The Islanders

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  “Nothing,” said Joy. She shook her head, hoping to dispel the sight. Maybe she’d imagined it, after all. Then her phone buzzed. She glanced down. Can I eat at Rileys after I babysit. Maggie. She sighed. She looked again at her passenger and thought about the artichokes. Maybe . . .

  No, he was potentially abrasive and possibly an island snob. She couldn’t.

  Then she saw him reach a cautious hand out to pet Pickles. Okay, maybe he was trying. And he had been so sad the last two times she’d seen him. Maybe he was a good guy in a bad situation, a guy who deserved a break.

  Her mother said Joy always saw the good in people who didn’t deserve it. But didn’t that mean she sometimes also saw the good in people who did?

  She made up her mind. “Are you free for dinner tonight?” she asked. “I’m making a pasta puttanesca with a broken artichoke heart salad. I’ve already bought the ingredients, and now my daughter isn’t going to be home. It’s too much for one person, and I wouldn’t mind some company. I promise I’m not creepy or pathetic. I just don’t like to waste good food.”

  He eyed her warily at first and she regretted her question almost instantly. How many times did she need to be turned down by a grump in a gray T-shirt before she got the message? But just as she was starting to say, Never mind, forget it, his face opened up and he smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, that sounds delicious. I’d really like that.”

  She felt her insides relax. “You would?”

  “I would.”

  “You have a bike?”

  “Yes. There’s one in the garage of the place I’m staying in.”

  “Great. You can ride it over. It’s not far. Hopefully the bike is in better shape than the car.”

  “Here’s hoping.” The smile really did transform his face.

  She turned in where her passenger indicated and pulled up the long driveway. The cottage was set back, not far from the water. It was a shabby little place but the location was killer. She could see where a path from the house connected to one of the main trails down to Scotch Beach. “How long are you staying here?” she asked.

  “Up in the air,” he said.

  “I see.” This was unusual: most rentals had a start date and an end date. “Are you here alone?”

  “Definitely alone,” he said. “Most definitely. My wife, ah—she couldn’t join me.”

  Wife. Married. She deflated, recalculated. Maybe it wasn’t worth the artichokes after all. Not that she’d been planning to jump him. But it seemed inappropriate, to invite another woman’s husband to dinner, a stranger at that. She glanced quickly at his hands. No ring, just as she’d thought. Well, not all men wore them. Dustin hadn’t.

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “At home, in Newton.”

  “I see.” She didn’t.

  “We’re— It’s complicated.” He stopped and wrinkled his nose. Then he said, “I guess we’re separated.”

  “I see,” said Joy again, but what she was thinking was, You guess? Seemed like being pregnant, or drunk: you either were, or you weren’t. She turned off the Jeep. Outside the cottage next door she saw a pretty blond woman getting into a car with two little blond boys. One boy was holding a toy tow truck, driving it through the air. (Joy remembered when Maggie was young enough to drive things through the air—wasn’t it only yesterday?)

  Then she realized she knew this woman; she’d met this woman! This was Lu, the woman who had hired Maggie (away from Joy), and these boys were Maggie’s new charges. They were probably going to pick up Maggie now! Maggie had better hurry back to the shop. Go figure, the recovering alcoholic Joy had tried to force a drink on and then picked up by the side of the road was living right next to the woman who was stealing Maggie away from Joy. She sighed and turned her attention back to Anthony. “I’m sorry. I am, really.” Separated. That’s probably why he’d been crying. “Is this a new situation?”

  He nodded. “Very new.”

  “I’ve been through it. It’s awful, I know. But it gets better, with time. I promise you, it gets better.”

  “In my case, I don’t think it will. For a lot of reasons. But thank you.” He opened the door, stepped one foot out. Pickles popped up and over from the backseat, panting. “Are you staying?” he asked.

  “What? Of course not. Why?” She put her hand on Pickles’s chest and gently returned her to the backseat.

  “You turned off your car.”

  “Oh. No, I’m not staying. It’s just that we care about the environment here on our island, so we don’t idle. Locals don’t idle.”

  He was standing outside the Jeep now. “That would be a good book title,” he said. “Locals Don’t Idle.” He looked pensive.

  “I guess,” she said. “I’m not much of a reader.” Joy pulled a business card out of the Jeep’s side-door pocket, wrote something on it, and handed it to him. “My card,” she said. “My address is on the back. And now you have my number. In case Bob Herbert has any trouble getting the timing belt. I can always call my dad. Also in case you decide not to come to dinner tonight.”

  “Why would I decide not to come to dinner? I accepted your invitation.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes people change their minds.” Maggie, for example. Maggie had been planning to eat dinner with Joy, and then she changed her mind.

  “I won’t,” he said. “Thank you for the ride. See you later.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. She started the ignition and watched him walk toward the cottage, crouch down, and remove a house key from underneath a flat rock. She started to turn around, stopped again.

  “Hey!” she called. He had the key in the lock; he turned. “Hey. We forgot to do last names. Mine’s Sousa.”

  “Okay,” he said. He seemed to be struggling with the key.

  She waited. “So, that makes you . . . Anthony what?”

  “Oh,” he said, looking from the lock back to her. “Anthony What will be fine.”

  “Why don’t you come at seven o’clock for dinner,” she said. “Anthony What.”

  Chapter 14

  Lu

  Lu was driving Maggie and the boys home from Ball O’Brien Park. After Lu and the boys picked up Maggie outside of Joy Bombs, Maggie had watched the boys on the playground while Lu sat at one of the picnic tables in the pavilion and worked out a new salad dressing. She would test it the following day, when the boys were signed up for a summer program at Nancy’s club.

  The boys had been entranced by the skaters at the skate park, who looked to be about Maggie’s age or maybe a little older: suntanned, shirtless, with the sinewy muscle, the narrow shoulders, the eight-pack abdomens of the athletic prepubescent or just-barely-pubescent male.

  “Did you know them?” Lu asked Maggie as they left.

  Maggie shrugged. “Nope,” she said. “Summer kids.”

  “That must be fun,” said Lu. “To have a whole new population of boys come to town for the summer!”

  A half smile flashed across Maggie’s face, gone as quickly as it had come. “I guess,” she acknowledged. “Sort of. Yeah, it can be.”

  What Lu wouldn’t have given for an infusion of fresh summertime blood in her dreary town when she was Maggie’s age!

  “I’m hungry,” said Sebastian, a touch whiny, and Chase echoed him, taking the whining up a notch. Proper lunchtime had come and gone while they were at the park.

  “We’ll be home soon,” Maggie told them, turning toward the backseat. She sounded like a miniature mother, and Lu was very proud of her.

  “We could go to Joy Bombs,” suggested Lu. She knew whoopie pies weren’t exactly a well-balanced lunch, but it would hold the boys over and maybe she could go straight to an early dinner. The day after tomorrow Jeremy would be home, and she wouldn’t be able to get away with that. In addition, she could go for a cup of the coffee. It was the best on the island.

  “No!” said Maggie. “No, I don’t want to.” Lu glanced at her, surprised by the vehemence. “It’ll be crowded in tow
n,” said Maggie.

  “Okay,” said Lu. “Home, then.” Although she couldn’t think what she had to feed the boys at home. She’d spent such a long time on her last post, she’d completely forgotten to plan or shop for regular meals. It was the curse of the food blogger, she supposed—like the cobbler’s children having no shoes, here were her kids, with empty bellies.

  “No!” said Sebastian. He kicked the back of the seat. “I don’t want to go home!” He kicked the seat again.

  “Sebastian!” cried Lu. “Stop that right now. Right now.”

  “I want a whoopie pie!” said Chase.

  “We could stop at the Roving Patisserie,” Maggie ventured.

  Lu said, “The what?”

  “It’s a food truck,” said Maggie. “It’s new this summer.” She took out her phone and tapped on the screen. “Let me just see where it is now. It moves during the day.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Lu. “It roves. Clever.”

  “It’s at the Southeast Lighthouse,” Maggie reported. “That’s kind of far away. It already moved once today.”

  “No problem.” Lu readjusted the route, proud that she now knew enough about the geography of the island to figure out the way without asking.

  They joined the (considerable!) line at the food truck, and Lu studied the menu. She’d left her notebook in the car, but she wished she hadn’t: she wanted to take notes. The Roving Patisserie’s menu was sophisticated (salade Niçoise, croque monsieur and madame, macarons) and the presentation was cute without being cutesy. The sandwiches came with a toothpick-sized French flag, and the pommes frites arrived in tasteful paper cones. “Get whatever you want,” she told Maggie, rooting in her bag for her wallet.

  A girl came up to them, whom Maggie introduced as her friend Riley. Riley had honey-colored hair wound around her head in a complicated braid. She had wide hazel eyes. She was wearing micro-shorts and flip-flops and a strappy tank top; she clearly held an advanced degree in attention-getting. Maggie, meanwhile, was wearing a shirt that said Fluent in Sarcasm.

  “Does your mom know you’re here again?” Riley asked Maggie.

  “No,” said Maggie. Was that a touch of defiance in her voice?

  “Oooooh-kay,” said Riley. Lu could tell by the way she drew the word out that there was something about the situation Lu wasn’t understanding.

  “Why wouldn’t your mom want you to be here?” Lu asked.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “My mom thinks the truck is taking her business.”

  Lu glanced behind her—the line had filled in, and was snaking around the parking lot. “Oh!” she said. “Oh. I should have thought of that. I don’t blame her. Should we leave?”

  “No!” said Chase and Sebastian at the same time. They had their eyes, Lu knew, on the fries.

  “No,” said Riley, giving Maggie a meaningful look that Lu couldn’t interpret. “No, you shouldn’t leave.”

  Maggie set her pretty lips in a straight line. “No,” she said. “Definitely not.”

  As they drew closer to the truck, and after Riley had left to join whoever it was she’d come with, Lu sensed something change in Maggie—a shift in her posture, an almost unnoticeable rise of color in her cheeks that could have been attributed to the summer sun and Maggie’s lack of a hat.

  Then Lu saw the boy in the truck, taking orders. “Oh,” she murmured. She understood. This boy wouldn’t have been young Lu’s type—she’d always gone for the brawnier boys, the football and rugby players—but his hair was adorably floppy, and when he said, “Can I take your order?” his accent was just accent-y enough. He was older than Maggie, and he was French, so therefore he was exotic, and clearly he was bored. For all of these reasons Lu could see the appeal.

  “I like your shirt,” he said to Maggie, when they finally reached the front of the line.

  “Thank you.” She broke into a wide grin that made her look at once six years old and twenty-one.

  Well, if you were a thirteen-year-old island-reared girl, well, then, yes. This boy. Of course.

  “I’ll have two orders of pommes frites,” said Lu. “And a croque madame. And whatever Maggie here is having.”

  What Maggie seemed to be having was a small anxiety attack. She ordered a Coke and three macarons, and she fumbled in the pocket of her denim shorts.

  “Oh, no,” said Lu. “My treat.”

  Maggie shook her head, apparently rendered mute. It was almost funny, except that it was also painful. Lu wanted to cry, Be careful with your heart! But she wasn’t Maggie’s mother. She wasn’t exactly her friend. All she could really do was pay for her Coke and her fancy French cookies.

  To: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  From: mississippimom357@gmail.com

  Dear Dinner by Dad:

  Why don’t you have a photo of yourself on your blog? I follow a lot of food blogs and most of them have the blogger’s photo! A lot of us moms out here in the blogosphere want to know if you’re as adorable as you sound. :)

  To: mississippimom357@gmail.com

  From: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  Thanks for writing! I appreciate your mail. For the sake of my kids’ privacy, I prefer to remain unseen. You’ll notice that although I post plenty of photos of my food I never post family photos. It’s part of the deal I made with my amazing wife, Jacqui, when I started the blog. It was important to her, so automatically that means it’s important to me. I hope you get a sense of who we are from my charcoal drawings. I also hope I am as adorable as I sound, but it’s hard for me to say for sure.

  Yours in home cooking,

  Dinner by Dad

  To: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  From: kkjohnson4321@me.com

  DbD:

  I’d love to hear your thoughts on our current president. I heard he really likes his ice cream! #Twoscoops

  —Kate

  Dear Kate:

  While I wish I could share my political views with you, I’ve made a deal with my advertisers and my very own soul to keep all that stuff off my blog. It’s not that I wouldn’t love to talk politics, but I do very firmly believe that part of the beauty of food is that it exists so nicely on its own plane (and I don’t mean Air Force One, ha ha ha). I want to keep it that way. Thanks for reading, and happy food prep!

  Dinner by Dad

  To: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  From: ophie167@microinvestments.com

  Dear Dinner by Dad,

  I just picked up my CSA share and these goddamn vegetables are coming out of my ears. What do I do??

  —Ophelia

  Dear Ophelia,

  Can we all say what we really think about CSAs? Yes? No? Okay, I’ll say it for us. We feel really freaking good about ourselves when we’re signing up for them and really freaking bad about ourselves when we’re watching a bunch of kale die a slow death in the back of the bottom fridge shelf, behind the hummus.

  First of all, throw that shit away. It’s not going to get less wilted as time goes on. Nobody is looking. I promise. Go ahead.

  There. Feel better? Me too.

  Second, just because your neighbor and three ladies from your book club are going gaga over the CSA pamphlet doesn’t mean you have to too. If you want to sign up? Go right ahead. But if you don’t, don’t sweat it. Cooking shouldn’t be about that. Go to a farm stand when you need something fresh and local. Get what you need from the grocery store if that’s easier. This is a judgment-free zone.

  That said, pickling is a perfect way to use up those veggies in a way that makes them last and last. And it can be the perfect way to introduce your little ones to preserving fresh food. In addition, the fermenting process brings some super-healthy bacteria to your food and your gut. Now that you’ve brought up this idea, I’m going to plan some pickling. Please stay tuned, and thank you, Ophelia!

  Dinner by Dad

  To: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  From: mommieslittlehelper2@interlink.net

  Dear Dinner by Dad,

  I love h
ow you write about your wife and your boys. I hope they know how lucky they are to have you. Even so, I wish you were single! Hey, if things ever don’t work out between you and Jacqui just PM me . . .

  Anon in Alabama

  Dear Anon,

  I’m flattered. Truly, I am. I consider myself the luckiest man on the planet, and I wouldn’t jeopardize my family for anything. But thank you for the kind words, and keep on cooking!

  Dinner by Dad

  To: dinnerbydad@hotmail.com

  From: dancerlaur2020@aol.com

  Dear DbD:

  How do you stay so cheerful all of the time? Don’t you ever feel like throwing in the towel? The dishtowel, that is. I do.

  —Lauren

  Dear Lauren:

  Abso. Freaking. Lutely. Sometimes being at home is hard. The average toddler cries between four and six times a day. Dishes SUCK. Always: they always suck, I don’t care who you are. It takes forty-five minutes to make a meal and four seconds for a kid to throw it on the floor. I get it! Just yesterday, the dog threw up, the coffeepot exploded, and Charlie fell off his skateboard and opened up a crater in his knee. I almost lost it. I haven’t ended the day with a clean shirt since Britney had a song on the Billboard 100. But I’m here for you, readers, and we can all be here for each other. Let’s make this work. Let’s make some food.

  DbD

  Chapter 15

  Anthony

  “Anthony Puckett! Huxley Wilder here.”

  This was his agent, who, once the nitty-gritty details had been dealt with, had commenced dropping Anthony like everyone else in his life had dropped him. There was something so . . . well, so unaccidental about Anthony’s misfortune. It really stopped people in their tracks. He hadn’t fallen ill or lost a parent, he hadn’t been summarily fired, his house hadn’t burned down, he didn’t even have anything as interesting as a drug addiction that might have been discovered to be chemical in nature. He had simply been dishonest. He had cheated. He had stolen.