No Home Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  Right?

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about, you know,” Gavin reminded her. He’d said it a few times over the course of the week between him extending the invitation and their departure, but she’d laughed it off every time. Of course there was a lot to be nervous about! Three days! In Boston! With Gavin Crawford! The possibilities were endless, and each one was more horrific than the last. At best, this ended with a cordial handshake and a “See you on Monday!” At worst—well, she didn’t want to imagine the worst-case scenario.

  “Right. Not a worry in the world. That’s me, Sara Benson. Notorious non-worrier.”

  Gavin chuckled as the seat-belt sign overhead dinged off and they stood up to retrieve their bags from overhead. “You’re a funny one, Sara. Your boyfriend must love that.”

  “Boyfriend? Me? You’re the funny one,” she said.

  “Really? No boyfriend? Well, how ’bout that. You’re depriving the men of Manhattan of something really special.”

  Sara blushed again, harder than the first time. Since when was she a blusher? She was fair-complected, yeah—thanks a lot, Irish ancestry—but she couldn’t recall the last time she’d spent so many consecutive minutes turning beet-red at the simplest stupid joke.

  “Ah well, you know,” she said, shooting for “casual.” “Gotta make ’em work for it.”

  She wrestled her bag from the overhead bin to the ground without incident and hurried off the plane before she could find something else stupid to say.

  They had a black car service waiting for them outside the terminal. The driver, a tall, skinny man wearing sunglasses and a peaked chauffeur’s cap, was holding a placard with Gavin’s name on it. It read “Gavin Crawford & Guest.” Sara wasn’t sure what to make of that. She decided not to think about it.

  The driver insisted on taking the bags out of Sara’s hands and stowing them in the trunk. Then he whisked them away to the Ritz-Carlton.

  The banquet would be held that night in the ballroom, but they still had a few hours to kill before then. Gavin suggested they drop their bags in their rooms and go walk around downtown. They approached the concierge’s desk.

  “Good afternoon!” chirped the blonde woman. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. May I have your name, please?” She had shoulder-length hair, pressed stick-straight, and a dark navy pantsuit on. She exuded a sense of competent, put-together professionalism that Sara was wildly jealous of at that moment. She’d trade a pinky toe for ten percent of that aura. She herself was feeling more like the cat from Tom & Jerry—she could never remember which one of them was Tom and which was Jerry—in that one episode where he’s juggling eggs and the mouse keeps adding more and more eggs to the mix, until there are too many to manage and the cat starts missing them and they come falling down to break with a splat on his head, one by one by one.

  “Good afternoon, darling,” Gavin drawled. “Gavin Crawford.”

  She smiled. “Welcome, Mr. Crawford! If you’ll give me just one moment, I’ll pull up your reservation and do everything I can to make sure you enjoy your stay with us.” Suddenly, Sara wasn’t so sure that it was competent professionalism after all. The woman seemed to be smiling a little wider towards Gavin than she had when she’d first greeted Sara. Sara could almost swear that she’d undone the top button on her blouse and leaned forward a little more as she tapped away at the computer.

  “Thanks, hon,” Gavin replied.

  Sara gave him a sidelong glance. For his part, he sure seemed to be pouring on the charm thick for this concierge lady. Now that she looked close, Sara thought the woman’s hair was way too straight, and she had an awful lot of split ends.

  “Here we … Oh wait—oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Crawford. It looks like we had a mix-up with the rooms … Give me just one more second, please.”

  Sara’s heart leaped up into her throat. This was it—the beginning of her undoing. The setup to a horrible romantic comedy scenario. The room wouldn’t be ready, and every hotel in town would be full, and they’d have to share a single bed, and everything would explode into a nuclear-scale disaster because she just could possibly be left alone with Gavin Crawford behind closed doors …

  “There we go, all fixed!” the woman chimed. “Unfortunately, we will need just a few more minutes to finish preparing your room. The guest in the Presidential Suite before you overstayed, and our cleaning crew has not yet had a chance to prepare it for your stay. My sincerest apologies. I can offer you a complimentary drink from our downstairs bar to thank you for your patience. Oh—and your guest, as well.” There was no mistaking the tone in the woman’s voice at the end. It was either pity, as in “look what the cat dragged in,” or maybe just straight-up jealousy. Either way, Sara didn’t like it one bit. In a previous life, she might’ve had some choice words for this woman—her mom always joked that Sara must have some Viking blood in her, because she never backed down from a fight. Heck, even a few years ago, a younger and more temperamental Sara might’ve had some choice words. But she was old enough now to know better. Certainly old enough to just take a deep breath, smile, and say, “Thank you.” Part of her almost meant it.

  “We’ll keep your bags secure in the bellhop’s quarters until your rooms are ready. The bar is directly behind you. I’ll call ahead and let the bartender know that you’re coming, if you’d like?”

  “Don’t suppose we can say no to free alcohol, can we?” Gavin said. “Shall we?” He turned to Sara and offered his elbow like an old-timey Southern gentleman. Sara suppressed a giggle, jealousies forgotten, as she looped her arm through his. They sauntered off to the bar, leaving the flirty concierge to wrangle their luggage into the back room.

  The bar inside was lit low and had soft music ushering through the speakers. The bartender greeted them. “Mr. and Mrs. Crawford?” The concierge must have called ahead like she’d said.

  Sara started to correct the man, but before she could get the words out of her mouth, Gavin intervened.

  “Something like that. Can I get a Crown Royal on the rocks? And a vodka gimlet for the lady, extra dry.”

  He remembered her go-to drink. That was weird. They’d been out on the town together as a staff at Lonesome Dove a couple of times. Once was after their soft opening for friends and family, and the other time was after the Michelin star was announced. But it was never just Gavin and Sara. It was always all the servers and line cooks and back-of-the-house crews mixed in together, getting wildly drunk like only restaurant workers know how to do. But somehow, amidst all that chaos, he remembered her drink. She decided not to think about that, either.

  They took a seat near the unlit fireplace. Sara looked around. It was a moderate-sized bar, exquisitely decorated. Dark wooden and steel furniture was spread around most of the floor space in clusters of chairs, a few booths, a couple low couches. A massive fireplace took up one side of the room, done up in white marble and set into the wood-paneled walls. The atmosphere was sophisticated and cozy.

  “How’s the drink?” Gavin asked as they settled into their seats. She was perched at the end of a couch, and he was sprawled comfortably in the armchair next to her.

  Sara took a sip of her vodka gimlet. “Yikes. Strong.” The sleeping pill and champagne from the flight were mostly faded away now, but she was still wary of getting too drunk and making a fool of herself. This tasted like the bartender had mixed it with equal parts gasoline and moonshine. She resolved to sip as slowly as humanly possible.

  “You’re from up near the Cape, right?” he said.

  Sara nodded. “Nantucket, actually.”

  “Ah, Nantucket. Beautiful place. I went up there a few years back, stayed in a nice little B&B. Sweet Island Inn, I think it was called. You ever heard of it?”

  She almost choked on her drink in surprise. “Kind of. My aunt owns it, actually.”

  Gavin’s eyes widened. He laughed and slapped a knee. “You’re kidding! Well, that’s crazy. Small world, I guess.”

  “Small island.”


  He nodded. “Yep, that too.”

  Sara heard a buzz. Her eyes strayed down to the table. There, next to his keys where he’d dropped them when they sat down, was Gavin’s cell phone. He had a text lighting up his home screen.

  The sender’s name was saved in his contacts as Melissa Babe <3.

  This time, Sara actually did choke.

  “Whoa there!” Gavin said in alarm. He jumped up and pounded her on the back with a broad, flat hand. Despite the coughing fit, it wasn’t lost on her that Gavin Crawford was actually touching her. Sara coughed until her eyes were studded with tears. Finally, she managed to catch her breath.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted weakly. “It’s okay.” She raised a hand to wave him back to his seat and accidentally brushed against his torso. It wasn’t lost on her either that, beneath his plaid shirt, his body was very firm and muscular.

  She’d been ignoring the Melissa Question since the moment Gavin popped the question of this Boston trip. And by “ignoring,” she meant considering obsessively and then yelling at herself for doing just that.

  Part of the issue was that the Melissa Question was really a bunch of questions all knotted up in one. Who is she? Where is she? What are they? What does she think they are? What does Gavin think they are? Whose opinion matters more? And on and on like that, leading nowhere productive but taking up all of Sara’s available brain space anyway.

  She hadn’t seen what Melissa had texted Gavin, but the mere fact that she was texting him at all was enough to send her heart plummeting into her stomach acid. All of this was wrong. She shouldn’t have said yes to this trip. She shouldn’t be drinking a dangerously strong drink in this super nice bar with this ridiculously handsome man, who was utterly and completely off-limits to her.

  And, beyond that, she should’ve said yes when Benny asked her out in her first week at the restaurant. She should’ve never gone to NYC in the first place. She should’ve stayed in Nantucket and kept working the line at the Club Car. She should’ve found a dark cave and become a hermit, maybe.

  Any or all those choices could have prevented her from ending up in this exact circumstance. She wished she’d made one of them at the very least. Because she didn’t want to be the other woman or just another notch on Gavin’s belt. No, that wasn’t appealing at all. But the worst part was that, if that particular opportunity arose, she didn’t trust herself to say no.

  “Excuse me?” said the bartender, approaching politely. “Your room is ready, if you’d like to go up now.”

  “Actually, we just—” Gavin started to say.

  Sara cut him off. “Yes!” Way too loud, way too enthusiastic. She cleared her throat and moderated her tone a little bit. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Lead the way.” She put the way-too-strong drink on the table and left it in her rear-view mirror. That would only bring more trouble, and she was already up to her eyeballs in that.

  7

  Brent

  How had everything gone so wrong, so fast?

  It had taken a bit to wait in line at the pumps and then get the boats gassed up, along with arranging all the rods and fishing tackle for the day’s expedition. But soon, all those chores were behind them. The only thing left awaiting them was the gentle toss of the tide and some fish—hungry ones, hopefully. But forty-five minutes of motoring out to the first spot, and then an hour of casting and reeling had yielded … not a dang thing.

  They’d gone from there to a second spot, and then to a third, but nothing was biting anywhere they looked. The ocean around them was calm and blue. Brent’s boat, Jenny Lee, was anchored a few dozen yards away, so the pair of them were both manning Dad’s Pour Decisions. His father was seated up top in the captain’s chair with the long line that reached way off. Brent was perched down below on the stern with a few shorter lines set up in the rod-holders around him, gazing around into the bright sun.

  “Fish ain’t going anywhere, eh?” Brent grumbled sarcastically under his voice, repeating his father’s line from earlier at the dock. He knew he was being cranky. Obviously, none of this was his dad’s fault. But something in Brent was just a little bit sour at the prospect of a fruitless day.

  He knew a trademark Henry-ism was coming. Three, two, one …

  “Life is meant to be enjoyed, isn’t it?” Dad called from overhead. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, I’m out fishing with my son. I’d say things are A-okay, kiddo. Lighten up!”

  Brent sighed. He knew his dad was right. He also didn’t doubt that the six-pack of beers his dad had been nursing all morning wasn’t hurting his mood at all. Brent eyed the beers wistfully. Eleven months of sobriety wasn’t something he was willing to toss overboard in exchange for one lukewarm Bud Light, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss drinking. Still, some things were better left in the past, and he’d learned the hard way—and then learned it again and again—that alcohol and Brent Benson did not mix well.

  “Oy!” shouted Dad from up top. “Got somethin’!”

  Brent perked up, head on a swivel as he looked around to see which of the rods had gotten a hit. One of the ones stationed at the port side was bowed over. He raced towards it and plucked the rod out of the holder. The reel was whizzing yards and yards of line freely. Brent let it go for a moment longer before locking it in and yanking back as hard as he could in order to get the hook set.

  “Something big!” Dad chortled gleefully. Despite himself, Brent laughed. He was dimly aware of his father scaling down the ladder and coming up behind him. But all his attention was focused on the fight with the fish. Dad was right; it was something big indeed. Brent was sweating already, and the muscles on his back were straining hard as he played the delicate game of tug and release, reel and relax, over and over.

  Minutes passed, but inch by inch, he was gaining on the sucker.

  “You got it, son!” Dad encouraged. “Get it in!”

  Finally, a full twenty minutes of fighting later, the catch was almost close enough for Dad to use the net on it. One more yank and twist, a little more reeling, Pops swept down with the net in hand, and …

  Boom. The catch hit the deck hard.

  It was a dead shark.

  Brent always hated seeing stuff like this. Sure, he was a fisherman by trade, and this was par for the course in his line of work. But he had some of his father’s softness at heart, and something about a dead animal that wouldn’t get properly used just didn’t sit right with him. He felt—well, not quite guilty, but something akin to guilt. Whether the animal had bled out on the hook or been chomped on by something else during the fight, Brent couldn’t be sure. But either way, he’d had a hand in sending this creature to shark heaven.

  “This day really does stink,” Brent groaned. He fell into a seat at the back of the boat. A beer would’ve been especially nice right about now.

  That had been an hour ago. After the shark debacle, all the wind went right out of Brent’s sails. He’d hopped back onto Jenny Lee and followed his dad to the next spot, but there was just no more fight left in him. He was hungry, and tired, and the tug-of-war with the shark had sapped the last of his strength. He wanted to go back to his apartment, nest on the couch, and watch Red Sox baseball on television for the rest of the day.

  Brent pulled up alongside Pour Decisions. “I’m done, Pops,” he called over to his father, who was fiddling with one of the rods.

  Dad looked up, surprised. “So soon?”

  “Nothing’s biting, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and if one more souped-up mega boat tries to come muscle in on our spot, I’m gonna lose it. Also, that looks like a nasty storm brewing off to the east. Let’s just go home. Live to fight another day.”

  His father nodded slowly. Around them, the waves sloshed a little more angrily than they had when the men first set out that morning. Brent was right; that storm in the distance was dark, angry-looking, and picking up speed in this direction.

  “You go ahead on in, son,” his dad replied. “
I’m gonna try one more spot. The Garden never fails, right?”

  Brent shook his head. “No way, Dad. The Garden is at least twenty minutes to the east. Maybe more, if the chop picks up. You’d be heading straight for that storm. If you catch a cold getting soaked to the skin, Mom’s gonna take my head off, not yours. Just come in with me and we’ll go hang out at the house.”

  But his father was already standing and climbing up the ladder to the captain’s seat. “No worries, Brent!” he called over his shoulder as he hauled himself up and took his place behind the wheel. “The Garden of Eden will have fish aplenty! We’ll bring some home for your mama, and I’ll even let you take partial credit for catching tonight’s dinner.”

  Brent sighed for the umpteenth time that day. Fine. So be it. If his dad wanted to suffer through bone-chilling rain and a nausea-inducing ride out and back just to still come home empty-handed, that wasn’t Brent’s problem. Lord knows he had done similarly foolish things before and would do more in the future. And nobody on this planet could stop him when he had an idea like that in his head. Brent might be stubborn as a mule, but he’d learned everything he knew from his dad. He’d be better off saving his breath.

  “You sure, Dad?” he asked. Might as well try one last time. If nothing else, he could say he gave it an honest effort.

  But his father was already firing up the motors and didn’t hear him.