought maybe post-partum depression. That was months ago.”

  “PPD can appear in some women a full year after birth. And there is no time frame for how long it lasts.”

  “It was just the baby blues,” Eliza dismissed. “That’s why I never filled the prescription.”

  “So you’d say your feelings of isolation and incompetence have abated?”

  Eliza swallowed, hesitated, then nodded. Liar.

  “And you’re sleeping through the night?”

  How much had Drunk Eliza spilled? Her chest tightened. The elephant had found her again.

  “I’ve never been a great sleeper. But I get enough.”

  Dr. Silver pursed her lips and flipped the top piece of paper closed, setting the questionnaire aside. Good. It was all lies, anyway. None of it pertinent.

  “I must have been drunk when I filled that out,” Eliza said with a laugh, tipping her head towards the clipboard.

  Dr. Silver raised a brow.

  Oh God. That wasn’t the right thing to say. It might’ve been the exact wrong thing, actually.

  “I mean, not drunk. But tipsy. I was having some wine when I made the appointment.”

  “How often do you drink?” Dr. Silver asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory or judgmental, but this was a test and Eliza wanted to give the right answer.

  “A few times a week,” she said dismissively. “At wine o’clock.”

  Dr. Silver didn’t laugh. Neither did Eliza. It wasn’t really a very funny joke.

  “I saw that on a tank top at the mall,” she continued, feeling like a leaking dam patched up with duct tape. No matter how hard she tried, she kept spilling ove
r. Couldn’t stop.

  The doctor glanced at the clock above the door, and Eliza followed her eyes. One minute to the hour.

  “I wish we had more time, but the half hour is nearly over,” Dr. Silver said.

  “I was late. It’s my fault,” Eliza said, starting to stand up. “I’m sure you have more pressing patients to see, anyway.”

  “Every patient I see is pressing.”

  Such a doctor response. Like a parent refusing to pick favorites.

  “Sure, right,” Eliza said. “Anyway, thank you and—”

  “Eliza.” Dr. Silver gestured to the seat Eliza was perched on the edge of. Eliza let herself sink back into it. “I like to give my patients homework before they leave. Little things to think about and work on until our next appointment.”

  “Next appointment?” Eliza shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “It’s up to you. Entirely. Like I said, I like my patients to come to me willingly.” She smiled. “But I would like to talk with you more if you’d like to talk with me. The questionnaire you filled out struck me as something worth discussing.”

  “I was drunk,” Eliza said again, wishing there was a better word for it. Wishing that excuse didn’t come out sounding like a problem all on its own. “Tipsy, really. I was tipsy.”

  “And if you really believe it was simply some inebriated storytelling, then I believe you.” She lowered her head, her sideswept bangs slipping forward slightly to rest against her metal-framed glasses. “But I’ve also found that sometimes, people are more honest on the questionnaire than they are sitting in the chair in front of me. It can be easier to admit we are struggling to a screen than to a real person.”

  Eliza glanced at the clock. It was one minute past the hour. Their session was running late. And the gaunt-eyed woman in the waiting room needed this time far more than Eliza. The man with the magazine had probably pounded his foot through the floor by now. Any minute, the building would collapse under the steady vibrations of his nervous heel-tapping.

  “So,” Dr. Silver continued, “the homework I would recommend to you is to pick up the prescription your doctor prescribed.”