The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Cafe

by Mary Simses

  I stared at the lobster again, with its hard, shiny shell. Then I looked for the waitress to see if someone in the kitchen would crack the shell for me, but the waitress wasn’t in sight.

  “City council?” I said, dragging some french fries through a mound of ketchup and popping them in my mouth. “Yeah, he is.” I washed it all down with more Scotch. The room was radiating, throbbing, moving, a little off-kilter. “He wants to do that.”

  Jim nodded and sliced through a steaming baked potato. “And what about you? Are you interested in politics?”

  “Who, me?” I laughed. “Nope. I don’t want to run for anything. I want to do something different.” I stabbed another fry.

  Jim leaned back in his chair and gazed at me. “Different. Like what?”

  Like what. I tried to think of something clever. And then a vision of Gran and her blueberry muffins slipped into my head.

  “Like…well, open a bakery,” I said.

  Jim looked surprised.

  “Of course, my specialty would be blueberries.” I gave him the most earnest look I could muster. The Scotch was really ramping up now, and I was enjoying this.

  “Blueberries?” he asked, shaking his head, as if he hadn’t heard right.

  I nodded. “Sure. It’s an untapped market, you know. I could make blueberry muffins. My grandmother was great at those.” I closed my eyes and pictured her stirring the batter. Don’t overmix it, Ellen, or they’ll be like rubber. “Yeah, this place needs a better-quality blueberry muffin.” I raised a pointed finger. “And I could provide it.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Jim said, placing a pat of butter on his baked potato.

  “And there are always blueberry pies,” I said, pausing to think of other possibilities. “Turnovers, cakes, croissants…” I popped the fry into my mouth. “I don’t think anybody’s done blueberry croissants.”

  “No,” Jim said slowly. “I don’t think they have.”

  “Of course, I’d sell some other things, too. Can’t all be blueberries,” I mused as I began to envision the bakery—a tray of lemon pound cake, peach cobbler in a fluted casserole, a basket of pomegranate-and-ginger muffins. I could see myself pulling a baking sheet of cookies from the oven, the smell of melted chocolate in the air. There would be white wooden tables and chairs in the front room, and people could order coffee and sandwiches. Maybe even tea sandwiches, like the ones Gran used to make. Cucumber and arugula. Bacon and egg. Curried chicken. And people could sit and read the newspaper, and…

  Someone tapped my arm. I looked up and saw Jim staring at me.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about the bakery.”

  “I gather you like food.”

  I nodded, trying to envision what color accents would look nice in a room with white tables and chairs. Blue? White and blue was always a great combination. Fresh. Beachy.

  “But what about politics?” Jim asked.

  Yes, white and blue. Did he say politics? I looked across the table at Jim. “Excuse me?” I grabbed another french fry with my fingers.

  “I was just wondering, given Hayden’s family…and Hayden wanting to run for office. Do you like the world of politics?”

  Did I like the world of politics? The question caught me a little off guard. I looked down at my lobster…the spiny legs, the claws. Sure, I was interested in politics. Who wasn’t? But did I really like it? I’d always thought most politicians were liars and crooks, Hayden’s family excepted, of course. I was afraid my answer might be No, I don’t really like the world of politics.

  “Of course I like it,” I said. “What’s not to like?” The french fry slipped from my hand, landing on my pants. I picked it up, noticing the grease and ketchup stain it left behind.

  Jim nodded and watched me as I tried to remove the stain with a water-soaked napkin. A two-inch wet circle appeared around a red center, like a target.

  He took a bite of his potato, and I looked for the waitress again. There had to be somebody in that kitchen who could deal with this lobster shell. Finally, giving up, I placed the cracker around the tail and, whoosh, the cracker slid right off the surface, hitting a little dish of drawn butter that shimmered like a reflecting pool. I grabbed the tail again and pushed the cracker with all my strength. This time the shell exploded, sending shards of lobster meat all over the table, onto my blouse, and onto Jim’s clothes.

  “Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing a clean napkin from Hayden’s place and handing it to him. And then, even though I knew I shouldn’t, I started to laugh.

  Jim began to wipe the specks off the front of his shirt and his sleeves, and as he looked at the mess he began to laugh, too. We continued to wipe off our clothes, but every time we looked at one another, covered with lobster debris, we started up again. We couldn’t stop laughing. By the time we did, we were both out of breath, our eyes tearing.

  I had finally gotten myself back under control when a cheer went up from the crowd of people near the dartboard, and one of the men yelled for a round of beer. I looked over and was able to catch a glimpse of my mother, holding a dart up high, as though she were just about to throw it. Then she let it go, but I couldn’t see where it landed.

  “That’s my mom,” I said. “I told you she was a champion.”

  I went to pick up the lobster tail again, but he grabbed it from me. “I’d better help you with this.” He took the crackers and snapped down on the shell, which opened in one clean break.

  I sat there in awe, admiring his skill.

  “You’d never survive life in Maine if that’s how you crack a lobster,” Jim said.

  Life in Maine.

  He grinned, and I knew he meant it as a joke, but all I could think about was Roy Cummings and the little house he made for me and the beautiful things he said as we stood outside.

  I looked down, my eyes welling up with tears. I’m in love with you. I know I can make you happy. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. But there was no getting away from it. I could still see his face, the quiet, defeated look when he said good-bye.

  “Are you all right?”

  I opened my eyes. Jim was looking at me, an expression of concern on his face.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can I help?”

  I shook my head. I wanted Hayden to come back and take me to the inn. Where was he? “I’m fine.” I kept looking down.

  Jim pushed his dinner plate to the side. “All right, Ellen, I’ll make you a deal.”

  When he didn’t say anything else for a moment I finally glanced up at him.

  “Look,” he said. “Tonight you just consider me a friend, okay? I’m taking my reporter hat off.” He pretended to lift something from his head and toss it behind him. “It’s gone, okay?”

  I stared at him. He had lovely brown eyes, trusting eyes, like a dog.

  I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “So tell me what’s going on.”

  I put my elbows on the table, too. Then I leaned in closer. “You know the guy who was here earlier? Tall, dark hair.”

  “Red Sox cap?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s Roy.”

  Jim looked confused. “I’m not sure I—”

  “His name is Roy. Roy Cummings.”

  I gazed at the watered-down Scotch in my glass. My head felt very heavy. Something was happening inside me from all the alcohol.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said, my words starting to sound a little like slushy. “I’m three months away from my wedding…” I held up three fingers. “And everything’s all set to go, all ready.… And then I meet him. Roy. Roy Cummings. Just walks into my life out of nowhere.”

  I waved my hand. “No, wait, that’s not true. Not out of nowhere. Out of Beacon, Maine.” I pointed to the floor. “Right here. And he tells me he’s in love with me. Oh, God.” I tossed my head way back, which was a bad idea, because suddenly everythin
g in the room was spinning.

  “Whoa,” I said, righting myself.

  Jim moved to my side of the table and took the seat next to me. “Are you all right there, Ellen? You think maybe I should take you back to the inn?”

  “This is what’s confusing me,” I said, feeling the need to finally get all this out. “How can he be in love with me? I only met him a week ago. A week. I mean, really. That’s only seven days.” I put what I thought were seven fingers in the air, but I must not have gotten it right, because Jim put down one of them.

  I looked at my plate of lobster, with the splintered shell and the exploded shards. “Of course,” I said, “I told him there was no way. No way. I’m getting married in three months, see?” I held up my left hand. “Van Cleef.” I took a breath and let it out. “And Arpels.”

  Jim nodded. “Beautiful,” he said. “Lovely.”

  “Of course it is. Hayden does nothing but the best.” Tears began slipping down my cheeks. “I told him, I’m not in love with you. We can’t be together.”

  Jim looked startled. “You told Hayden that?”

  “No, I told Roy that.”

  Jim was eyeing me with a curious expression. I think he was about to say something when one of the band members, a man in a red-and-white checkered shirt, stepped up to the microphone.

  “We’re going on break for a while, folks, but the entertainment isn’t. Marty Eldon is here, so get ready for karaoke and sing your hearts out!”

  “It sounds like you’ve got some serious issues going on, Ellen. Maybe you ought to figure out how you feel. I mean really feel. That might be a little harder than you think.”

  I didn’t want to figure it out. He was right. It was too hard and way too painful, and I wished I’d never brought it up and I wished he’d stop talking about it. I twirled my engagement ring around my finger. I wasn’t going to think about it anymore.

  “That’s the only way you’re going to resolve this,” he said.

  Okay, just leave it alone. Let’s change the subject now.

  “You just have to do some real soul-searching,” he said, “and the only—”

  “Hey, you know what?” I blurted out. “I’m really good at karaoke. I think I’d like to sing.” I moved my chair back.

  Jim looked shocked. His forehead was full of lines. “You sure you think you can do that?”

  “Of course I can,” I said. “Two years ago I was at the annual New York State Women Lawyers Association retreat. I led the whole group in a rendition of ‘Respect.’ You know, the Aretha Franklin song?”

  Jim nodded. “Sure, I know it.”

  “Yeah, well, we sang it to celebrate the fact that a senior partner in another firm, this guy named Steve Ajello, finally got nailed on sexual harassment charges.” I paused, savoring the memory. “Everyone said I had a great voice.”

  I stood up. “So here goes.”

  The legs under me didn’t feel like my own. I grabbed the back of the chair for support. A huge ketchup stain was on my pants, and I wondered how it had gotten there. I picked up a lobster bib that lay folded next to my plate and opened it up. Printed in white, on a red background, were the words GET SOME TAIL AT THE ANTLER! I wrapped the bib over the stain, knotting the ties in the back. That was better.

  I began making my way through the crowd, heading toward the stage. After a few steps I could feel that I was dragging something with my foot. When I looked, I saw that a hollowed-out lobster claw had locked onto the strap of my sandal. I tried to reach for the claw but couldn’t grasp it. It was too long a way down.

  I got to the stage, finally spotting Hayden, who was standing in the crowd, waving frantically, trying to get through. Every drop of color had left his face, and I could see he was yelling, trying to tell me something. But the noise was too loud. I couldn’t hear him.

  Don’t worry, Hayden, I thought. You don’t know this, but I’m a great karaokist. You’ll see. Was karaokist even a word? I wasn’t sure.

  “It’s okay, Hayden,” I put my hands around my mouth and tried to shout over the din. “You’re in for a surprise!”

  I took a step onto the stage and glanced around at the blur of faces under the warm orange lights. They were smiling, expectant. Even Skip, standing behind the bar, raised an empty glass to me in a salute.

  The DJ looked at the red plastic bib around my leg, and then his eyes wandered to my feet. He smiled and shook my hand. “You must be the Swimmer. Real pleased to meet you.”

  He passed me a notebook of song titles, indicating that I should pick something. I began turning the pages, going through the different sections of music—pop, rap, rock, Top 40, country. There were dozens of songs on each page, and the titles began to float and bend in front of me.

  “Do you have any jazz?” I asked. “Old jazz classics, that kind of thing?”

  He thumbed through the book and then handed it back to me, open at a page entitled “American Standards.”

  Great, I thought. Closing my eyes, I brought my finger down on one of the titles, “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” It was one of my favorite Gershwin songs. Maybe that was a good sign.

  “Okay, this one,” I said, pointing.

  He handed me the microphone, and in a moment the music began. The arrangement was lush, with lots of strings and a long introduction, in the style of those old songs. The crowd quieted down, and I glanced across the room toward my table and saw Mom staring at me nervously, holding a trophy in one hand. A trophy?

  Next to Mom sat Jim and Tally and, on the very end, Hayden, gaping at me with the horrible curiosity of a car-crash observer. No one was talking.

  The introduction ended, and the words to the song appeared on the monitor. I began to sing, lines about love outlasting everything else, outlasting radios and telephones and even mountains. As I sang I gazed around the room, and the faces that had been blurry came into focus.

  Arlen Fletch from the town hall was sitting at a corner table with two other ladies. At a table against the wall I noticed Phil, the cashier from Grover’s Market, where I’d first seen my picture in the paper. He was with a woman I guessed was his wife. When I looked at him, he waved. Susan Porter, her husband, and two other couples were seated at a round table in the middle of the room, and the young waitress from the Three Penny Diner was right up front, holding hands with a cute blond boy.

  I caught myself looking for Roy, searching for his Red Sox cap and his easy smile. I wanted him to be there. I scanned the crowd, but after a moment I was no longer seeing them. Instead, I was imagining Roy, the tiny wrinkles by his eyes when he smiled, his wavy hair, his dimples.

  I saw us floating in the ocean, his legs hooked around mine in the tired swimmer’s carry. I felt the sun on my face and my arms around him, and the water didn’t feel cold at all. Then we were standing outside the tailor shop, and he was telling me he loved me. He was holding my hand. I know I can make you happy. That’s a promise. I could feel his fingers on mine, just before he let go and said good-bye.

  The music ended, and there was a moment of dead silence, a white hush that fell over the room. Oh, God, I thought, I was terrible. They hated it. Why did I even think I could sing? Why did I drink so much? Why did I—

  But I never got the rest of the thought out, because the whole place suddenly exploded with applause and cheers and hoots and howls. Some people even stood up. I couldn’t believe it. I kept looking to see if they were clapping for someone else, but there was nobody up there except me.

  My hand shook as I held the microphone. “Thanks,” I said. I could hear my voice shaking. “That’s really nice of you.”

  Somebody shouted, “Go, Swimmer!” and everyone laughed.

  I stood there, clutching the microphone, and something began bubbling up inside me—advice Gran used to give me—and it seemed very important at that moment.

  The DJ reached out for the mike, but I didn’t let go. I glanced around the room again, at the amber liquids lined up in bottles behind the bar, the ship
’s lanterns dangling from the ceiling, the chalkboard with scores from the last dart game.

  “You know,” I began, my tongue suddenly thick and heavy. “I like to take pictures.” I could feel I was slurring my words. It sounded as though I’d said pishers. “I take lots of pishers.” A couple of people whispered.

  “And sometimes,” I went on, waving my hand, “when I think I’m taking a pisher of one thing…it ends up being a pisher of another thing.” I glanced at the DJ. He looked worried. Maybe I wasn’t making myself clear.

  “You know,” I said, “like a pisher of a flower. I go to take the flower and I’m looking through the…the thing…the viewfinder.” I closed my right eye, as if I were holding my camera.

  “And I could take the pisher. I mean, it would be fine and it would probably come out nice.” I glanced at Arlen Fletch and gave her a little wave. She waved back. “But if I really take a good look I’ll start to see…you know, other stuff. Stuff I really didn’t see before. Like maybe…a leaf that’s pretty because the sun is shining behind it, making it glow.” I heard a few more people whisper, but I kept going.

  “And then I want to get the leaf in the pisher, too. Or maybe, there’s…um…a shadow that looks interesting. Maybe the flower makes a shadow I hadn’t noticed before. And maybe,” I added, “the shadow is even more interesting than the flower.…That can happen, you know.” I nodded a few times.

  Then I looked directly at Hayden. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, not a trace of color in his face. “Here’s the thing,” I said, my mouth so dry I could barely speak. “I wouldn’t have figured it out, Hayden, if I didn’t stop…and really look. Look at everything…so…you know, so carefully. Because in the end that’s what you gotta do.”

  A tear rolled down my cheek and I took a deep breath. “Hayden, I’m really, really sorry,” I said. “But I can’t marry you.”

  Chapter 20

  Welcome Home, Swimmer

  I tried to open my eyes but the lids were stuck. I rubbed them and blinked and rubbed and blinked again. My mouth was dry, and my hair smelled of fish. My head lay on a white pillowcase, and in front of me were a small table and lamp I didn’t recognize. My watch was on the table, along with a glass of water. I turned my head and saw that I was in a room similar to mine—room 10 or 8 or whatever Paula called it—except that there were twin beds, a few different pieces of furniture, and on the bureau was a trophy with the figure of a person holding…what? A dart? I rubbed my eyes again.