No Beach Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  It was late afternoon by the time the Tripidation II returned home to the marina. All the men were a little sunburned and tired, but they’d brought home a haul of fish: striped bass aplenty, along with a few handsome bluefish and some tasty scup, which were always a crowd pleaser. Best of all, there wasn’t a single dead shark. Brent helped to get all the fish tucked away into the ice coolers that Marshall had stowed for that purpose, then escorted the men back to their vehicle to make sure everything else was in order.

  “Here you go, man,” the oldest brother said just before they all clambered into the car. He held out his hand and offered Brent a shockingly thick roll of cash. Three hundred bucks, it looked like. Brent couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

  “Aw, you don’t gotta go to all that trouble,” Brent mumbled.

  “Nonsense, brother,” the man replied. “You boys are great at what you do, and we all had a good time out there today. Take it and go buy someone pretty a beer, yeah?” He gave Brent a wink, a pat on the back, and then they were gone, kicking up gravel as they went.

  “Good crew,” Marshall said, coming up from behind Brent. “Nice catch there, too.” He nodded towards the cash in Brent’s hand. “Keep it all, okay? Call it a signing bonus.”

  Brent started to protest, but Marshall raised a hand to silence him. “I insist. But we still got a boat to scrub down, so put the cash in your purse and let’s go finish the job, all righty?”

  He slugged Marshall in the shoulder playfully. The two men went over to attend to the last of the day’s tasks. As the sun set over the marina, bathing everything in a creamy orange glow, Brent felt an unexpected smile creep across his face.

  Against all odds, he’d actually had a good day.

  Who could’ve seen that coming?

  13

  Sara

  Sunday morning.

  Every Sunday for as long as Sara could remember, the Benson family had gotten together in one form or another. When they were growing up, Mom always made banana pancakes—with chocolate chips for Brent—and the kids would all run downstairs to get the first ones hot off the griddle. As they went away to college or the city one by one, Sunday mornings became the time they’d all call one another to check in, chat, catch up on life. But, now that they were pretty much all back on Nantucket, Sunday mornings had once again become banana pancake time.

  The kitchen table at the inn was warm in the sunlight, though the air outside was cool this morning. Sara sat with her forehead resting on her forearms, soaking up the sun like a grumpy cat. She had one gnarly hangover that just refused to quit. She supposed she deserved it, after the way she’d been knocking back drinks at the bar with Brent on Friday night. One beer and one shot had turned into four of each very, very quickly. Back in her culinary institute days, that wouldn’t have been a problem. Heck, even a year ago, when she was going out regularly with her coworkers at the Lonesome Dove in New York City, she would’ve been able to drink like a fish and get right back to work the next day.

  But now, after a year in Nantucket, her liver had turned on its check engine light. Getting old sucked. A two-day hangover? That seemed unfair. Her body was punishing her.

  In some ways, though, she sort of deserved it. Seeing Russell at the bar with that mystery girl had been a blow to the gut. When she closed her eyes and pictured them again—laughing together, her hand on his thigh, his arm around her shoulders—she felt the same grossness in her stomach. It didn’t feel good to see him with someone else. Even after everything she’d done or allowed to happen, she still didn’t want to see that.

  Maybe she’d been hoping that there was a reconciliation in their future. If she just let enough time pass, then he’d relax and forgive her and they could pick up right where they left off—kissing amongst clouds of spilled flour in his kitchen.

  But it was clear to her now that that was just a silly fantasy. Russell wasn’t going to forgive her, at least not in a way that would lead to getting back together. By kissing Gavin that night at the inn, she’d ruined things permanently.

  That realization hurt every bit as bad as the hangover.

  “Coffee?” Eliza asked.

  “Mmf,” was all Sara could muster.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘Yes, lots of it,’” replied her older sister sagely. Sara didn’t pick her head up, but she could hear Eliza pour her a steaming mug and set it down on the table at her elbow. She waited to hear the sounds of her footsteps walking away, but instead—much to her dismay—Eliza pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Rough night?”

  Sara lifted her head off her hands. It took a gargantuan amount of effort. Hangovers were not meant to last two days. This was cruel and unusual. Some deity had it out for her. Or maybe it was her own brain and body that had it out for her. Whichever way you sliced it, she was on someone’s bad list. She was prepared to beg for mercy if she could just find out who was responsible for pulling the levers here. “Very.”

  “How rough are we talking?”

  “Saw Russell.”

  Eliza winced. “Oof. I take it he wasn’t alone.”

  Sara shook her head sadly and took a sip of her coffee. It was scorching hot and nearly seared her taste buds off. She just sighed. Even the coffee was antagonizing her this morning. “Some little blonde thing.”

  “To be fair, you’re a little blonde thing.”

  Sara fixed her older sister with a glare. “Not the time, Liza.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. Do you want some Bailey’s in your coffee or something?”

  The mere thought of alcohol made Sara shudder in horror. “I’m never drinking again.”

  Eliza laughed at that. “Famous last words.” Her face softened. She laid a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “Listen, Sara … I’m sorry about Russell. I know that hurts.”

  It was a nice gesture. Eliza had really come so far in terms of being emotional and empathetic. It still took Sara by surprise sometimes when her sister asked how she was feeling about this or that. Old Eliza would’ve never asked about her feelings. This new Eliza was gentle. Still a little weird to see, but not necessarily unwelcome. “Thanks, Liz,” Sara murmured. She felt oddly choked up all of a sudden. She could count on two hands the number of times that she and Eliza had ever talked about their love interests at all. Eliza had always kept things private, close to the chest. Maybe they were both doing a lot of growing up in their own ways these days.

  Just then, Mom came bustling out of the kitchen, followed by Brent. Each of them was carrying a pair of plates stacked high with banana pancakes and strips of bacon. They set the plates down on the table and took their seats.

  Sara’s heart did a little twinge when she saw her mother. They hadn’t really talked since their argument in the kitchen after this week’s Friday Night Feast. Sara felt guilt mixing itself up amongst her nausea. She could still recall the sound of her slapping away her mother’s hand and picture the crestfallen look on her mother’s face. She knew she ought to apologize, to make things right. But she just didn’t know what words to say. It was easier to ignore the problem and hope that it worked itself out in time. That might be the immature route, but it was certainly the easiest. Given the way she was feeling, maybe taking the path of least resistance wasn’t so evil. Or maybe it was. She hadn’t quite decided.

  Apologies could wait until after pancakes, though. Eliza and Mom chitchatted while Brent and Sara dug right in. Brent looked like he had an uncharacteristic amount of pep in his step this morning. He’d lost the bags under his eyes ever since he stopped drinking after getting arrested last year, but there was still a furtive, haunted look in his eyes most days. Not today, though. Today, he had a decisiveness to his movements. He speared a pancake and transferred it over to his own plate. When he caught Sara looking at him, he fixed her with a sidelong look.

  “Can I help you?” he asked gruffly.

  “Something’s different about you.”

  He cut himself a triangle of pancake, dipped it
in his reservoir of maple syrup, and shoveled it into his mouth. “Nope,” he mumbled around the bite.

  “Yes. Different. You’re supposed to be miserable with me. You don’t look miserable.”

  “Oh, I’m miserable,” he said. “Or rather, I will be as soon as we’re out of pancakes.”

  “See? That’s what I mean. You’re joking around. Miserable people don’t make jokes.”

  He shrugged. “What do you want from me, sis? I’m here for breakfast, not the Spanish Inquisition.”

  Sara frowned. “What on earth do you know about the Spanish Inquisition? I’m pretty sure I remember you cutting social studies in high school to go make out with Carolyn Cunningham in the back stairwell.”

  Brent stared longingly into the distance while he chewed, as if remembering those days. “Ah yes,” he said mournfully. “Carolyn Cunningham. The one that got away.”

  Eliza butted in. “If I recall, I believe you broke up with her to start dating Rebecca Nelson.”

  Her brother nodded. “Oh yeah, you’re right. Rebecca Nelson. The one that got away.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “But if you are still lusting after Carolyn, she and her husband own the gas station downtown. I’m sure she’s just dying to elope with you, Prince Charming.”

  “Gonna stick with pancakes for now, but I appreciate the suggestions, ladies.”

  “Well, you all are certainly in a chipper mood this morning!” Mom said from her end of the table. “Spring fever?”

  “Pancake fever,” Brent corrected. “You’re doing the Lord’s work here, Momma.”

  Mom laughed and threw a balled-up napkin at his head. It felt so normal for one brief moment; Sara forgot about all the messed-up circumstances that had brought each of them to this table. For one brief moment, life was about pancakes and joking around with her family. It was like how you get that one instant of silence right before your ears pop when an airplane is landing. A sliver of bliss before the sound rushes back in.

  “So,” Eliza said, “I have some news.”

  Everyone turned to look at her. “Oh?” Mom asked. “What kind of news?”

  “Did Oliver pop the question?” Brent asked teasingly.

  “Only if the question is, When are you moving out of my house?” Sara added with a wry grin.

  “I’ll tell you in a second, no, and shut up,” Eliza answered in respective order, jabbing her fork at Sara with menace in her eyes.

  “Let your sister talk,” said Mom.

  “Anyway, now that I have the floor …” continued Eliza. “Oliver got invited to go on tour with the Fever Dreams.”

  Brent whistled, impressed. “The Fever Dreams? Good for him. That’s big. Marshall loves those guys.”

  “Yeah, it’s big,” Eliza said. Sara could tell that she was proud of him. Despite herself, she smiled along with her big sister. She ignored the pang of jealousy in her chest. “The other part of that news is … I’m going with him.”

  Mom’s eyes went round. “You’re going with him? On tour? With Winter?”

  Eliza nodded. “Yeah, going with him. We talked about it all day yesterday, and I think we can manage it just fine. It’ll be hard, of course, but this is the opportunity of a lifetime for him, and he wants us to be there with him.”

  Sara was a little stunned. As much as she might not want to admit it sometimes, she liked having Eliza around. Her sister had a knack for steering Sara straight when she was about to give into one of her “less productive” impulses, as Eliza would call it. Plus, Winter was cute. It would be a little weird not to see them every day.

  She looked across the table and could see that Mom was having a little trouble processing this information, too. “I’m—well, a little surprised, of course—but so happy for you! This will be an exciting adventure, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Eliza responded, giving her mother’s hand a squeeze. “I know it’ll be tough, but Oliver deserves this and I want to support him as much as I can. And don’t worry, I’ll still be able to handle all the inn business from my laptop on the road.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that in the slightest, dear. I just want you to be safe, you know? Those rock stars get up to lots of awful nonsense …”

  Sara laughed. “Have you met Oliver? The only ‘rock star nonsense’ he gets up to is staying up late to watch Frozen with Winter for the billionth time. They’ll be fine, Mom.” She looked at Eliza. “I’m excited for you, Liz. This’ll be really cool.”

  “Thanks, Sara,” Eliza replied with a warm smile. “I think so too.”

  “Does this make you a groupie?” Brent chimed in. Everybody laughed, and then it was Eliza’s turn to throw a balled-up napkin at his head.

  After the laughter had settled down, Brent spoke up again. “I’ve got some news, too, actually.”

  “Dear, you better not tell us that you’re going on tour, too!”

  He laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ll leave the rock star stuff to Oliver. Mine’s not nearly as exciting. I’m working charter trips with Marsh.”

  Mom clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, honey, that’s fantastic!”

  “Yeah, that’s really great, Brent,” added Eliza.

  Sara just smiled. She’d been there at the bar when Marshall had pitched the offer again, and she knew Brent well enough to tell when he was going to say yes to something. She hadn’t talked to him since he’d dropped her off at the bar, but judging by his liveliness this morning, his first trip must have gone well. Brent deserved some happiness. He had demons, that much was certain. This could be just the thing he needed to start slaying them.

  “And we did our first trip yesterday, and it went pretty well, I’d say.”

  “I’m so proud of you, dear,” Mom said with a huge grin on her face. “I know your father would be, too.”

  “Yeah,” Brent said. The mention of Dad seemed to subdue him a little bit. He looked down at his empty, syrup-smeared plate for a second, then back up with a renewed smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I bet he would be.”

  Sara’s phone buzzed where it sat on the table. She snatched it up, just like she’d done pretty much every time she’d received a text message or app notification over the last eight months. It had become an empty, silly reflex—He’s not texting you, so stop hoping for it—but one she was having trouble stopping.

  This time, though, it was a text from Holly. You guys all eating pancakes?

  Yep! Sara texted back.

  Good. Calling rly quick. I got something to share.

  For some reason, Sara felt another pang of irritation. Everybody else had news to share, great things that were happening to them. Why was she getting left out? She knew it was a stupid, petulant, selfish thought, and yet she was having the hardest time shaking that feeling, like she was the last kid getting picked for a dodgeball team.

  She didn’t have too much time to reflect on it, though, because her phone started buzzing with Holly’s incoming FaceTime call. Sara suppressed a sigh and answered. “Hiya,” she said. Holly looked like she was over the moon. Whatever news she had to deliver to the family, it was clearly exciting for her.

  “Lemme see everyone!”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “Don’t be a drama queen,” Holly lectured. “Just spin me around.”

  Sara did as she was told, turning the phone around so Mom, Eliza, and Brent could all see Holly. They all waved.

  “So, guess what?!” Holly squealed without waiting for anyone to ask.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Sara drawled.

  “We’re coming home!”

  “Home?” Brent asked. “Home as in Nantucket?”

  “Yes!” She launched into a whole spiel about how Pete had run into somebody-or-other, and they were coming to Nantucket to start their own law firm, so the Goodwin clan was going to make the move back to the island. Sara tuned her out after a while, though her mother and siblings were glued to the screen
, listening intently.

  Good news after good news, for everyone else—except for her. Stop being a brat, she told herself. You’re acting like a spoiled rotten little kid. This is your family. You’re supposed to be happy when they’re happy.

  But the truth was that she wasn’t. And she knew that, the deeper she dug into the black ball of fury nestled in the middle of her heart, the more she’d find that there was guilt in the core of it. She wasn’t happy because she herself had done things that ruined that happiness. She had only herself to blame. That was a harsh thing to stomach. She couldn’t keep pinning her problems on the world. Other people were neither the source nor the solution of her misery. It was her. It came from her and it ended with her.

  What she needed was to do something positive for herself. She needed to pull herself up by her bootstraps and build something she could be proud of. Not for anyone else—not for Gavin or for Russell, not even for her mother or her father—but for her. She, Sara Alexandra Benson, was responsible for her own well-being. And it was high time she started doing something about that.

  But what could she do? The answer came from deep within her, like she had a disembodied voice shouting from the bottom of a well.

  The restaurant.

  “You have a gift! When are you opening up a restaurant? You could charge two hundred bucks a head for a dinner like this, easy.”

  “This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. You’re an artist. I’ve never had lobster that good in my whole life.”

  Those memories and a thousand others just like them flowed through her like water through a broken dam. People believed in her. Perfect strangers took just a bite of food and started offering up hosannas like they were having a transcendent religious experience. It had happened too many times to discount.

  Maybe she would never be golden child Eliza, effortlessly good at everything she touched.

  Maybe she would never be happy mother Holly, blessed with love and companionship.

  Maybe she would never be Brent, who had a hard road of his own but knew what it meant to enjoy the fruits of his own labor.