No Secret Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  Sure, Augustine could be a flirt and Serena’s bathroom breaks sometimes ran long. But they were nice and mostly good at their jobs.

  “Then you should come to me if there’s a problem,” she said lamely. “If people aren’t pulling their weight, you should talk to them. Or to me. Tell me, and I’ll—”

  “Make sure everyone knows I’m a snitch. Yeah, that would be great for morale.” Casey rolled his eyes.

  He had a point.

  “The fact is,” Casey said, “I do more on accident than the rest of the staff does on purpose. I just can’t believe I’m being punished for it. Augustine gets an incentive raise and I get accused of being a thief. How nice.”

  She wanted to protest. But he was right.

  Just say something despicable! she wanted to scream. Say something nasty so I can fire you and sleep well tonight.

  But Casey sat there across her messy desk looking up at her like she was a monster.

  Did I get this wrong? Doubts began to creep in. Did I misread something? Maybe I jumped to a conclusion too quickly.

  “Casey, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything. I just want to—”

  “This is you not accusing me?” he scoffed. “Boy, I’d hate to see what an accusation would look like.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry this is awkward, but—”

  “It’s unbelievable.” He cut her off again. “I’ve worked my tail off for you. I’ve only called in sick one time. I covered in the back when a dishwasher got a cold last week. And this is the thanks I get.”

  Maybe Sara should have sat on this for a bit longer. Observed the waitstaff more closely. Found some hard evidence before calling anyone into her office.

  After all, no numbers were perfect, right? People went to jail all the time on faulty evidence. Could Sara really trust the PIN system over her own gut?

  “Listen, I’m as shocked as you that the evidence pointed here,” Sara started.

  Casey sat up, brows raised. “So you don’t think it’s me?”

  “Well, I mean… I don’t really know what to think. The PIN system is there, and you were logged in. But you help out.” Sara was rambling, all of her confused thoughts leaking out at once. She sighed. “I don’t know who did it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sara had no idea. Her thoughts roiled and collided with one another until she couldn’t think straight.

  If working in a kitchen gave Sara complete clarity, this situation gave her the exact opposite. She felt lost at sea.

  “I wanted to ask you if you knew anything about the missing money, and you’re saying you don’t. So that’s it,” she said. “Thanks for coming in.”

  Casey ran a hand through his dark hair and blinked. “That’s it.”

  “That’s it.”

  Sara needed that to be it. At least for now. She couldn’t make any decision. She wasn’t in the right headspace.

  “I’m not being fired?”

  Sara shook her head. “No.”

  Not yet. Maybe not ever. She didn’t know.

  “And you’re not going to tell anyone else about this?” he asked. “About the accusation? Because I’m not coming in tomorrow if I’m going to be humiliated in front of everyone. I don’t want everyone here thinking I’m some sort of thief. Because I’m not. I would never.”

  “I won’t tell anyone else,” Sara said. “You aren’t being fired. I’ll question the people who need to be questioned, but I want to keep this under wraps, as well. It isn’t exactly a good look for me.”

  What kind of boss was she that she couldn’t even manage a waitstaff without wilting under the pressure?

  When she’d worked for Gavin Crawford, walking into his office had been terrifying. Partly because she’d had a crush on him. But also because she’d respected him. She’d valued his opinion.

  How could her staff possibly feel that way about her?

  “You do great work here,” Sara said in an attempt to wrap this disastrous meeting up.

  “Thanks. Just… maybe look at some of the others more closely before jumping to conclusions.”

  Sara wanted to melt into the group of her tile office floor. “Right. Yeah.”

  “See you tomorrow, Chef,” Casey said, leaving with much less enthusiasm than he’d entered with.

  Sara could relate. She felt deflated, and the day wasn’t even half over.

  At this point in the restaurant’s lifespan, Sara trusted her staff to serve dinner without her being present.

  And tonight, that’s what needed to happen.

  Sara’s head wasn’t in the game. She cut her finger dicing onions, forgot what the special was even though she’d been working on it for weeks, and then left tomatoes out of a batch of salsa.

  Tomatoes. Out of a salsa!

  “Trust” was a hard word to fall back on given the day’s events, but Sara didn’t have another choice. She clearly couldn’t be trusted washing dishes, much less in her office confronting an employee. It would be better for everyone if she left.

  So she handed the reins to Jose and called Joey to come pick her up.

  A short while later, Joey pulled his truck behind the restaurant and hopped down, dark hair still wet and slightly curled from his shower. He’d been at the fire station the last two days, and Sara had hardly talked with him aside from a few quick texts.

  “Are you bringing the whole restaurant?” he teased, eying the stacks of Tupperware around her feet.

  Thank goodness Sara had prepped the food for the double Benson birthday party ahead of time. If she’d waited until this afternoon, they all would have ended up with food poisoning and a salty birthday cake.

  “Feels like it,” she said, pointing him to the heaviest boxes. “Those are all different cake layers and fondant decorations, though. So, it’s not quite as bad as it looks.”

  “How big will this party be? Looks like a lot of cake.”

  “Just the family. I may have gone a little overboard,” she admitted.

  Joey laughed, his white teeth sparkling in the sun. “When don’t you?”

  He wasn’t wrong. Sara took her role as the designated cake maker of the family very seriously. But she hadn’t had a choice this time.

  When Holly had suggested to Grady that maybe he’d like to do a separate party from Grandma this year—maybe one with his friends instead?—Grady had almost rioted.

  “No way! Aunt Sara said last year that she’d make me a half-chocolate, half-red cake with green frosting and zombies eating the side of it.”

  Sara was impressed. The kid had a mind for details.

  Holly had turned to her younger sister, eyes narrowed. “You said that?”

  “I may recall saying something to that effect, yes,” Sara admitted with a wince.

  Grady had held a small finger under her chin. “You promised.”

  So Sara kept her promise.

  The “red cake” he referred to was red velvet—her mom’s favorite—and the perfect pairing for her cream cheese frosting recipe. Cream cheese frosting wasn’t the easiest to decorate with by any means, but Sara was a chef, not a professional baker. No one could expect perfection. Plus, if zombies were going to be eating the cake, it was fine for it to be a little messy.

  In the end, Sara had opted for four layers, alternating chocolate and red velvet. All covered in a green cream cheese frosting—and the requisite drooling zombies done in fondant, lest Grady have a fit if they were omitted.

  Grady would love it and Sara would secure her title as the cool aunt. It should be a great party.

  If she could get out of her funk long enough to enjoy it.

  Joey helped Sara load the boxes in the back of the truck and then they traversed the cobblestone roads slowly, keeping the jostling to a minimum.

  “How was your day?” he asked, his knee bouncing nervously.

  He’d been around the Benson family plenty of times, so Sara didn’t think he’d be nervous about the birthday party. It was more likely he’d had
coffee while on shift again. The man could put out a forest fire without so much as blinking, but one cup of caffeine sent him jittering out of his skin.

  Sara groaned. “Don’t even remind me. It was miserable. I got into it with an employee because—”

  “That sucks,” Joey said, cutting her off. “I bet you showed them who was boss though, right?”

  “Well. I mean, I kind of—”

  “Good for you.” Joey grinned and slapped the steering wheel. “Sometimes you have to drop the hammer.”

  It felt like the hammer had been dropped on Sara instead. Like one of those old cartoons where no matter how far the coyote threw the anvil, it always landed on his own head. Joey was usually a good listener, but he was distracted today. It was fine. Sara didn’t want to talk much anyway.

  “How was your day?” she asked instead.

  Joey inhaled sharply and his eyebrows shot up like he’d been waiting for her to ask. Poised to answer.

  He tipped his chin up at a sharp angle and batted his lashes. “What do you think about my profile? Handsome, no?”

  Sara reached across the seat and pressed her hand to his forehead. “Are you feverish? You’re being weird.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just answer the question, Chef Sara.”

  She’d been joking, but his forehead did feel fine. “Of course you’re handsome. Do you think I’d be dating you if you weren’t handsome?”

  “Good point. Plus, you literally swooned the first time we met.”

  Sara groaned, tired of reliving that particular memory. “My mom’s inn was on fire. And I was exhausted. It had nothing to do with you. You just happened to catch me.”

  “Two sides to every story.” He winked at her and waved one hand, redirecting her attention. “Anyway, I’m only asking because—drumroll please… I was discovered today!”

  “Discovered?” Sara turned to him, paying full attention now. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you are now dating a lifesaving firefighter and a movie star! I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Joey cocked his head at all kinds of strange angles, acting as though he was posing for the camera.

  Sara just watched, confused. “You’re going to be in a movie?”

  He nodded eagerly, his teeth clicking together.

  “Did you have an audition or something? You never mentioned anything.”

  “No, it was the funniest thing...”

  He launched into the story, explaining that he’d been put in charge of the grocery run for the fire station. He was at the store, looking in the frozen food section for the hash browns everybody liked, when a woman had approached him.

  “…Apparently, she is the casting director or something or other on the movie that’s shooting at your mom’s inn—the one based on Dominic’s book.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar.”

  “Well, she liked the look of me and wants me to be in the movie!” Joey’s mouth fell open, his eyebrows wagging playfully.

  Sara couldn’t find the right words. Mostly because the words that came to mind first were, Are you serious?

  Yes, Joey was handsome. Borderline movie star handsome.

  But he’d never acted a day in his life. And he’d just been standing in the grocery store.

  In the freezer section.

  Buying hash browns.

  “What do you think?” he asked, nudging her with his elbow. “Are you starstruck?”

  It was, of course, absolutely great news. Objectively so. No one could say this wasn’t cool. So why did her stomach continue to twist into uncomfortable knots?

  Why did her hands clench into fists and her toes press down into the thick foam of her shoe insoles?

  Perhaps because it felt utterly, ridiculously, completely unfair.

  Nothing in her life had ever landed in her lap like that. Sara busted her butt to earn her way into culinary school. She stayed late and showed up early to make sure she was top of her class. And even with all of that, it took her months to land a job in the city that didn’t involve reheating frozen entrees and wearing a silly hat while she sang “Happy Birthday” to guests.

  Then she’d worked her way up the ladder in Gavin’s kitchen at Lonesome Dove, only to have him ruin everything by being a cheating, slimy, sexist pig.

  No one had ever walked up to Sara while she was hash brown shopping, pointed at her, and said, “I like the look of you. Care to own a restaurant?”

  That didn’t happen to anyone!

  So why Joey? Why should he get to be famous when Sara was the one who had worked her tail off?

  When she was the one who had chosen the moral high road instead of selling her soul for a good review from a renowned food critic?

  Why did he get to live his movie star dreams while Sara’s dreams of being a big-time entrepreneur had practically crushed her earlier this afternoon just because a member of her waitstaff had gotten a little bit peeved?

  “You okay, babe?” Joey asked with a cautious chuckle. “I was teasing about being starstruck, you know. Permission to speak and all that.”

  Sara knew her thoughts were unfairly bitter. Probably because she’d had such a rotten day.

  She should be happy for Joey.

  She would be.

  In a sec.

  “I’m fine. It’s just the beginning of a bad headache, I think. It’s been a day.” She reached over and patted his knee. “But I’m happy for you.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” he sighed.

  Sara swallowed the nausea that rose up in her. Casey had said very similar words only a few hours earlier, albeit for very different reasons.

  “I can’t wait to see you on the silver screen.” Sara twisted her mouth into a smile.

  Joey stared out the windshield, humming softly, clearly lost in star-studded fantasies.

  Now, Sara really couldn’t tell him how terrible her day had been. She didn’t want to bring him down. No reason he needed to be crushed by her own personal anvil, too.

  Like everything else, Sara would have to figure this out on her own.

  7

  Eliza

  The Nantucket Cottage Hospital

  The surgery prep room was white and sterile and smelled like cleaning products.

  This room had a window, at least. But the view was of the building next door. The gray stones were tinged green from moss and moisture and in desperate need of a power wash.

  Eliza tried to open the window, but there was no latch. No way to let in a little fresh air.

  She felt like she was suffocating.

  The ambulance ride from the doctor’s office to the hospital had been a blur. Eliza barely had time to register what the doctor was saying before she was being whisked away for emergency surgery.

  “The baby has to come out today?” she’d asked. “Like, right now? This very second?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Geiger confirmed. “As soon as possible.”

  That had been an hour ago. Or was it two? Eliza didn’t know.

  But Oliver still didn’t know anything was happening.

  If Eliza could get the dumb window open, she could try to send him a carrier pigeon. Without her phone, that was the next best option.

  Eliza knew Oliver’s phone number. Had it memorized, of course. Or at least, she usually did. But whatever compartment of her brain that information lived in was firmly out of reach.

  Try as she might, the numbers turned to a jumble in her head.

  The woman working the check-in desk had given her a sympathetic smile like she was a simpleton when she’d been unable to provide an emergency contact.

  Poor dear, her smile had said.

  In New York City, Eliza had practically been hard wired to her telephone. She had to be available any time of day for questions from interns or clients or her boss. At any moment, she needed to be ready to handle business. Send over documents. Pull up facts and figures.

  Maybe Eliza had fallen into the slow Nantucket lifestyle even deeper than she
’d thought.

  Oliver was almost always available. Even at work, he checked his phone during intermissions. At the peak of his worry about Eliza and the baby, he’d checked in between songs.

  But now, her mind—usually a steel trap for numbers and data—felt more like a sieve. Somehow, she’d lost track of seven little digits. Seven vital digits.

  She pressed her forehead against the glass window pane for a second, letting it cool her feverish thoughts, and then pushed the IV pole back to her hospital bed.

  Oliver needed to be here for this surgery. She couldn’t deliver their baby without him.

  What if something went wrong?

  Technically, something was already going wrong. Eliza wasn’t supposed to have a baby today. It was too soon. Too early. She wasn’t ready.

  Winter had been a big, bouncing bundle of full-term joy. As had all of Holly’s children. Eliza didn’t know what to expect with a premature baby.

  The whole time she was pregnant, each doctor’s visit had contained an update about the size of the baby.

  Oh, we’ve got a little sweet pea in there!

  A plum in your belly!

  Our little cabbage, our coconut, our pumpkin.

  What would this one be when she arrived?

  Dr. Geiger had no doubt done his best to tell Eliza exactly what was going on, but she hadn’t caught it all. It was like standing in a wind tunnel on one of those game shows, dollar bills whipping through the air around you. She’d flailed around, grabbing as much information as she could. But it hadn’t been enough.

  Was the baby even ready to come out?

  According to Dr. Geiger, it was best for her to be born now. Eliza wanted whatever was best for her unborn daughter, of course. But she couldn’t get rid of the instinct that what was best for the baby was to stay inside of her for another month.

  She didn’t have a month. She didn’t know how much time she had, but she knew one thing for sure: she wouldn’t have this baby until Oliver was standing next to her.

  A nurse opened the door, a look of concern pinching her features together. “Are you okay, honey?”

  The woman had a Southern accent and a tall mess of blonde hair on her head. She looked like her sister Holly a bit, if Holly had more pronounced curves and hoop earrings.