Off the Trails

by Emily Franklin

  The guests wait for Davina to speak. “Well, then serve us.”

  Dove feels anxiety rise within her chest. Without disrespecting her boss, she tries to show the array of food. “It’s a big buffet. That way everyone can choose what they like.”

  Davina makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a cough and a sigh. “We’d like to be served. This isn’t a roadside pancake house.” She rolls her eyes at her friends.

  Dove swallows a breath of air and her pride and begins, wordlessly, to bring around each of the dishes, scooping modest amounts of each type of food onto the plates.

  “Don’t be stingy,” Davina scolds while smiling—seemingly immune to the fact that she’s insulting Dove. “Heap it on. That is, unless you haven’t made enough.”

  “There should be plenty,” Dove says. The sun’s rays beat down on her as she brings tray after bowl to the table. She can feel perspiration welling up in her bra and her face flushes with effort and worry. This is not what I planned. This isn’t even close to how I pictured the meal going. She takes a minute to collect herself by the tall glasses of mint iced tea. In fact, none of this is what I pictured. What was it, exactly, that I wanted? To shack up with William in a beach hut? Dove grimaces as she realizes that her island fantasies were slightly unrealistic, just one long string of images of her and William in the sand as the sun set, their hands intertwined.

  “Excuse me, Dove? When you’ve got a minute?” Davina snaps, as though Dove’s a dog, and waits for a response.

  “Yes, of course.” Dove comes over and leans down to hear what Davina has to say.

  “The bread pudding is delicious,” Davina says. Her friends agree, nodding and giving words of encouragement about the whole meal. Dove’s spirits immediately rise, her smile engaging her features, instantly relieved.

  Relieved, that is, until Davina suddenly stands up, gasping and clutching her stomach.

  “Oh, I … uhh … oh God …” Davina’s face contorts in pain.

  Dove rushes to her. “What? What is it?”

  Davina, still doubled over, her face bright red, glares at Dove. “The ingredients …”

  Confused for a minute, Dove then clues in. “In the bread pudding? It’s pretty standard.” Her heart beats too fast, her legs feel wobbly. What’s going on? “Are you okay?”

  One of Davina’s friends stands up to help. “Just tell her the ingredients, Cook.”

  “My name’s Dove.” Realizing that no one cares, Dove thinks back. “Baguette slices, milk, chocolate, vanilla extract—it’s all pretty standard.”

  “Vanilla …” Davina seethes.

  “Vanilla extract,” Dove says slowly, wondering what she’s done wrong. Trying to cover any mistake, she adds, “And it’s the good stuff, Tahitian vanilla. I find it’s richer, more—”

  Davina stands up, clutching the railing for support, her face now more green than red. “I cannot have Tahitian vanilla. It’s processed with a certain kind of …” She pauses, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It makes me …”

  Sick. Dove suddenly recalls the first day, arriving and all the information Gus spewed at her. Under specifications about food likes and dislikes, Dove thought she’d committed to memory all of Davina’s tastes—no boysenberry, eggs served soft- not hard-boiled, no use of macadamia nuts. Then she sees Davina actually spewing her breakfast over the side of the boat as her friends begin to disperse.

  A sinking feeling overwhelms Dove’s body. Was there a note about Tahitian vanilla and its effect on Davina’s stomach? Then Dove gets a visual image—a highlighted sentence—Tahitian vanilla causes instant vomiting. How could I have missed that? Who forgets instant vomiting? Despite the heat of the day creeping in, Dove gets a chill. This is bad. Worse than bad. Terrible.

  Gus appears and leads Davina toward the master cabin, shooting Dove a look that tells her this was no ordinary mistake.

  “That’s the last of them,” Harley says when she’s folded the newly arrived white T-shirts and displayed them on the table next to a stack of coiled belts and a bowl full of faux-jewel rings. Of course, she thinks, these ones look faux, but are real. She picks up an oval-shaped ruby ring, slides it on her middle finger, and studies the way it looks against her tanned skin.

  “Nice job with the shirts, Harlan,” says her coworker Annie, who insists on using her full name. “But put the ring back.”

  Harley shrugs. “Why? It looks good. Besides, you’ve got a scarf on that I know full well you haven’t bought.”

  Annie blushes and touches the fringed silk. “I actually just did—you can check the records if you want.” She coughs suggestively.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harley asks, defensive already. She goes to the cash register where they keep the books. A separate book for staff purchases is off to the side.

  Annie looks at Jen, another associate, who wears a matching outfit to Annie’s. “Nothing—it’s just …”

  “What? Just spit it out. It’s not like I won’t have heard it before.” Angrily, Harley begins sorting through a new shipment of shoes, ordering the boxes by size so she can move them to the back room.

  “Well,” Annie says, “we’ve just been noticing …”

  “We?” Harley asks. Her throat goes dry but she keeps sorting the shoes.

  “The staff—some of us.”

  “And Mrs. Taylor?” Harley asks, drumming up the name of the owner who came in daily under the pretense of checking on everything but really wanted to snag new outfits for the party circuit before taking up her preferred spot at the café down the street.

  Annie busies herself with the books. “Um, yes. Mrs. Taylor did notice. I mean, the woman has eyes and ears all over the world, right?”

  “Meaning?” Harley grimaces.

  “Meaning—she owns stores all over the place and has spies—I don’t know? Anyway, she was at some party last night? And saw you?” Annie’s sentences all go up at the end, making her sound continually flustered, which annoys Harley.

  Harley stops sorting shoes, pausing to think back. “Which party?”

  “Some party at the rotunda near here? A birthday?”

  Harley’s throat enters desert status, so dry she can barely swallow. She’d taken the dress from Pulse after everyone had gone, balled it up in her bag and smoothed it on only once she’d reached the party. No one was invited from here. No one would notice. Or, correction: No one was meant to. “So?” is the best Harley can muster.

  “So,” Annie says, sighing, “even though you’re the best folder, and probably the most convincing salesperson? She’s pissed.”

  Harley bites her top lip. “And just what am I accused of?” She knows better than to admit fault before she has to.

  Jen, less unsure of herself than Annie, steps forward. “Let’s just say that when I went back and looked at the books—which she made me do—I noticed that you haven’t actually bought anything with your staff discount.”

  “So that’s a crime?” Harley puts her hands on her hips. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want to waste my meager earnings on this overpriced crap?” She grabs a shoe and flings it across the store. It lands with a thud by the front door, where a very angry and stern-looking Mrs. Taylor stands looking decidedly unflustered.

  She bends down and picks up the shoe. “Annie, please put this in the proper box.” Annie does as she’s told while Harley stands there embarrassed, wishing she’d had more control over her mouth.

  “My main concern, Harlan,” Mrs. Taylor says as she surveys the store, “isn’t the dress you—ahem—appear to have borrowed last night.”

  Harley wonders how on earth Mrs. Taylor would know. Maybe the woman does have spies. She wasn’t at Melissa’s birthday party, and no one from the store came, so who would report back? Mrs. Taylor walks past the racks of gauzy dresses and neatly organized swimsuits and hands a piece of paper to Harley. “This is for you.”

  Harley wonders what it could be. A notice she’s fired? An invitati
on? A ticket to somewhere else? She takes the bright red slip of paper and reads the words on it. Citation for improper use of a public space. “A fine of fifteen hundred dollars?” Harley can’t believe it. Her tone is one of shock and dismay. And hand-delivered, too, Harley thinks as she grips the paper. Clearly, Mrs. Taylor was well connected.

  “Apparently, one must go through the proper channels to rent the rotunda.” Mrs. Taylor looks smug as she relays this. “This is a small island, Harlan, but we do things in accordance with tradition here. You can’t just sidestep a rule …”

  “I threw a friend a birthday party. I didn’t think—”

  “No. You didn’t.” Mrs. Taylor, now over by the cash register, flips open one of the oversized ledger books, scanning the lines until she points to one. “Just as you didn’t think when you charged thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing and accessories to a certain Mrs. de Rothschild.”

  Harley’s breath comes out in jagged waves. De Rothschild. Dove’s parents. “I know them,” Harley says, stretching the truth. “They told—”

  “They did no such thing.”

  Harley does a quick inventory of the problem. How does she know? Who is Mrs. Taylor to say what Dove’s parents would allow? Sure that this is one of those situations where she’s being bullied, Harley goes on. “The de Rothschilds are old friends of my family …” Harley winces inside, knowing that her trailer park upbringing would never amount to an old friendship with one of England’s finest families. But Dove’s a close friend, right? Doesn’t that count? She’ll help me get out of this.

  “Well, then you’ll have every opportunity to greet them shortly.”

  Harley’s hands begin to shake. “Who?”

  Mrs. Taylor pats the ledger book. “The de Rothschilds. They’ve come back to the island.” She raises her eyebrows and watches Harley’s face for a reaction. “I invited them to the Botanical Gardens party my daughter’s throwing.”

  “Your daughter?” Harley feels foolish, just now putting the pieces together. Emmy Taylor, the glamorous girl who’d invited half the island to the upcoming festivities. Of course she’s Mrs. Taylor’s daughter. And of course Emmy had been at Melissa’s bash last night, seen the dress, and reported back. Harley tries her best to fix things. “I can explain. I had to borrow the dress—I didn’t … I don’t …”

  “You borrowed it?” Mrs. Taylor crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for a better explanation. “So presumably it’s back where it should be?”

  Harley falters, remembering that the dress is not, in fact, on the rack, but rather in a heap on the floor of her cramped room, coated in sand from when she and Bug had watched the sunrise together on the beach. “I need to clean it first.”

  Mrs. Taylor sighs and walks calmly over so she’s face-to-face with Harley while Annie and Jen try not to watch, moving the shoeboxes to the storage room. “I had every confidence in you when you started.” She touches Harley’s shoulder. “You look the part, certainly.”

  Harley smiles, hoping this is a rough patch like there always are in jobs, and that it will pass. “I value my job here, and I—”

  “As I was saying,” Mrs. Taylor interrupts, making it clear that she’s in charge. “I have a sense of people. I pride myself on it, actually. And I had a good feeling about you. Your sales track is stronger in the short time you’ve been here than the other staff …”

  Harley drinks in the praise, knowing that retail does suit her, that she’s destined for some sort of career like this. “I was a chalet host—and then a waitress—and this job combines both. It’s like I’m guiding people to the clothing they’re meant to own.”

  Mrs. Taylor nods, then gives Harley a saddened look. “A perfect response.” Harley grins. “Which is why it pains me to fire you. But as you know, if I let people, even people who work here, borrow clothing, I wouldn’t make any money.” Mrs. Taylor smooths her blunt-cut dark hair and plucks a yellow opal ring from the bowl. “Integrity, above all else, is what matters in life. At a job, in a friendship, everything.” She hands Harley the yellow ring. “Consider this a parting gift.”

  Harley holds the ring in her hand. Mrs. Taylor starts out of the store and Harley wonders if maybe this nightmare isn’t really happening. No job yet again, an extra fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of debt, and no idea what to do next. Mrs. Taylor stops at the door but instead of going out of it herself, she holds it open for Harley. “Ready?”

  Harley walks to the door, pauses long enough to hand the ring back to Mrs. Taylor, and heads out. Am I ready? No. But do I have integrity? Yes. Harley walks up the cobblestone path, unsure where she’ll wind up but knowing she’ll have to deal with her monetary fine, her joblessness, and telling Dove that her parents are in town. If I’m going to be honest and full of integrity, I might as well start with Dove, she thinks. I should go find her right now and warn her about the upcoming parental storm. After all, if my nutty mother were coming to find me, I’d want as much advance warning as possible. Harley’s feet shuffle on the cobblestones, her arms warm in the sun. She pictures Dove’s easy manner, her soft and gentle ways, and wonders how she’ll cope with her past creeping up on her. She’ll be fine, Harley assures herself. Isn’t that what Dove’s always saying—that she can handle anything? And instead of heading toward the docks to find her friend, Harley looks one more time over her shoulder at Pulse and starts off to find the one person who can comfort her. Bug.

  19

  WITH THE RIPPLING RAYS of sunshine spreading across the infinity pool at the Sugar Hut, Melissa can almost forget about the nagging guilt. It’s not like I’m the one to blame, she thinks, dwelling on Dove’s and Harley’s overlapping love interest while reaching for the sunblock.

  “Here, let me.” Orange Shorts grins as he squirts a dollop of lotion onto his palm and begins rubbing it into Melissa’s neck. “Think you’ll ever get your luggage back?” he asks, plucking at Melissa’s makeshift bathing suit—a pair of surfer shorts rolled up at the waist and a threadbare white tank top layered over a blue one.

  “Think you’ll ever tell me your name?” Melissa volleys, tipping back so she can see her ultimate island fantasy, albeit upside down. It’s taken every bit of resolve she has to be relaxed enough not to bombard him with questions about who he is, where he’s from, and all the usual info people exchange. “Just one thing—that’s all I ask. A name.”

  He finishes with the sunblock, applying the remnants to his own face, and leans back on the lounge chair. He and Melissa are the only ones by the pool, despite the glorious day. Max and his family have gone off to visit some friends at their private estate, leaving Melissa to enjoy the riches that the house has to offer: stocked fridge, clean pool, perfect day. “I’m not trying to be mysterious,” he says. “I just think that people put too much emphasis on the exterior of things and lose sight of what’s important. For example—I don’t know your name.”

  “Not true.”

  “Fine. Melissa Forsythe. So I do know it.” He smiles. “But I don’t know your middle name.”

  “No way.” Melissa shakes him off. “Not telling.”

  “Fine.” He turns away, grinning but determined not to break his position.

  “But names are important,” Melissa says, swinging her feet over the edge of her chair so she can face him. She looks at his glistening arms, his chest rising and falling with each easy breath. “You’ve got to be something like Devonshire or Fulton or Weston. Some eclectic thing.”

  “Weston?” He raises his eyebrows and flicks some of the condensation from his glass of iced tea at her.

  Melissa shrugs. “If you’d tell me your real name I wouldn’t have to guess.”

  He sits up and turns so their knees touch. Melissa’s hands shake just slightly with the warmth coming from his body to hers. It’s all enough to make her mind leave behind the worries about being the bearer of bad news to Dove and Harley. They’ll rip each other to shreds, Melissa thinks, the worry slipping back in. And all over some guy wh
o two-timed them both. “Names do matter. A lot.” Melissa looks at the pool, rising up so she can feel its water on her legs, take a dunk before she has to make her way to the restaurant for a long shift. “I have a friend … or, I mean, I know someone who lied about his name and—well, let’s just say it got him into some trouble.”

  “Oh yeah?” Orange Shorts joins Melissa poolside, his perma-grin turned into a frown. “And that’s what you’re worried about?”

  Melissa shakes her head. “I’m worried about other things, but maybe that, too. I mean, how do I know you without knowing you?”

  “Nice sentence.” He sits next to her on the cool flagstone, swishing his feet in the clear water. “Okay. Fine. In the interest of not being taken as a deceitful person.” He dips his hand into the water and then rests his wet palm on Melissa’s thigh. She doesn’t flinch or move, just enjoys the feel of it on her skin. She waits, looking into his eyes, for him to reveal the big mystery. “Bob.”

  “Bob?” The laughter begins slowly, then rises up, erupting from her mouth. “Bob? As in just b-o-b? All this time I’ve been inventing exciting names and the personas to go along with them and here you are—”

  “Just plain Bob. Yeah. Well, I never promised you anything odd or different.” He moves his hand from her leg to her face. “Come—let’s jump in before I drive you to the watering hole.”

  Melissa is about to jump in when she suddenly pauses. Bob waits for her in the water, holding his hands out so she’ll meet him. “How’d you know about the fishing hole?” She squints at Bob and thinks back to a conversation she had with the wait-staff during one of her first shifts. They’d gone over the various restaurant slang—eighty-sixing something meant there was no more of it, as in eighty-six the grilled snapper, the vault was the big walk-in fridge, and TACs were totally annoying customers who sent things back. The watering hole was waiter-speak for the tiny break room at the far back of the kitchen, set apart from the rest of the place by the fact that it literally floated on a separate dock. It was where waiters and cooks kept books or magazines, snacks, and lots of iced coffee for refueling between shifts or taking orders. “What are you, like a connoisseur of all terms restaurant-o-lific?”