“That’s always a good start.”
Piquant’s stressful opening wasn’t so far in Faith’s past that she couldn’t recall those anxious early days, wringing her hands beside Xander on the restaurant’s patio, willing passersby to come in.
“I was counting on the momentum carrying us through fall,” David said. “Especially after adding the liquor license. But then, this happened.” As he jerked his head toward the water, an armored jeep hurtled around the bend.
“But if you can get through the next few months until the area is cleaned up, you can get back on your feet.”
“Yeah, except that I’m about to load my entire summer’s profits into your car.”
“Really? You weren’t able to put anything away?” If Faith ever had her own restaurant, she’d make sure she had a ton in savings before opening her doors.
“Nope. No contingency fund. The liquor license ate up everything I had. I even gave up my apartment in town.”
Faith raised an eyebrow, thinking there must be plenty of women willing to rescue a good-looking, personable chef.
“Don’t believe me?” he said. “Come check out my crib.”
Inside a closet-like space, a desk and a single bed were piled high with restaurant supplies. On the file cabinet beside the bed, Faith spotted several empty beer bottles, a greasy paper sack and a telltale tomato-red cardboard container. “I see we share the same gourmet taste,” she joked.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” David swept the trash into a garbage bin under the desk. “Like I said, this place left me no budget for fine dining.”
“You don’t have a business partner?”
“Me, myself and I. I put my heart and soul into this place.” He turned away, grabbed a plastic milk crate and began to fill it with bags of dinner rolls and sliced bread for Faith to take back to the inn.
Faith’s heart ached for the entrepreneur; another dream crushed by the hurricane. She was about to ask him his plans for work when the screen door slapped open.
“Anybody home?”
Faith frowned at the disconcertingly familiar male voice. To her surprise, Bruce Neery strolled into the kitchen a second later. Was the man the town busybody, or what?
“I see you’ve made some progress with the sand,” Bruce said. “Oh, hello, Faith. What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I think he’s looking for me,” David said. “Faith Sterling, meet my dad.”
30
Back at The Mermaid’s Purse, Faith lugged David’s donations into the kitchen, thinking the expedition had all the markings of one of her mother’s matchups. David’s different last name (“Huntington’s my mother’s side,” was all the chef offered as explanation) had thrown Faith off.
“Hey, Mom,” she called. “If you were trying to fix me up with Bruce’s son—”
“We’re out here, Faith.” Connie’s soft, measured response from the front of the house sounded like a mother trying not to disturb a sleeping baby. Faith headed toward the salon, where her mother sat on the couch beside an elderly man.
“Faith, this is Fred. He’s come to stay with us for a while.”
“Nice to meet you, Fred.” Faith took in the man’s shock of white hair, his fleece zipped over a thick ski sweater, his white socks pulled up over the bottoms of his jeans. Shaking his hand, Faith found the man’s rough in hers, his fingers wrapped in places with surgical tape. “Welcome to The Mermaid’s Purse. I only just got here myself, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable.”
“Thank you. We were doing okay on our own for a while, neighbors running over with firewood and food from the church and whatnot.”
“You’re lucky to have good neighbors,” said Connie.
“That I am. But then we ran out of wood. And I started to worry about my wife. Mona, say hello to Faith here.”
Faith turned. Fred’s wife, Mona, a fine-boned woman unaccountably dressed in a high-necked ruffled white nightgown, sat in the brocade armchair next to the fireplace, her translucent skin like porcelain china.
“Mona?” Fred repeated.
Mona didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the fire.
“I must apologize,” Fred said. “My wife doesn’t always feel like chatting these days.”
“That’s perfectly fine.” Connie unfolded a crocheted afghan and tucked it around Mona. The woman didn’t acknowledge the gesture nor grab the blanket when it slipped off her shoulder.
“Her mind wanders off sometimes, too. Some days farther than others.”
Faith sat down next to the man. “That’s all right, Fred. I’m going to heat up some soup in a minute. How does that sound?”
“Soup sounds wonderful,” Fred said. “I may need to help Mona a bit with it.”
“It’s from that restaurant,” she clarified to her mother. “And remind me. I have a question about that place.”
A short while later, Fred and Mona sat kitty-corner at a table in the Mermaid’s Purse dining room. Faith watched from the kitchen doorway as Fred patiently spooned soup into his wife’s mouth, pausing occasionally to wipe her face with the napkin he tucked into the neck of her nightgown. After each spoonful, Mona closed her eyes and swallowed, like a baby bird taking sustenance from its mother, while Fred waited with the next portion.
“Mom,” Faith whispered. “Come look at this.”
Holding her own bowl of soup and a round of David’s warmed bread, Connie paused behind her daughter. “He’s a saint,” she said. “We should be so lucky.”
“Do they have any children?”
“They had one. A son. Fred told me he passed of a heart attack a few years ago. Their church recommended them for the town’s temporary housing program.”
“No other family?”
“Only a brother of Fred’s, but he’s all the way out in Iowa, with health problems of his own.”
“Do you think Mona will be okay here?” Faith asked.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I’m a little worried about her. She seems to require a lot of care.”
“Fred appears to be very good at that.”
“But he’s fragile, too.” Although alert and sharp, Fred had moved slowly as he helped his wife to the dining room.
“They’re still better off here than they were in their house, all alone. When I think of the two of them there without power . . .” Connie shuddered.
“Of course they’re better off. I’m just trying to be practical and think about the support they’ll need. And about you.”
“Wasn’t that the point of your staying? To help out? Honestly, Faith. We just had this conversation. You haven’t even unpacked and already you’re trying to run things. As far as I’m concerned, Fred and Mona are our guests. And they can stay as long as they like. So if you’re through giving me advice, I think I’ll go and sit.” She started toward the dining room with her bowl.
“Mom, wait. Where are you going?”
Connie turned in surprise. “To eat with Fred and Mona, of course.”
“But you’re the innkeeper. The guests don’t expect you to eat with them. We—the staff—usually eat in here. Even bed-and-breakfast staff.”
Connie discounted Faith’s comments with a wave of her bread. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. The next thing I know, you’ll be showing up in that chef’s coat and beanie of yours.”
“Come on, Mom. I would never . . .”
“Maeve and I talked about it. After the trauma of the storm, we want these people to feel very much at home, for as long as they’re here. That means we bend the rules some. Now, if you prefer to eat alone in the kitchen like a servant, be my guest. I’ll be taking my meals in the dining room. With my guests.” With that, Connie went and settled herself at Fred and Mona’s table.
Frustrated, Faith filled a bowl for herself and dragged a lone stool up to the counter. She hadn’t given much thought to the inn’s operation under the
se emergency conditions, but now that her mother had clarified things, she would try to adjust. Unfortunately, in her professional experience, things could get awkward when boundaries were crossed, like Faith’s awkwardness with Piquant’s penthouse customer.
Faith swirled a piece of bread in David’s soup, finding them both unexpectedly tasty. Yes, she thought, there were fewer surprises when guests and staff knew their place.
31
Though Faith had set places for them in the dining room, Roxanne and Gage didn’t return for dinner. After the meal, Connie settled Fred and Mona in Maeve’s hastily cleared first-floor quarters while Faith spent the evening prepping the coffee urn and assembling a breakfast strata from odds and ends of cheese and vegetables that she found in Maeve’s crisper.
When mother and son still had not returned by the time Faith slid the breakfast casserole into the fridge, she began to wonder if the pair were stuck up at the beach, or if something had happened to them. Three-quarters of the town remained in darkness, a hardship that led the town to impose an eight o’clock curfew.
Shutting the refrigerator, Faith thought she heard a car door slam and slipped out back to investigate. From the dark driveway, she followed the path around front, where a police cruiser had pulled over a Suburban packed with teenagers.
“Didn’t your folks tell you about the curfew?” The officer twirled his flashlight inside the car. “Until everybody has power again, everybody’s inside by eight.” For good measure, he ordered all of the passengers out of the car. Faith squinted, but the darkness made it difficult to make out any of their features. Certainly they were about Gage’s age, but she couldn’t determine if he was among them. The officer then put the driver through the paces of a sobriety test. Faith covered a smile as the burly boy in a hoodie gamely touched his nose and tightrope-walked the stretch of road illuminated by the officer’s flashlight while his friends giggled on the sidewalk. Satisfied, the policeman allowed everyone back into the vehicle.
“Go home now. I’ll give you thirty seconds before I start taking names and calling parents. And don’t forget: you’re allowed only one other passenger besides the driver. Next time, I’ll ticket you for that.”
Faith watched the two sets of taillights recede into the night, then decided to go to bed. She was upstairs brushing her teeth when she heard the front door open. After stepping out to the darkened second-floor hallway, Faith saw Roxanne slip inside alone, shut the door soundlessly behind her, then lean against it, eyes closed, her chest convulsing with sobs.
Roxanne remained there a few moments. Eventually, she appeared to compose herself. She ran up the stairs to her room, passing right by Faith, who had hidden in an alcove.
“Did you put the trash out like I asked? It’s an early pickup tomorrow.” Connie whispered once Faith slid into bed.
“Crap. I forgot. I’ll take care of it right now.”
Faith did a quick tour of the inn, bundling the refuse from unoccupied rooms. She grabbed a flashlight and carried the trash outside to a pair of plastic receptacles. As she was about to stuff the garbage inside the first one, something at the bottom caught her eye.
Setting the trash down, Faith aimed her flashlight at what was clearly a photo album. The large gold-rimmed oval cutout on its cover framed a pair of newlyweds. Faith recognized the bride instantly: Roxanne, in a body-hugging mermaid gown, a pearl tiara nestled in coils of permed hair, smiling dreamily at her new husband.
Roxanne had thrown out her wedding album.
Faith glanced over her shoulder, as though the woman might materialize and accuse her of snooping, then quickly picked up the trash and dropped it on top of the album. As she walked back inside, Faith wondered why Roxanne hadn’t just discarded the album up at the beach with all her other ruined belongings. Had she intended to save the wedding memento, then had second thoughts?
She couldn’t blame any of the storm survivors for those doubts. It must be torturous to make those decisions under such pressure, forced in the heat of the moment to choose what to keep, and what to abandon.
32
When Faith came down just before six the next morning, she found Roxanne at the kitchen farm table, freshly showered and nursing a cup of coffee.
“Hope you don’t mind. I helped myself.” Roxanne lifted her cup, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy—from crying, Faith assumed as she preheated the oven.
“I just wish I’d beaten you down here.” Faith poured herself a mug. “They won’t keep me around here very long if the guests wake up before the cook.”
“Your mom’s the boss. I think your job is safe.”
“I’m putting everything out in the dining room shortly.” Faith stacked butter and jam on a tray, hoping Roxanne would take the hint. After yesterday’s conversation with her mother, Faith was all for communal dining, but did that mean everyone would have full run of the kitchen, too? She and Connie hadn’t really defined that boundary.
“Join me.” Roxanne patted the place next to hers.
“Would love to, but I’m on duty. We missed you at dinner.” Faith slid the strata into the oven.
“I’m so sorry. I should have called, I guess. It’s just . . . We were almost done, everything packed and ready to go, and then Mitch showed up.”
At the man’s name, Roxanne’s voice caught. Faith turned to see her gripping her mug, lips pressed together fiercely.
“Mitch?” Faith asked.
“My ex. Gage’s dad. He’s being really difficult about custody, in spite of . . . Anyway, he showed up last night, and ended up taking Gage. Not ‘taking’ taking,” she clarified, at Faith’s look of alarm. “He took Gage to his place. He stays with him a lot. It’s part of our arrangement. For now, anyway. I only wanted to make sure the girlfriend wouldn’t be there before I let Gage leave. That set Mitch off.”
“But isn’t that a normal thing to ask in these situations?” Some of Faith’s friends who dated single fathers had told Faith how protective the ex-wives were about their kids.
“You would think.” Roxanne shook her head. “But not according to Mitch. He made this huge scene in front of all the volunteers. And Gage.”
“I’m sorry,” Faith said awkwardly, surprised at how much personal information Roxanne had shared.
“Don’t be. Mitch’s a jerk. Especially when he’s angry. The main reason I left him.” Roxanne got up from the table. “But he’s Gage’s father, so I have to act like he’s human. And try to be civil. That’s what my divorced girlfriends say, anyway.”
“What does your lawyer say?”
Roxanne sighed. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. Things happened . . . fast. He’s still fighting me on the separation. Says he can’t understand how I could split up our family.”
As Roxanne elaborated on her estranged husband’s behavior, Faith began to see why she had ditched her wedding album.
“And I suppose this storm thing will drag things out even further. I know I should be doing something, but I can’t even find the energy. I feel like I’m paralyzed.
“Anyway.” Roxanne attempted a smile. “Enough about me. Whatever you’ve made smells heavenly. Tarragon, right?”
“Exactly. Good nose. You like to cook?”
“I dabble. Nothing fancier than bar food, usually. It’s the only job where I could work my hours around Gage. Mitch would watch him at night. Until he started getting jealous of some of my customers, and I’d have to move to another bar. But that’s the extent of my cooking experience. Maybe I can help out here at some point. If I ever get my own act together. But for now . . .” She grabbed a granola bar from the basket Faith was filling. “I’ve got to get back to my house before my friend’s truck gets there. She managed to reserve the last remaining storage locker in the county for me yesterday. Our entire life at the moment fits into a ten-by-ten-foot cubbyhole. How depressing is that?”
Very depressing. Faith could relate to the limited belongings. She and her mother had traveled pretty lightly when she was gr
owing up, whittling down their possessions over a number of moves. But if nothing else, the experience had taught Faith how to prioritize. She was shifting the strata to the other oven rack to cook it evenly when the doorbell’s shrill rasp pierced the heart of the inn.
At the same time, Fred wandered into the kitchen, wearing his exact layers from the night before. “Good morning. Could I bother you for a cup of tea for Mona? I like to let it cool a bit before she drinks it.”
“Of course. Give me one second. I’ve got to get the door. And breakfast is nearly ready.” The front buzzer jangled again, more insistently this time. Where was her mother to run interference? Fingers of panic pinched Faith’s gut, which struck her as ridiculous, given the fact that she routinely turned out a hundred or more multicourse meals every night at Piquant.
This is going to take some getting used to. Heading to the door, she longed for the buffer that had insulated her from restaurant clientele. Here at the inn, Faith felt ill equipped to help the boarders cope with their problems.
Faith cut off the buzzer’s third blip by opening the door. Two middle-aged women stood on the inn’s porch: an athletic brunette with a ponytail clutching a suitcase, and a shorter female leaning on a metal cane, her hair tucked under a fuchsia baseball cap. The pair regarded Faith with similar hazel gazes over matching freckled noses. Sisters, Faith decided. It would have been nice if Connie had given her a heads-up about their newest boarders, but her mother had yet to make an appearance that morning.
“Come on in.” Faith smiled to hide her annoyance. “We’re so happy the mayor sent you our way.”
The brunette frowned. “Nobody sent us. We found you online.”
Had someone advertised the inn’s offer to host storm survivors? Faith raised her eyebrows. “You know, it doesn’t matter how you got here. We’re happy to help anyone impacted by the hurricane.” They would figure out the finances later, she thought.
“We weren’t impacted at all,” said the woman in the baseball cap. “I’m Grace Abbott, and this is my sister, Merrill. We’ve come to Wave’s End to volunteer, and we’re looking for a place to stay.”
At Wave's End: A Novel Page 9