“Are you suggesting you could poison Kathryn? Because if so, I have to say—”
“No.”
“I was joking.”
“Badly.”
“Again. Sorry.”
Lizzie sighed. “It’s fine. Or not really. But either way it doesn’t matter. I need to figure out how to turn many pounds of shellfish into something edible.”
“Couldn’t you . . . I don’t know, make a salad out of it or something?”
“I mean . . . yeah. But it wouldn’t be a clambake. Which is what Kathryn requested.”
“Okay, but it sounds like what Kathryn requested isn’t an option, unless you’re planning to microwave all of that, which even I know wouldn’t work.”
“True.”
“So just work your chef magic and turn it all into a seafood salad or something and convince Kathryn that’s what she wanted all along.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice as he turned back to face Lizzie. “Between you and me, if they’re this late, it means they’ve been drinking, so you could probably serve McDonald’s and they wouldn’t even notice.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“Okay, maybe not McDonald’s. But a fancy seafood salad? Sure. As long as it’s good.”
“And Paleo.”
He smiled. “Right.”
Lizzie surveyed the mounds of shellfish. There was just so much of it. It would take her ages to peel and shell and chop it all. “I just don’t see how I can do it in time.”
“I can help.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Oh, really?”
“What, you don’t think I can crack a few lobster claws?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Oh, it’s on.” He rolled up the sleeves of his blue-and-white gingham shirt and made his way toward the counter. “Move over. It’s time for Nate Silvester to show you how it’s done.”
* * *
Lizzie had never seen someone peel seafood so fast. Or at least someone who wasn’t a professional cook. Nate cracked and shucked his way through claw after shell after claw, tossing the cooked meat into a bowl before moving on to the next. Lizzie decided she would follow his suggestion and make a big marinated seafood salad, into which she’d fold the cooked baby potatoes and corn she’d shaven off the cob. Would it be the best meal she’d ever cooked? No. But it would be better than a rubbery clambake and certainly better than food poisoning (though she suspected Nate’s glee over the latter prospect hadn’t actually been a joke).
“So where did a guy like you learn to pick crabs like that?” she asked as he tossed some crabmeat into the bowl.
“A guy like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Rich guy. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Et cetera.”
“First of all, I wasn’t born rich. Zoe was, but not me. My dad didn’t start making serious money until I was about five, at which point he divorced my mom and married Kathryn. And second, it may shock you to know that rich people eat a lot of lobster. And shrimp. And clams.”
“I guess.... But picking crabs?”
“My mom grew up in Baltimore.”
“Ah. Now it’s all making sense.”
“More to the point, am I correct in assuming this is your veiled way of complimenting my skills?”
“Nothing veiled about it. You’re good. I stand corrected.”
“Glad you approve.”
Lizzie began chopping a handful of chives for the vinaigrette. “I’m doubly impressed, given that you also basically only eat pizza.”
“What? Since when?”
“That’s what Kathryn said.” Lizzie thought back to their conversation. “I guess she didn’t specifically say you only ate pizza, but she made it very clear it was your favorite food.”
“I mean, it’s one of my favorite foods. But I eat lots of different stuff. And anyway, who doesn’t like pizza?”
“Lunatics.”
“Exactly. It’s sort of a litmus test: If you don’t like pizza, there’s probably something wrong with you.”
* * *
“Kind of like puppies.”
Nate’s eyes widened. “You eat puppies?”
“No, I mean looking at puppies. If you can look at a puppy and not think it’s even a little bit cute, you are probably a psychopath.”
“Fair.”
Lizzie shot Nate a sideways glance. “Does Zoe like puppies . . . ?”
“Ha, good question. She doesn’t seem to like pizza, so that should set off some alarm bells for you. . . .”
Lizzie waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “It’s weird that she disappears like she does.”
“Not going to argue with you there.”
“Has she always been so . . .”
“Odd? Prickly?”
“I was going to say ‘mysterious,’ but those work too.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess? We’re twelve years apart and half siblings, so we’ve never been super close. But I do remember her getting weird around the time she left for college.”
“Weird?”
“Maybe ‘weirder’ is a better way of putting it. She’s always been a bit of an odd duck. But there was all sorts of shit that went down around the time she graduated from high school, so that was probably part of it.”
“Shit like . . .”
“Well, for starters—”
“They’re here!” Renata burst into the butler’s pantry. “I just saw a car pull into the driveway. How close are you to being ready?”
Lizzie panicked as she looked at the bowls of seafood. She and Nate had managed to shell half of it, but they still had a lot to do and now that they’d started peeling everything there was no turning back.
“Shit,” Lizzie said.
“We’ll be fine,” Nate said. “Renata, maybe you can open a few bottles of wine to keep everyone busy.”
“I could, but I am sure they’ve been drinking for hours. . . .”
Nate and Lizzie looked at each other. Renata was right. More alcohol was probably the last thing they needed.
Lizzie eyed the platter of tomatoes on the counter. “I can chop those up and turn them into bruschetta.”
“But Mrs. Silvester . . . she doesn’t eat bread.... And I don’t think some of the other ladies do either.”
“Then I’ll put their tomatoes in lettuce cups or hollowed-out cucumber or something. Just . . . give me a second.”
Lizzie ran to the refrigerator and rummaged through the hydra-tor. She’d bought a bunch of cucumbers at the farmers’ market that morning with the aim of turning them into a cucumber salad later in the week, but she could always scrap that idea and make something else instead.
She gathered up the cucumbers and laid them on the counter and darted across the room to the bread basket, where she found a day-old baguette.
“Renata, could you grab some basil from the herb garden?”
Renata headed out the side door while Nate continued peeling shrimp and lobsters and Lizzie began slicing the bread. It was dry and a little hard, but since she’d be turning it into toast, it didn’t really matter.
“Hey, Nate—new line of work?”
They both turned to see Zoe in the doorway. She wore a floaty navy sundress, her long blond hair tied in a low ponytail.
“Where’d you come from?” Nate asked, ignoring her attempt to goad him into a spat.
“I just got back. Where is everyone?”
“What do you mean? They aren’t parking in the driveway?”
“They weren’t two minutes ago when I pulled in.”
Lizzie’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank God.”
Renata reappeared, a bunch of basil in her hand. “What’s happening?”
“The car you saw was Zoe’s. Kathryn and Jim still aren’t back.”
“Oh—I’m so sorry. All this panic for nothing.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lizzie said. “We still need to hurry. I’m just relieved we have a little more time.”
“Wow, really down to the wire, huh?” Zoe said. “Must be pretty bad if you’re asking Nate to help.”
“You could always make yourself useful, too,” Nate snapped as he tossed an empty clamshell into the trash bowl.
“I don’t touch anything with a face.”
“If that includes people, humanity thanks you.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re responsible for shaping young minds. It’s truly frightening. Though I guess sociology majors aren’t planning to rule the world someday—”
“Remind me what you majored in again, Zo? Food, folks, and fun?”
“American studies, thanks.”
“Glass houses and stones, Zo. Glass houses and stones.”
Zoe let out a belabored sigh. “Anyway, I would help, but I’m meeting some people at the Golden Inn. Gotta run.”
Nate glanced at the clock. “Wow, a whole five minutes before disappearing again.”
“I’m not disappearing. I told you—I’m going to the Golden Inn. It’s reggae night.”
“Ah. Of course. How could I forget?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Don’t get pissy with me just because you don’t have a social life.”
“My social life is fine, thanks.”
“Debating gentrification with other PhDs doesn’t count.”
“Says who? The party police?” He dumped the last of the lobster meat into the bowl and wiped down the counter with a damp paper towel. “And anyway, if you are detecting any testiness in my voice, it’s because you basically vanished for a week, stressed out your mom, and now can’t stay put for more than five minutes so that she knows you’re here and okay. Where were you, anyway? No one seems to know.”
“What business is it of yours?”
“None. That doesn’t mean I can’t ask.”
“And I’m under no obligation to tell.”
Nate’s weariness was almost palpable. “Fine. Whatever. Run weapons for the Russian mob. I honestly don’t care.”
“Sounds like you do, actually.”
“No, really, I don’t. But I will say this: I find it interesting that someone with such a supposedly happening social life doesn’t seem to have any close friends who know anything about her. And don’t waste your breath telling me that isn’t true because we both know it is.”
Zoe clenched her jaw. “Fuck you, Nate.”
She stormed out of the room, and Lizzie stood frozen beside the counter, her head full of questions she didn’t have time to ask.
* * *
Kathryn, Jim, and their friends didn’t return until almost nine fifteen, and when they did they were all unquestionably drunk. They tittered and guffawed as they paraded into the house, weaving with unsteady gaits as they made their way from the top of the stairs to the living room. Kathryn, in particular, looked completely wasted, her eyelids sagging as she smiled stupidly at no one in particular.
“Les-s-s-s-s keep this pardy moo-oving,” she slurred as she waved everyone onto the terrace. “A clambake feast awaits!”
The drunken herd plodded toward the door, and as they filed outside, Lizzie snuck up beside Kathryn and whispered in her ear, “Could I talk to you in the kitchen for a second?”
“Sure,” Kathryn said in a stage whisper. She smelled of wine. “Jus-s gimme two seconds.” She held up two fingers and wiggled them for what seemed to Lizzie like an unusually long time. She then cupped her hand beside her mouth. “I have to go pee pee.”
She scampered off to the bathroom, and Lizzie slipped back to the butler’s pantry, hoping Kathryn still possessed the wherewithal to figure out where she’d gone. She’d never seen Kathryn like this, and she knew the evening could go one of two ways: high comedy or painful disaster.
When Lizzie returned to her station Nate was wiping down the counters, a clean dish towel slung over his shoulder.
“Renata and I will take care of that,” Lizzie said. “You should relax—you’ve already done more than your fair share tonight.”
“No worries—I’m almost finished anyway.” He tossed a damp paper towel into the trash can.
“You have no idea how much I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure. And hey, it gave me something to do.”
“Other than . . . how did Zoe put it? Debate gentrification with other PhDs?”
Nate shook his head. “God, she is the worst at times. Sorry you had to witness that.”
Lizzie was contemplating whether to ask Nate what he meant when he’d said Zoe didn’t have any close friends when Kathryn staggered into the room.
“Na-a-a-a-ate?” She sounded completely befuddled. It was as if she’d stumbled across him naked in front of the freezer, eating a pint of ice cream straight from the container.
“Whoa, Kathryn—wild night?”
Kathryn clicked her tongue as she tried to focus her eyes. “We’ve been having fun. Not that you’d know anything about that. But it’s okay. I’m not mad. Y’know what, though? I think I found a girl for you. No, stop. Stop. No. I’m serious. She’s . . . d’you remember Sam? ’Course you remember Sam, duh-h-h-h. No one forgets Sam. Didjou know he and Barb are a thing now? Mm-mhm-m. Oh, yeah. Hot and heavy. All thanks to guess who?” She gestured at herself with her thumbs. “That’s right. Moi. Anyway . . . what was I saying . . . ?”
Lizzie honestly had no idea. Kathryn was obviously trying to set Nate up with some woman, but as difficult as it was to keep up with Kathryn’s rambling monologues under normal circumstances, her inebriation had demolished any semblance of structure.
“You know, I’m not really sure,” Nate said, “but considering you’re more than two hours late for dinner, I think you’d be better off discussing the menu with your cook.”
“Are we really that late?” Kathryn looked at the clock with narrowed eyes. She gasped. “Oh, I din-n even . . . see, Sam an Jim got into one about . . . whatever, business stuff . . . an then Barb was pissed ’cause Sam wasn’t, y’know, fussing over her an’ whatever, s’then Sam bought a few more bottles, an’ before we knew it . . .” She made an exploding sound while miming a mushroom cloud with her hands. Lizzie wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to mean, but she assumed it meant they drank a lot.
“Well, the thing is. . . .” Lizzie cleared her throat. “I know you were counting on a clambake, and I had everything ready at seven like you asked, but then you were late and everything got cold. So I hope you don’t mind, but I turned it all into a big seafood salad.”
Kathryn frowned, then hiccupped loudly. “Oh-h-h-h-h, boy.”
“I’m really sorry, but it was the only way to salvage everything.”
“No, no, is-sfine, is-sfine. I mean, I promised everyone a clambake, but they’ve all had a lotta wine.... Y’know what they say, when life gives you lemonade . . .” She grasped for the right idiom but, unable to find it, simply shrugged. “Whatever, I don’t know, add vodka or something.”
Lizzie tried her best to keep a straight face. She refused to meet Nate’s eyes. “Everything is in the refrigerator. Renata will help me bring it out whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready!” Kathryn winked deliberately and gave a thumbs-up.
“By the way, Zoe is back,” Nate said.
Kathryn’s expression brightened, and she looked over her shoulder toward the pool. “Where?”
“She’s at the Golden Inn. She was here for all of about six minutes before she took off again.”
“But she’s here? In Avalon?”
“Yes. At least for now.”
Kathryn heaved a sigh and leaned against the door frame. “Oh, thank God. I jus-s worry. How’d she seem . . . ?”
“Her normal, prickly self.”
“Oh, good. I mean that she’s herself. I jus-s never know. Er-ry-thing was fine, but then the other day Lizzie said something ’bout Marie, and I thought, ‘Oh, Jesus, here we go with all that again. . . .’”
Nate frowned. “Marie?”
“I know. Don’t gemm
e started.” Her eyes moved lazily in Lizzie’s direction, and her expression changed, as if she suddenly remembered Lizzie was standing there. “Anyway, Nate, I know this dinner’s not for you, but come say hi to Sam—he can tell you about that girl. . . .”
“Girl?”
“Woman, whatever. She’s an . . . anthromopologist? Archaeologist? Something. Sounded right up your alley.”
“Because an -ologist is an -ologist, right?”
“Ex-x-xactly.”
“I’ll be out in a sec’. I think Lizzie could use an extra set of hands.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Renata? Renata, come help Lizzie get er-ry-thing ous-side, okay? Nate, thisaway.”
She grabbed Nate by the elbow and, swaying back and forth with him as her hostage, dragged him as far away from Lizzie as she could.
CHAPTER 23
Linda,
Sure, 12:30 at JG Domestic works for me. Lunch downtown—what a treat! A perfect way to spend the day before my surgery.
I can tell you more about this over lunch, but Dr. Konovsky was amazing. He trained with the Demuth Institute and is a certified expert in Demuth therapy. We’ve come up with a pretty intense regimen that I’ll follow immediately after the lumpectomy and will continue with for up to two years, depending on how I respond. It involves lots of freshly pressed juices and coffee enemas. Can’t say I’m too excited about the latter, but I’m sure it beats chemo. And when Dr. Konovsky took me through the process and how it works, the results spoke for themselves.
He also pointed me toward some really useful reading material, both in print and online. I’ve been reading like crazy! Some of the Web sites are really inspiring—lots of personal stories of people who’ve followed protocols like mine and are now cancer-free. And lots of these cases were way more advanced than my own. One site in particular talks about a girl who got cancer as a teenager. As you can imagine, this was very difficult for me to read, but it ended up really inspiring me. Her best friend runs the site and put her on a very Demuth-like program and basically cured her. In the latest post, I saw that the cancer has returned, but she was cancer-free for something like five years and, even though it has returned, she has it under control. I wish I’d known about these alternatives to conventional medicine when Ryan was a baby. My heart breaks over and over when I think about what we put him through.
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