by Grace Palmer
He saw Rose, and—no. He closed off his gaze to her. He didn’t want to see Rose. Not at all.
He saw the months that had come after that. The final fight, the straw that broke the camel’s back and landed him in jail. He’d avoided jail time, thanks to a sympathetic judge. Gotten off with just probation and lots of community service. He was lucky in that regard; he knew it. But he didn’t feel very lucky at all.
And what had happened since that “stroke of luck”? Not much of anything, really. Mostly just the daily struggle of looking at alcohol and forcing himself to stay far away from it. Of trying to bury his emotions in work and failing. He’d been picking up odd handyman jobs based largely on the strength of his father’s reputation. And though he did good work and kept his head down, it wasn’t headed anywhere long-term. The other general contractors on the island had a kind of fragile, unspoken accord between them as to how customer territory should be carved up and business should be conducted. The intrusion of a rogue element like Brent didn’t sit well with them, so they froze him out whenever possible. That made it hard to get steady work. So there were hours—way too many—that yawned wide open with nothing to fill them. During those times, he ran on the beach with Henrietta and he helped his mother at the inn and he tried not to think too much of the past.
After Mom finished her story about meeting Dad, Brent was the first to stand up to leave.
“Going so soon?” Eliza asked carefully as he dusted the sand from his hands.
“Yeah,” Brent muttered. He eyed the ocean warily. It looked dark and foreboding. He didn’t like being near the water anymore. Even when he ran with Henrietta, he stayed high up on the beach, in the soft sand at the foot of the dunes, though it slowed him down and made his calves ache after a few miles. Better to have sore legs than to wander too close to the waves.
“You sure, honey?” Mae asked. She had a lone tear hanging on for dear life at the corner of her eye.
“Yeah. Gotta take care of some stuff.” That was a lie and they all knew it, but he stuck to it anyway, even if he felt the bloom of shame in his cheeks as soon as the words had left his mouth. “I’ll be at the inn for dinner.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Lobster tonight. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” He turned and left before he had to say anything else. Holly waved goodbye from Sara’s phone screen.
He took the long way driving back to his apartment. It was a warm day for April. That was a relief, after the harsh winter they’d had. The cold had come in suddenly and exhausted itself just as fast. Good riddance, as far as Brent was concerned. He’d never much liked the wintertime.
He got back to his place, mounted the stairs, and unlocked the door. Henrietta jumped at him as soon as he entered.
“Hey, girl,” he cooed softly. He knelt and rubbed her ears as she lapped at his face. “I missed you too. Easy now, you’re gonna knock me over.”
She whined in response.
“Hungry already?” he said. “Let’s see what we can rustle up.” He got to his feet again and surveyed his apartment. It was small and cramped and ugly. Brent felt like that was a pretty good reflection of how he felt internally.
When he’d come home after the fight that landed him in jail, he’d poured all the beer and liquor out in the sink immediately. It took a little bit of his soul down the drain with him. Good riddance to that, too. But without alcohol, there wasn’t much left in his kitchen. He walked over and pulled open the rusted door of the refrigerator. It groaned as it gave way to reveal a stick of butter, a gallon of milk flirting recklessly with its expiration date, and leftover steak in a Styrofoam takeout box. He grabbed the steak and the milk and set both on the counter. Turning to the pantry, he retrieved a box of stale cereal. He heated up the steak and made a bowl of cereal. Once the steak was hot, he sliced it up and put it into Henrietta’s bowl. He took the cereal for himself.
“Dinnertime, girl,” he said.
She came over and wolfed the steak down, then looked at him balefully the second it was gone.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t give me those eyes. I already gave you the steak instead of keeping it for myself. What, you want my cereal too?” He offered it towards her jokingly. She came over, took a sniff, and backed away. He chuckled. “Didn’t think so.”
He wound his way into what passed for a living room and sat down on the couch. Henrietta followed him and curled into a ball on the threadbare carpet at his feet. She started snoring immediately.
He ought to get out of this dump, he knew that. With money as tight as it was, he was having enough trouble coming up with the rent payment each month. But he had no desire to move back home to Howard Street. That place was chock-full of memories he didn’t much feel like confronting. And besides, going back home was admitting defeat. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. Soon, maybe. But not yet. Not now.
As he drank the last dregs of milk from his bowl, he thought suddenly about Rose. It was like she kicked down the door of his mind and demanded to be acknowledged.
“What do you want?” he asked out loud. He knew he sounded like a crazy person, conversing with his own thoughts. But his apartment was empty, so he figured it was all right for now, as long as Henrietta didn’t tell anybody about him losing his mind.
Just wanted to say hi, said Imaginary Rose.
“I don’t really wanna talk to you,” he replied.
You oughta.
“Why’s that?”
Because you’re headed back the way you came. The way you were when you found me.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Who’re you kidding, Brent? Asked the ghost in his head. Look around. Just ’cause you’re not drinking doesn’t mean you’ve conquered your demons.
He looked around. Imaginary Rose had a point. Trading out the devil of his alcohol problems for the devil of depression wasn’t an improvement. It just meant he’d removed the Band-Aid over the open wound and done nothing about the wound itself.
As to what should be done about that wound … he wasn’t quite sure. Eliza had mentioned therapy a few times in a roundabout way. He knew she didn’t want to bring it up directly for fear of pissing him off. She also knew that he wasn’t likely to take to the idea. She was right on both counts. Some PhD psycho-shrink wouldn’t know him or his dad. So he didn’t see what good it would do.
But what else was there? Drinking had worked for a little bit, but that was no longer on the menu. Going out on the water had been a mental salve once upon a time, but that was similarly scratched nowadays. Rose had broken his heart. He still had Marshall, his best friend since he could crawl, but Marshall had a business to run, a sick mother with Alzheimer’s to care for, and a life to devote himself to. Brent had none of that. It had thrown a wedge between them, though neither man wanted to admit it. They were hanging out less and less often these days.
So without those things, what was he supposed to do about his problems? Heck, he barely even had a job anymore. All he had was time.
Way, way too much of it.
7
Sara
What on God’s green earth was better than the first buttery, delicious bite of fresh Maine lobster? As far as Sara was concerned, not a dang thing. And she wasn’t talking about just plain old fresh lobster, but rather the kind that you’d bought off the brother or uncle of a kid you went to high school with, or your old neighbor who had a few traps out that he checked on the weekend. Real local stuff. The kind of fresh lobster that came to you still dripping the saltwater of the ocean. The kind of fresh lobster that grew up near where you grew up. It was like there was a little Nantucket magic sprinkled on top of each bite. In all her months in New York, hunting for the best seafood that the Big Apple had to offer, Sara hadn’t found anything as good as what her mother used to cook up once or twice a month for Benson family dinners.
Sara thought back on the family dinners of her childhood as she prepped that evening’s meal in the kitchen of the Sweet Island Inn. Growing up
, her mother and father had been adamant that dinnertime was family time. At least four nights a week, and usually five or six, the whole family sat down at the dining room table together and shared a meal. No cell phones, no laptops, no books, no TV, no headphones allowed. Sara had a vivid memory of defiantly arriving at her seat with her Walkman headphones on blaring some music—she was pretty sure it was during her U2 fixation phase—and Mom snatching them right off her head. Rules were rules. Family dinners were sacred.
Back then, Sara had hated that, just like she’d hated pretty much all her mother’s rules. But now, she could appreciate that there was a special kind of beauty in a bunch of people gathering to break bread and laugh with each other.
Did this mean she was getting old? Lord, she hoped not.
“How’s it coming, hon?” Mom asked as she swooped into the kitchen. She was holding the huge plate they sometimes used to serve big meals on. It was a piece of pottery that Dad had gotten Mom as a gift one birthday long ago. The artwork on it was done in a million different shades of blue. It depicted a Nantucket beach at sunset, complete with a lighthouse, swimmers amongst the waves, houses lining the shore. Mom loved that plate more than life itself.
“Speak of the devil,” Sara said with a smile. “I was just thinking about you. It’s coming. We’re on schedule. Fifteen, twenty minutes out, max.”
Mom moved around the island and set the plate carefully on the dead center of the dining room table. She gave it one final polish with a dish towel before stepping back and smiling softly at it. When she was satisfied with the placement, she turned back to Sara. “Good thoughts, I hope?”
“Only the best for you, mother dearest.”
“That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” Mom smiled and swatted at Sara’s bottom playfully with the dish towel.
“I was just thinking about family dinners. Remember how serious you were about those?”
“With good reason!” Mom crowed. “Dinnertime is family time. You kids don’t even realize how important it is.”
“I think I’m starting to. Maybe.”
“Blossoming before our very eyes, aren’t you, my little rose?” Mom tweaked Sara’s nose between her thumb and forefinger. Sara still hated that habit of Mom’s as much as she always had.
“Back off before I drench you with the faucet,” Sara warned, aiming the sink hose at her mom with a ready finger on the trigger.
“Don’t threaten your mother!” interrupted a new voice. It was Mom’s friend Lola, who had just arrived at the inn and was wiping her feet on the welcome mat by the kitchen entrance. “Knock knock, by the way,” she added. “I brought wine.”
“Hi, love!” Mom crooned as she went over and gave Lola a hug and a kiss on each cheek.
“Hi, Aunt Lola,” Sara said. Lola wasn’t really her aunt, just a friend of her mom’s, but she’d been a family friend for so long that Sara had taken to calling her that years ago. “Don’t worry. She deserved it.”
“I highly doubt that. Your mother is a saint,” Lola tutted, coming over to give Sara a kiss on the cheek in turn.
“I sure hope so,” Sara retorted, “because we’re gonna need a miracle to make this lobster feed all the people who are likely to be showing up tonight.”
That was the truth and then some. Sara’s “Friday Night Feasts,” as they’d come to be called, had been growing by leaps and bounds over the last few months. It was no understatement to say that the Sweet Island Inn was the place to be on Friday nights in Nantucket if you were hungry and liked good food.
It had started as a little thing. Sara was bored and lonely on Friday nights after last year’s Russell-Gavin love triangle debacle, so she’d started hanging around the inn and helping her mother cook dinner for the guests. It didn’t take long before she was also helping out with the shopping and prep, then scheduling meals ahead of time. And then, before anyone knew it, the inn on Friday nights had become her laboratory. She found herself spending days testing new dishes and bringing them to the table to see what people thought. Like clockwork, each dish was met with rave reviews.
Tonight’s menu would start with a light chilled salad of fresh local produce, topped with a beet reduction that Sara had made and remade in over a hundred different formulations until she was satisfied with the final product. After that was butternut squash macaroni with melted gruyere cheese. Then, the star of the evening: handmade ravioli stuffed with lobster, shrimp, and ricotta cheese, tossed in a brown butter crab sauce. There were some traditional cheese biscuits, coleslaw, and corn on the cob for sides—couldn’t stray too far from people’s expectations of a real Nantucket dinner—and dessert was a homemade vanilla bean ice cream with espresso-chocolate sauce to drizzle on top.
The food was to die for, in Sara’s humble opinion and the opinion of everyone else who’d been lucky enough to wrangle invitations since she’d taken over. She was, after all, a classically trained chef who’d worked in some of New York’s most cutting-edge kitchens. She did it all, she did it artistically, she did it creatively, and she did it really freaking well.
Which was why attendance at these Friday Night Feasts had gone through the roof—almost literally. Neighbors had begun swinging by unannounced. Sheriff Mike “happened to be in the neighborhood on patrol” and stopped by to see if there were any leftovers. Old friends who’d “heard she was in town” would text her on Friday mornings to see if they could “catch up” that night. Sara would just laugh, shake her head, and get more food. As long as people brought a few bucks to cover the cost of groceries, she had no problem opening up the kitchen to more and more folks.
Maybe she had a little bit of her mom’s hospitable spirit in her after all. It felt good to serve good food and see people satisfied. And it felt really, really good to hear people say the one thing they said every single time they sat down at her table, without fail: “You have to open your own restaurant.”
If she had a nickel for every time someone said that, she’d be able to bankroll her own restaurant right this very second. But no matter how many times she heard it, it never got old. Really, it became like a tiny little seed, and every time the mantra was repeated, it was like that seed got watered a little bit more. In her idle moments, she’d started to wonder: was that possible? Her own restaurant? Could she do it?
Tonight, though, there weren’t many idle moments to be had. She’d gotten a late start on prep, since they’d gone down to the beach at sunset for Dad’s memorial. So now, she was cooking in a frenzy. The salad was already prepped and chilling in the refrigerator, but there were so many other things left to be done. As soon as she’d said her hellos and how are yous to Aunt Lola, she put both her mother and Lola to work.
“Yes, chef!” Lola said with a cackle. She’d had a glass or two of Chardonnay before she’d come over, so she was a little giggly already.
But the joke just made Sara’s heart throb unexpectedly. She thought of Russell and his “Yes, chef!” on the night of their flour-fight-slash-date-night. That felt like so long ago—or did it actually feel like it had just happened? She couldn’t decide. She looked over at her phone as she’d done so many times over the last few months. Every time she looked, she was hoping that there would be a text from Russell lighting up her screen. It didn’t have to be a big manifesto of forgiveness, not by any means. She knew that the window for him forgiving her for what she had done had slammed shut a long time ago. And she couldn’t blame him for that, as much as she wanted to. Everything that had happened was her fault. She’d been the one to hurt him, not the other way around. She deserved this radio silence.
But it didn’t change the fact that she herself was hurting. She ached for what they’d had—a fragile, blossoming relationship—and for the way she’d trampled all over that with one stupid decision.
She would’ve loved to hear from him. A classic Russell Whazzupppp!? text.
But her phone didn’t light up. So she went back to cooking.
“Bon appetit!” she sa
id with a flourish a little while later, setting down the first course of chilled salad. Mom and Aunt Toni were walking around the table pouring wine for everybody. There wasn’t much in the way of elbow room, but nobody seemed to mind too much. Sara put the salad bowl down and stepped back to watch the meal begin.
She looked around the room. There was the main wooden table that Aunt Toni had picked up from an antiques shop on the mainland years ago. Jammed alongside that were two more plastic card tables, and a big white tablecloth draped on top of everything. Mom had arranged as many chairs as she could fit on all sides. Every single one of them was occupied.
Guests of the property had first priority, and not a single one of them would dare miss a Friday Night Feast at the Sweet Island Inn. Mom had three couples vacationing here ahead of the tourist deluge that would come after Easter and Memorial Day weekend, along with a family of four, the DeVrys, who were taking a year to travel the world and homeschool their kids. Nestled amongst them were friends and neighbors of the Benson family, as many as could squeeze an invitation out of Mom. Every single one of them was licking their chops in anticipation. As soon as the salad hit the table, it was on.
By the time Sara had gone to the kitchen to fill her wineglass with some pinot grigio and come back, the salad was pretty much devoured.
“Welp, that didn’t take long,” Sara muttered under her breath.
“This red stuff is good!” chirped Sandy DeVry, a seven-year old girl with long red pigtails like Pippi Longstocking.
“That’s beets,” Sara replied with a laugh. “I’m surprised you like them, actually.”
“Oh, Sandy eats everything,” said her mother with a smile. “We have a standing family policy to try anything at least once. Makes traveling more fun.”
“I’m sure it does!” Mom chimed in. “Tell me, where all have you been since you began your travels?”