No Secret Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  Past Brent also would’ve done a spit-take at the news that he was the co-owner of his own business. One he shared with his best friend.

  Yet sure enough, less than ten minutes later, Brent was walking through the front doors of a business that bore his name, his best friend and partner in crime lounging behind a real-life desk.

  Talk about surreal.

  “Triple B! What drags you in? I thought you took the day off.”

  Marshall Cook had a nickname for everyone he met. Even though Brent’s middle name did not begin with a “B,” Triple B had stuck.

  “Had to make sure you weren’t running the place into the ground and scaring away our newest hire.”

  “Too late. The new guy never showed. I had to call in Mary-Ann last minute to cover for him.”

  “Aw, drat. You could’ve called me.” Brent peeled the top off of the cinnamon roll tray and dropped them on the desk.

  Marshall’s eyes lit up and he dug in immediately. His next words were muffled by the bite. “You were busy. Getting ready for your mom and Dominic to come stay, right?”

  Brent nodded, feeling suddenly nervous about the visit.

  His mom had seen him through some of his darkest times. She’d been there for him no matter how many times he ended up passed out on the floor or thrown in a jail cell for the night. She’d been a pillar for him. A lighthouse leading him through the dark, trustworthy and sure.

  Now, that light flickered.

  “And need I remind you,” Marshall continued, wiping the back of his hand across his sleeve, flakes of cream choose frosting scattering across his desk, “I built this business from the ground up. You came in after all the hard work had been done. You’re just riding on my coattails.”

  “Tell that to the sign out front. Whose name comes first?”

  Marshall flipped his wrist dismissively. “We went in alphabetical order, not order of importance.”

  “Whatever you say, pal.”

  The truth was, Benson & Cook Enterprises was a real team effort.

  Marshall had started the chartered fishing company on his own. Nothing but his boat, Tripidation II, and a desire to never work a boring nine to five if he could help it. But together, he and Brent had turned it from a successful side hustle into a full-blown enterprise.

  It started out with a few minimum wage part-timers and some rented boats, but now they had full-time employees who ran tours on their own, giving Marshall and Brent a much-needed break.

  They could actually take time off. And still make money! Wonders never ceased.

  They had a storefront near the marina with a fresh coat of paint and their names vinyl-stamped across the front window. And desks. With honest-to-goodness nametags.

  Marshall leaned back at his desk and kicked his feet up, a stack of papers crunching under his heel. “Did you lay out a red carpet for your A-list guests?”

  “What?”

  “Dominic and your mom,” Marshall explained like Brent was slow in the head. “This movie is all I’ve heard about all day. Half our bookings right now are cast and crew. It’s a big deal.”

  “Oh. No, not really. I took down the old swimsuit posters in my room for them. Does that count?”

  Marshall snorted. “They’re staying in your old room?”

  “Yeah. Where else would they stay?”

  “Fair enough,” Marshall said with a shrug. “It’s just weird, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Brent knew when he bought his childhood home that they might run into some potential downsides, but until today, he’d steered clear of that.

  He loved the familiarity of 114 Howard Street. For years after moving out on his own, Brent had felt lost. Unmoored. It felt good to settle down someplace he knew inside and out.

  Or rather, nearly inside and out. Apparently, one little corner had remained a dust-covered mystery.

  Marshall looked up at the ceiling and chuckled. “I remember sneaking your drunk behind down that hallway outside their bedroom door more than once during senior year. And now that room is yours. The whole house is yours.”

  “Almost.”

  He hadn’t mean to say it out loud. But it seemed there was a limit to how much even Brent Benson could repress.

  “The sale is final, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, done and dusted. It’s nothing,” Brent said, pasting on a smile.

  Marshall didn’t buy it. He dropped his feet and leaned forward, brows pulled together. “What’s up, Triple B? Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing,” Brent said again. But once again, the harder he shoved everything down, the more it seemed to want to bubble to the surface. “I was cleaning out my dad’s old workshop, and I found something.”

  “Like…?”

  Marshall wasn’t prying. After a lifetime of friendship, there were very few secrets between the two of them.

  Still, this felt like something that wasn’t Brent’s to share.

  “Something my parents lied about.”

  The words seemed harsh, but Brent didn’t know how else to describe it.

  It sure felt like his parents had lied to him. How many times had he asked them for a brother when he was younger? He hated being the youngest. Hated being the only boy in a family of girls.

  At Christmas when he was five, he asked Santa for a baby brother. And they never told him he already had one. Not once. His mom had bought him a G.I. Joe instead.

  Marshall’s eyes went wide. “Are you adopted?”

  “No,” Brent snorted. “Well, not that I know of.”

  “But it’s a big family secret?” Marshall asked.

  “Pretty big.”

  “And it’s the reason your forehead is all creased up like that?”

  Brent ran a self-conscious hand over his face, feeling all of the ridges. He made a concerted effort to relax. “Yeah.”

  “Then you should talk to your mom about it. Clear the air.”

  Marshall was saying exactly what Brent knew he needed to do. But that didn’t change how little he wanted to do it.

  Hadn’t his family been through enough in the last few years without dredging up old drama?

  Marshall leaned forward even further and dropped his voice low. “Is Sara adopted?”

  “No one is adopted!” Brent laughed and shook his head.

  “I had to ask. She’s always been an odd one.”

  “Why? Because she wouldn’t date you when you were a pimply freshman?” Brent asked, one eyebrow raised. “That doesn’t make her weird. It makes her like every other girl on the island.”

  Marshall gasped, a hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “I had a crush on her for one second. And I never asked her out, so my one-hundred-percent dating acceptance rate remains intact, thank you very much.”

  “You’re good at convincing girls to go out on one date, but how many have taken you up on two?” Brent teased, grateful for the change in conversation.

  “Those stats aren’t interesting to me,” Marshall said, balling up a piece of paper and throwing it at Brent’s chest. “The only thing that matters to me is that Lean Machine and I have been on too many dates to count.”

  “Lean Machine? That’s the nickname you’re going with?” Brent sighed. “I can’t believe Lena lets you call her that.”

  “She loves it,” Marshall argues. “Almost as much as she loves me.”

  “Things are going well, then?”

  “Great.” Marshall grinned like the lovesick puppy dog he was. “She’s great. We are doing great. Everything is—”

  “Great?” Brent finished.

  “Exactly. I mean, I’m dating a doctor. Can you believe that? Never saw that coming.”

  “A veterinarian.”

  Marshall raised a brow in warning. “Are you saying there’s a difference?”

  “No, just specifying,” Brent said, holding up his hands in surrender. “It explains a lot. Vets usually have an affinity for stray animals.”

  Ma
rshall laughed. “You got me there, amigo. But speaking of stray animals, Roger came in earlier. He wanted to talk with you.”

  “You better not let Roger hear you talk about him that way. He may be older than both of us by a few decades, but he could fight you.”

  Roger was the tattoo-covered Navy vet who owned the marina. Despite the fights Brent had been in over the years, he was fairly sure Roger could take him, too.

  Marshall stood up and swatted Brent’s ear on his way to the door. “I wasn’t talking about Roger. Let’s go, Mutt.”

  Brent groaned and followed Marshall outside. He sensed his friend was testing out a new nickname for him.

  God forbid this one stick.

  Benson & Cook headquarters was only a block away from the marina, but Marshall insisted they needed a golf cart to zip back and forth.

  Brent felt a little ridiculous, but he had to admit it made it easier to find parking.

  The day was clear, high sun reflecting off the gentle Atlantic waters. Bouncing down the cobblestone street towards the marina, the water sparkled like a pile of sapphires as far as the horizon.

  Then a speedboat roared across the scene, slicing the smooth water in two with a foamy white gash.

  Summer was the busy season. Tourists visited Nantucket all year round, of course, but in the summer, they invaded.

  Marauded, really. Locals trying to get out on the water for sport or work had to navigate around out-of-towners who drove their barely-used boats way too fast through the harbor and sent waves crashing against the docks.

  Still, Brent liked the hustle and bustle. Especially since tourists made up almost one-hundred percent of Benson & Cook’s clientele. Locals had no need for anyone to hold their hands on a chartered fishing trip. But tourists could always use the help. Brent and Marshall took them to the best fishing spots, provided all of the equipment, and made sure they had a good time. If not, there was a money-back guarantee (though to date, it remained mercifully unused).

  Just as they passed the marina, Marshall pointed out one of their boats pulling into the harbor. The company boats were all painted the same turquoise blue with their company name imprinted on the back and side in navy script.

  Today’s vessel was driven by Mary-Ann. She was a local, a born and raised fisherwoman, and she absolutely did not appreciate the constant Gilligan’s Island jokes lobbed her way by clients.

  Still, she did her best to humor them. They tipped better when she laughed and played along.

  The clients with her today were an older couple. The woman was stretched out on a chair with large sunglasses on her face and a book in her hands. The man, clothed in a vest, cargo shorts, and a matching fishing hat, stood at the helm of the boat, chest puffed out. From Brent’s vantage point, he could see a price tag still dangling from the hem of the vest, flapping in the wind.

  Brent and Marshall were waiting for the boat when it docked.

  “How did Mary-Ann treat you?” Brent asked the guy.

  “The ride went a little over three hours, but she didn’t get us stranded on a deserted island,” he chortled. “So we give her five stars.”

  Mary-Ann grimaced in his direction. Brent winked at her in solidarity. “She’s one of our best.”

  Brent and Marshall were both long past cleaning duties, but they hopped on board to assist the guests disembarking with their fishy prizes and help Mary-Ann scrub up.

  The cooler of customary beer and soda remained untouched, but the bottle of white wine was empty next to the deck chair. That explained the wife’s wobbly steps down the dock. Her nails had bit into Brent’s arm as he led her down the stairs.

  “You two don’t have to do this,” Mary-Ann protested. “I can handle clean-up on my own.”

  “I called you at five-thirty AM this morning, and you were here in twenty minutes. It’s the least I can do,” Marshall said, pressing an earnest hand to his chest. “Forever grateful.”

  “Forever grateful you didn’t have to haul your tired butt out here that early,” Brent snorted.

  Marshall grinned and nodded. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Coming down to the water had been the right idea.

  Even when he was mopping dirty water off the deck and throwing away used plastic cups, being this close to the water and feeling the sway of the boat beneath him made Brent feel grounded. Better than he had all day.

  It was only when he stepped back on dry land that his pesky thoughts came rushing back.

  Marshall noticed right away. “You came into work on your day off, which means you’re even more messed up than you’re letting on.”

  “I’m fine,” Brent said.

  Marshall rolled his eyes. “How many times have I heard that before? I’m not buying it.”

  There were pros and cons to having a lifelong friend. Marshall knew Brent too well.

  “I’m just saying,” Marshall said, swinging into the golf cart and slamming his foot down on the brake pedal to release it, “talk to your mom. The sooner you get this cleared up, the sooner I can be sure you’re fine.”

  Brent had always thought of Marshall as his brother. Or rather, the closest thing he had.

  Marshall had two older brothers of his own, though. Brent had always been jealous of that.

  “You only care because I run half this business. You don’t want me being a liability.”

  “Hey, I never said my intentions were pure.” He laughed and nudged Brent in the arm.

  They were just starting to pull away when the weather-warped marina door banged open and Roger came hustling out, waving his arms. “Leaving without saying goodbye?”

  Sheriff Mike followed him out, a mug of coffee in his hand. No doubt sourced from the ancient pot in Roger’s office that never seemed to empty. “Or are you running off because you saw the law around?”

  Brent laughed. “Honest men don’t need to run from you, Sheriff.”

  “Then why aren’t you sprinting, son?”

  All the men chuckled together. Brent’s past featured a few run-ins with the local law, but Sheriff Mike had been a good friend of his dad’s and treated Brent more as a wayward son than a ward of the state.

  Now that Brent was sober and thriving, however, there was no need for any tough love. His activities remained well above-board.

  Roger tipped his head to Brent. “I came by to see you, but you weren’t in the office.”

  “Well, you got me now. What’s up?”

  “Sometime in the next few days, send me the dates you have open for a tour. Not with one of your young employees. With you.”

  “You want us to take you out on a boat?” Brent shot a disbelieving look at Marshall, who looked just as bewildered as he felt.

  Roger had been in the Navy for years and running the marina for even longer. If there was anyone in Nantucket more experienced on the water, Brent didn’t know them. Why he’d want a chartered fishing tour was beyond him.

  Roger snorted. “Of course not. It’s for my lady’s father.”

  Brent had no idea Roger had a lady. He couldn’t quite picture what that lady would look like, either. Something like a manatee, if he had to guess.

  But good for Roger nonetheless.

  “He’s an old coot,” Roger said, rolling his eyes. “I’d take him out myself, but I’m worried I’d chuck him off the boat a half hour in.”

  “You aren’t making this sound appealing,” Brent laughed.

  Roger shrugged. “That’s because I’m being honest. I figure I’ll just get suddenly busy the day they come into town and have no other choice but to send him out with you lot instead. I suppose you two could assign him to an employee if you want. But they’re liable to quit. So make sure it’s someone you can stand to lose.”

  “What about me?” Marshall asked. “I was in the office this morning when you came in. Why does it need to be Brent? You don’t trust me?”

  “With your sense of humor, the old man would throw you overboard,” Roger said flatly. “Brent�
�s the only one I figure is up for the job. He can be serious. And he can handle him.”

  “I’ll send over dates as soon as I get back to the office. Pick one and I’ll get it on the schedule,” Brent intervened.

  “Much obliged.”

  Marshall threw up an invisible cowboy hat as he hit the gas and squealed away from the marina going a full twelve miles per hour.

  Brent was honored Roger trusted him, but he wasn’t so sure Roger was right. How much could Brent really handle if he was afraid to talk to his own mom?

  He would see his mom at her party tonight. And Brent figured it was as good a time as any to find out what he was really made of.

  9

  Mae

  The Sweet Island Inn

  Try as she might, Mae couldn’t sit still.

  She spent the rest of her birthday afternoon securing butcher paper to easels and scrubbing dried paint off of her supply of brushes so the kiddos could fingerpaint. She re-stocked marshmallow shooters and positioned them covertly around the party area along with a healthy pile of marshmallow ammunition.

  Never one to slack, she also created a scavenger hunt that would take the kids all through the Inn, eventually leading them to the tree line just behind the garden where a treasure trove of candy and soda lay in wait.

  Despite Dominic’s many objections that the party was ready, Mae knew there was more to a party than tablecloths and balloons. The grandkids would need entertainment. And she was not the type of grandma to leave them disappointed.

  After placing the last bowl of marshmallows on the snack table, Mae turned to Dominic. He’d flopped down into a folding chair ten minutes earlier, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

  “We’re done,” she said excitedly.

  Dominic didn’t move.

  She patted his shoulder. “Are you going to have enough energy to enjoy the party?”

  “Barely,” he groaned, letting his head flop to the side dramatically. “I’m not sure how you’re still standing.”

  “Practice.”

  Usually, when it came to hosting wedding receptions and rehearsals, birthday parties, and luncheons at the inn, Mae brought in outside staff to help. But still, she’d more than prepared herself for the task of throwing a family birthday party.