No Beach Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  “Hungry?” she asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  “I’m always hungry,” he admitted.

  “I’m a chef,” she blurted suddenly. She felt a little dumb for saying it in that way, like she was bragging.

  Joey didn’t seem to notice, though. His eyes just lit up. “Oh yeah? At a restaurant? Which one?”

  “Opening my own soon,” she said proudly. “In a week, actually.”

  He whistled low. “Well, how ’bout that? I’ll have to come check it out.”

  “You should do that.”

  “Rook!” came a holler from a few dozen yards away. “Get over here!”

  Joey looked down at Sara and smiled shyly. “Duty calls,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Chef Sara.”

  “Nice meeting you too, Hungry Joe.”

  He grinned and ran off, leaving Sara looking after him with a weird, unsettled feeling flowing through her.

  37

  Eliza

  Late at night on Saturday.

  Six sleepless nights. Six stress-filled days.

  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Clay. She saw his flat, emotionless gaze. She felt like a helpless little fish in the water. He was the shark, circling her, toying with her, waiting only for the right moment to strike.

  That was stupid, of course. He was just a man—an egomaniacal jerk and drug addict, to be more precise—not a shark. Not a predator. Not anything she had to fear.

  But she wasn’t scared for herself. She was scared for her daughter. Winter, who had been so angelic in the days and weeks after she and Oliver had their fight in Boston, had taken ten steps backwards. She was now a screaming whirlwind most hours of the day. It wasn’t helping Eliza’s state of mind any to see her daughter’s face screwed up in unhappiness. Nothing seemed to help; neither food nor change of scenery nor Eliza’s comfort.

  “Change of scenery” was a little bit of a misnomer, though, because Eliza had become terrified to go outdoors. She’d come home after the show where Clay showed his face, packed up her bags, and gone to a different hotel. That was all she could think of to do. She needed space—safe, clean, isolated space—away from Clay, away from Oliver, away from everything that seemed to be clawing away at her blissful happily-ever-after.

  She didn’t know what to make of the things Oliver had said to her after his show. How could he take Clay’s side, of all things? How could he say that she should give up her baby—whether for a minute or a day, it didn’t matter in the slightest—to that monster? She’d told him everything there was to know about Clay. Oliver knew what kind of man Clay was. And yet, he had still looked her in the eye and said that Winter needed her father.

  No. No, no, no. Screw that. Eliza was not about to let Clay so much as look at Winter ever again. She’d hire a lawyer, she’d flee the country, she’d book a rocket ship to the freaking moon before that happened.

  Oliver and the Fever Dreams had continued to play their shows around the city as the days ticked by. But Eliza and Winter went to none of them. They stayed hunkered down in their hotel room, taking turns crying with the blinds drawn low.

  It took Eliza a few days before she thought about calling someone and asking for help. It just wasn’t in her nature to reach out like that. She was her father’s golden child, wasn’t she? She knew how to handle anything life threw at her. She’d figure her way out of this, too, of course. But maybe it wasn’t advice that she was in search of. Maybe she just needed to hear someone say that everything was going to be okay. If someone else said those words out loud, perhaps she could believe them. Because saying them to herself in the mirror over and over every night wasn’t doing the slightest bit of good.

  Eliza’s thumb hovered over her mother’s cell-phone number in her phone. She had only to tap the screen to call. She was lying in the dry bathtub with Winter asleep on her chest.

  It was late, near midnight. Eliza felt guilty for considering calling at all. This was stupid. Her mother was in her sixties. The last thing she needed was her oldest daughter calling her because she had a fight with her boyfriend.

  But when she tried to let go of the phone, she just couldn’t do it. This time around, Eliza needed help. If she dropped this cell phone, she was just going to keep crying and panicking and having half-remembered nightmares about Clay coming to snatch Winter away. Days had passed already and her anxieties had not lessened one notch.

  For perhaps the first time in her life, Eliza Benson needed help.

  So she pressed call.

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  “Eliza, honey? Is everything okay?”

  She knew she’d woken her mother, and the guilt struck her as expected. But the fear and the sadness outweighed it.

  “Mom, I’m scared.”

  She started telling the story. Once she started, she didn’t know how to stop. It was like all those months ago when Oliver had first asked her what her story was at that bar in Nantucket. She’d started, and she kept going, unloading everything like her heart had been overflowing with words that needed to be spoken or else she might die.

  And her mother did what her mother had always done: she listened.

  When Eliza was done and the tears were dried up, they came up with a plan together. “You’re going to get your things,” Mom said. “You’re going to call a taxi to take you to the airport. And you’re going to take the first flight back here. You come home, okay, Eliza dear? You can always come home.”

  The next morning.

  * * *

  Eliza did exactly as her mother had said. She gathered everything up and repacked her suitcase. She fed Winter. Then the two of them met their taxi downstairs and were ferried away to the airport.

  Outside, it rained, as it had done for the past week straight. Every day, the rain had come harder than the day before. Now, it was like a solid object. The sound was near deafening. The puddles had become rivers had become oceans. It was raining like the world was ending.

  Eliza didn’t feel sad anymore. She felt hollowed out. She didn’t have any more tears to shed, for a little while at least. It felt good to be doing something—anything—to get away from this nightmare. Running home had worked the last time she needed an escape. She prayed that it would work this time, too.

  But it didn’t happen that cleanly. The airport was a madhouse when they arrived. People were everywhere, lines stretched and wound around like mazes, airline employees with little patience and poor manners looking frazzled and hassled. Winter took one look at the scene and promptly started bawling.

  Eliza felt like bawling, too. This was not how she’d pictured motherhood when she was a young woman. And it certainly wasn’t how she’d pictured this tour with Oliver going. She knew back then, when she’d first told Oliver yes, that she’d been taking a risk. She just never imagined that it would all implode so spectacularly.

  After Eliza had stepped into a corner and coaxed Winter into calming down, the two of them returned to the line for the ticket desk. An hour of stop-and-start queuing traffic later, she found herself at the front. “I need a ticket to Nantucket, please,” she said. “Plus a baby.”

  “You’re in luck. Only a few seats left.”

  Finally, a break. It was about time something worked out in her favor. She thanked the clerk profusely, checked in her bags, and took Winter through security to their gate.

  Here, too, was absolute mayhem. The storm was throwing everything out of whack. Runways were closed then opened then closed again. Bags were soaked or misplaced. People alternated back and forth between despondent and furious.

  Her flight wasn’t for a couple of hours, so she hunkered down in a quiet-ish corner and played with Winter. She was desperate to keep her daughter occupied and happy for as long as possible. The last thing she wanted was to be that new mom at the airport who couldn’t calm her baby down.

  She kept one eye on the monitor as the flights left out of her gate. She kept her other eye on the windows to the outdoors. Some
how, it seemed like the storm was getting even worse. This was a storm of biblical proportions, or at least that’s how it felt. Just relentless, pounding, driving rain. It looked like a gusty wind had picked up, too, judging by how the rain lashed against the windowpanes at irregular intervals. Eliza felt nervous. Please, just let me leave this godforsaken city, she begged silently.

  Fifteen minutes later, the information for the flight to Nantucket popped up at her gate. They were next. There was a plane taxied into the gate, which was fabulous news. Now, if they could just get this thing boarded and take off before the storm got even worse …

  Then came the public address announcement.

  “Due to the worsening weather, we have made the decision to temporarily ground all flights originating from this airport. We thank you for your cooperation and understanding. We are sorry for any inconvenience.”

  No. No no no! She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear her hair out. She wanted to stamp and throw herself on the ground like a little girl. Thank the lucky stars that Winter happened to be asleep, because Eliza had no doubt that she’d start wailing like a siren if she sensed the anger and desperation radiating from her mother.

  A crowd was descending on the check-in desk at the gate, but Eliza beat them all to the front. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she blurted to the airline employee working. “Everything’s grounded? How am I supposed to get home?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman said with an apologetic smile. “I know this is terrible, but the weather forced us into this position.”

  Eliza took a deep breath and counted to five before replying. “When is it supposed to clear up?”

  “Later this evening, perhaps. We can’t be sure.”

  She looked at her watch. It was eight in the morning.

  There was no denying that she was distraught. But her choices were limited. There was no going back into the city. If she had her way, she’d never go back to New York ever again.

  She wanted to go home. That meant, for now, that she had to wait.

  38

  Sara

  Brent and Sara had been on good terms since their last squabble, but there was a feeling of tension in the air again. Sara had a nasty feeling that they were headed for another knock ’em down, drag-’em-out screaming match.

  The rain wasn’t helping matters. It made everything ten times more difficult construction-wise. And it made their moods ten times worse as well.

  Sara pounded the flat of her hand on the door. She was drenched already from head to toe, and she’d only been locked outside for maybe twenty seconds. It was raining that heavily. She kept knocking as loud as she could.

  Finally, an eternity later, Brent came to the door from inside and pushed it open.

  “Gee, thanks,” she said sarcastically as she wrestled in a pair of paint buckets that had been left outside last week. “Nice of you to show up.”

  “In case you haven’t heard,” Brent replied, pointing up at the ceiling, “it’s a little loud, what with the rain and all.”

  “Did you think I was just taking a little stroll outside or something?”

  “I didn’t know what you were doing,” he snarled.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll just get a hall pass next time then,” Sara snapped. “Or should I have a tracking chip installed like I’m some house cat?”

  “You need to chill,” he said warningly. “I’m so not in the mood for this today. It’s not my fault that you picked a door that locks you out automatically.”

  “I expected my loving brother to open it if that happened!”

  “And I opened it, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but you sure took your sweet time doing it.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned away. “I’m not fighting with you anymore,” he said flatly. “This is stupid.”

  “No, what’s stupid is the fact that this rain will not go away. It’s been raining for like seven days straight. I’m over it. I cannot even begin to express just how over it I am.”

  “That, at least, we can agree on.”

  He turned back to what he was doing. Sara set the paint cans down with a thud and a sigh and looked around. Little Bull was coming to life before her eyes. They’d installed the bar top earlier that week with some help from a few friends. It was the centerpiece of the restaurant, a massive, lacquered wooden surface that looked into the open kitchen. Guests would be able to see the chefs at work. Those who wanted more privacy could choose instead to sit at any of the tables nestled into candlelit alcoves around the outer rim of the room. The recessed lighting overhead looked fabulous, casting warm shadows like abstract art across the floors. Just looking around got Sara excited.

  But the punch list was far from complete. It grew by the day, as a matter of fact. She was starting to worry that there wasn’t enough time. After a few false starts, they’d barely managed to get the deep freezer operational in time for the first shipment of goods to come in. That was one close call of many. Everything was being done just-in-time, actually. It wasn’t how Sara liked to live her life. Eliza had always been the planner, not Sara. But when it came to her restaurant, she wanted everything to be perfect. The stress was eating her alive.

  Today’s task was painting. They needed to get two more coats of paint on the interior walls between today and opening night next Saturday. Brent was about halfway done with one side. Sara was responsible for the other.

  She wrung out her shirt as best she could in the kitchen where the water could sluice away down the drains embedded in the floor. Then she returned to the main dining area, picked up the paint cans she’d rescued from outside, and went over to resume her work.

  They painted in silence for a while. Then, Brent started whistling. It occurred to Sara suddenly that she’d never heard a more annoying sound in her life. What was that song? Whatever it was, it was driving her nuts.

  She tried to just ignore it for a while. Things were already edgy between them. She felt bad about it sometimes—he was her brother, she loved him, and he was giving up so much of his time to help her, after all. She ought to be grateful. She was grateful.

  But she was also so sick of fighting with him. She had a vision for how things needed to be done, and Brent just seemed determined to butt heads with her over every little detail. Why couldn’t he see the dream in her head? She tried to explain it to him, to show him what she saw when she closed her eyes—the smells, the lights, the colors, the happy guests. He flatly refused to listen to that, though. Or so it felt to Sara.

  She dropped her paintbrush in the rinse bucket and walked over to see how he was doing on his half. “How goes it?” she asked, putting on her friendliest voice.

  “It goes.”

  She noticed something and frowned. “What paint are you using?”

  He answered without looking down at the can, “Cadet Blue. Just like you ordered.”

  Her frown deepened. “No, you’re not.”

  Brent looked at her, his face tight with barely suppressed irritation. “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not.” Sara snatched up the bucket at his feet and saw in horror that it said “Cornflower Blue,” not “Cadet Blue.” She shoved it in front of his face. “Look! What does that say?”

  Brent threw his paintbrush down onto the floor, flecks of paint flying everywhere, and jumped down off his step stool. “First of all, don’t talk to me like I’m a misbehaving kindergartner. Second of all, I picked up this can from the spot where we were storing the interior paints. If it’s the wrong color, it’s because you put something where it doesn’t belong. That’s on you, not on me.”

  “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking right now.”

  “Which part of that sounded like a joke, Sara?”

  “There’s no way you’re blaming me for this. You used the wrong color!”

  “Because you put it in the wrong place! How many times do I have to tell you—”

  “How many times do I have to tell you—”

&nbs
p; They were both hollering nonsense at this point. Hands jabbing into the air, faces going red with anger. Until Brent stopped and held up his hands, looking utterly disgusted. “Forget it,” he said. “Forget it. I’m leaving. I’m not putting up with this tonight.”

  “Don’t you—”

  But he was already marching towards the back door. He grabbed his keys and backpack on the way out, slinging it over his shoulder. Sara hesitated for only a split second before she stormed after him.

  The rain outside was relentless. She could barely hear herself as she yelled after him, “This is not my fault!”

  He yelled something back, but she couldn’t hear. She just stood in the driving rain and watched as he climbed into his truck, pulled out, and drove off, leaving her alone. Her anger grew and grew and grew until, suddenly, it just disappeared all at once, leaving no trace behind.

  She couldn’t be angry at him. She was just sad. This was going to fail. Her restaurant, her bold play, her impulsive attempt to plant her own flag in the ground and build something she was proud of, was going to fail before it ever got going.

  People would laugh at her. Gavin, Russell, everyone. We knew you couldn’t do it, they’d say. What ever made you think you were capable of something like this? She pictured Russell again with that girl at the bar. Her heart throbbed painfully. Then she thought of Gavin, and her fists curled.

  Her past was littered with mistakes and missed opportunities. And she was in the midst of creating another one.

  All she wanted to do was go sit in the half-completed heart of her restaurant and cry. After that, she’d figure out a game plan. She turned to go back inside.

  But when she grabbed the door handle and pulled, she realized with horror that it was locked.