Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (7 page)

I noticed Emily coming out of the storefront across the street, a large shopping bag hanging in the crux of her bent arm. Jilly was right behind her, empty-handed.

“Well?” Emily asked, skipping across the street to us. “What'd you decide?”

Mona glanced at me, trying to gauge what she should do. “We'll meet you there in a bit, we're just going to get something to eat first.”

“Cool. We'll see you there.” Emily nudged Jilly. “Come on.”

It wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for, and I couldn't believe that Mona didn't get it.

“Was it really that much of a sacrifice?” I wanted to know.

Mona stepped back, almost as if I'd pushed her. “We don't have to go, Kendra. Forget it, it's no big deal. I didn't know it meant that much to you.”

She didn't know? How could she not know? Mona knew me better than anyone else, and all of a sudden she couldn't take the hint when I said “All I wanted to do was hang out with you and get some ice cream?”

“You know, I should get home and wait for that package,” I said. “If I'm not there and the guy doesn't leave it, Lexi will be pissed.”

“You don't even want any ice cream?”

I shook my head. “Nah, I wasn't really hungry to begin with.”

“Okay.” Mona was quiet for a minute. “Well, call me as soon as you get out of work. And have fun.”

“Okay. You, too,” I told her, knowing that the odds were stacked in Mona's favor.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. I could handle the idea of getting up at six o'clock every morning to go to work when I thought Mona would be doing it with me. In my head I'd had it all figured out. We'd each take the VTA bus to town and meet up for the walk to the inn, each in our identical yellow polo shirts and matching shorts, which somehow we'd find funny rather than sorely lacking in originality. But facing a six a.m. wake-up alone? Knowing that Mona, who needed two alarm clocks to get up for school and still barely made it to homeroom before the bell rang, was still in bed and probably would be for the next three hours while I was taking orders for scrambled eggs? It made me want to pull the covers over my head and forget I ever went to see Wendy at the Willow Inn in the first place. And that I'd be spending my summer dressed in khaki.

I'd left the job interview with six pale yellow polo shirts embroidered with the Willow logo over my left boob, but I was responsible for providing the rest of my uniform. And the rest of my uniform was khaki.

“You can wear pants, capris, skirts, or shorts—as long as
they're not up to here,” Wendy had told me, pointing to a spot on her thigh about three inches below indecent. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

I liked Wendy Louis, the inn's new owner, partly because she seemed really nice but mostly because she seemed more than happy to hire me, someone with no experience, just because I came recommended from a cash register salesman. Lexi filled me in on Wendy before I went to see her about the job, which is how I already knew that Wendy had been involved with some tech start-up around San Francisco, and when it went public Wendy made more money than God. Lexi said things like that.
She made more money than God.
For a twenty-two-year-old, Lexi talked like an old person.

In any case, Wendy could have gone anywhere she wanted, bought houses all over the world, but instead she bought the Willow, even though she had absolutely no experience running an inn. Which is why I figured she was willing to give me a break, even if I also figured there were a million places I'd choose to go before I ended up on the Vineyard. Especially if I had more money than God.

But here it was, six o'clock on Monday morning, and I was no longer thankful Wendy was willing to take her chances with me. Instead, I was staring into my closet trying to choose between khaki shorts and a pair of khaki capri pants, and not exactly thrilled with either option.

It was still cool and damp, and it would be every morning when I left for work. The moist fog that rolled over the island at night like a blanket wouldn't burn off until the sun had been up for a few hours. Still, I knew by noon the temperature would be climbing past eighty and shorts would be the
call. I grabbed the shorts and a sweatshirt to throw over my polo shirt on the ride to the Willow.

I took the bus to Church Street and then walked up Main Street toward the inn. It was still early enough that the sidewalks were empty, free of shoppers who'd stop to look into storefront windows, completely oblivious to the fact that there were twenty other people behind them who weren't planning to wait while they decided whether it was worth the trip inside to check out the cute plaid sundress or straw hat or bedazzled flip-flops in size 2 that would look
so
cute on little Amelia.

It was funny that this was how the postcards always looked in the display racks, the empty streets and still water in the harbor. But it's not how summer people ever saw it in real life. It was just an illusion they bought into.

I always wondered how they managed to get those shots with the sun shining and an empty street. Mona once suggested they took those postcard photos in October, long after the tourists stopped coming but before the leaves started turning. We figured they Photoshopped out the few locals on the sidewalks. It was almost as if tourists wanted it that way, as if they didn't see us. They just saw a place to visit for a while and then leave behind.

On my way to the inn I only passed a few other people, mostly men who looked like they'd thrown on the closest pair of shorts and last night's T-shirt, carrying cardboard coffee cups and
Boston Globe
s under their arms. The fact that the T-shirts were emblazoned with
MARTHA'S VINEYARD
in big block letters were a dead giveaway. They were just visiting.

The Willow sits at the corner of Main and Tilton Way, just far enough up Main Street to be away from the traffic
and shoppers but close enough that you can walk from the VTA stop on Church Street in just under five minutes. Before Wendy bought the inn, the Willow was pretty run-down. Now the outside was painted a brilliant white, and the inside was decorated island chic with tones of blues and yellows on the upholstered plaid, floral, and toile overstuffed sofas, and on the thick rugs running along the polished hardwood floors.

A covered porch started off the front of the house and ran around to the left, making a giant capital
L.
And even though the white high-backed rocking chairs invited guests to sit and watch, they were empty this early in the morning.

I didn't go in the front entrance, instead following the
L
to the side door, where guests checked in at the front desk, which wasn't actually in the front at all but back by the first-floor guest rooms, tucked next to the parlor.

The reception area was empty, the guest book lying open with a silver pen positioned across the page. I peered down at the lined pages scribbled with names and hometowns. The Griffins from Cambridge, Bob and Jeannie Carter from Short Hills, New Jersey, a Cate Engles from New York City. I traced the names with my finger until I hit an empty line. From the sign-in dates on the page it didn't seem like the inn was fully booked yet, but it was getting close. In two more weeks the island would fill up, and by July Fourth it would be a totally different place, with
NO VACANCY
signs in front of the bed-and-breakfasts and hour-long waits to get a table at Alchemy.

“Wendy?” I called out, keeping my voice low. It wasn't even seven yet. There were four guest rooms on the first floor around the corner from the reception area, so I knew there were guests sleeping nearby, and even though it probably
would have gotten someone's attention, I didn't think they'd appreciate me dinging the silver bell on the front desk.

I walked past the empty sitting room toward the small dining area, following the smell of frying bacon. As I approached the white swinging door that I knew led to the kitchen, I heard what sounded like a pan hitting the floor.

“Anyone?” I ventured, poking my head inside. “Hello?”

Inside, I found not only the source of the noise, but an amazing sweet smell that made my mouth water and reminded me that I'd forgotten to eat breakfast.

“Kendra! Hi. Come on in, we're just getting ready for breakfast, so watch and learn.” Wendy was standing beside the butcher block island in the center of the kitchen while a girl kneeled next to her, wiping something off the floor. Wendy was completely unfazed by the mess making its way along the black-and-white checkerboard tiles toward her loafers. Instead of reacting, she continued folding linen napkins.

“Can you do me a favor and put the muffins on that platter over there?” She nodded toward the counter, where a thick, white ceramic platter awaited a dozen blueberry muffins cooling in a tin.

The girl sopping up the mess with a wad of paper towels wasn't familiar to me, but I recognized the girl standing to Wendy's left. She was a senior at Vineyard High when I was a sophomore. Shelby Dennis. I figured she'd recognize me, too, even if she didn't know my name, but she didn't even look up when Wendy spoke to me.

I didn't know the other four people either, a girl grinding coffee, a guy pouring cream into eight small silver pitchers, and two more girls filling trays with pastries. They had to be college students working on the island for the summer,
which was what I'd expected. I figured I wouldn't know anyone besides Mona, because the fact was, nobody in high school worked at a bed-and-breakfast. They did what Ryan was doing, renting bikes or babysitting or lifeguarding, jobs that at least had the possibility of fun and didn't require wearing the same wardrobe every day, unless you considered a bathing suit and whistle a wardrobe requirement. It wasn't like I really knew Shelby Dennis, and we definitely weren't friends, but at least it was something.

Shelby pointed to a bowl of slivered almonds. “Hand me that.” It wasn't so much a request as an order.

I reached for the bowl and passed it to her, then watched as she kneaded a ball of dough and patted it into a disk before cutting eight perfectly equal-size wedges.

“Looks like a pizza,” I commented.

Shelby didn't even look up at me. “Almond scones with tangerine curd.”

That would explain the orange jellyfish-like stuff sitting in a bowl on the counter.

“It's the first time we're serving them,” Wendy explained, then tossed me a crisp white apron, which I unfolded and tied around my waist. “Personally, I'm not a big fan of scones, but Shelby worked on getting the recipe just right and I have to admit, they're better than any scone I've ever tasted.”

“I don't know.” Shelby shook her head as she covered the wedges in egg whites with what looked like a paintbrush. “I think I may still play with the recipe. Didn't you think they were a little dry?”

Wendy pointed her whisk at Shelby. “She's never satisfied. They were perfect.”

“Shelby, there's already a couple at table five.” The girl finished grinding the coffee beans and poured them into the coffeemaker. “They say they just want some decaf to start but they'll probably be ready to order soon.”

Shelby nodded and sprinkled the slivered almonds onto the dough. “No problem.”

Shelby was obviously in charge, and not only because she was the only one besides Wendy not wearing the requisite yellow polo shirt. Shelby had on what looked like a man's undershirt, her hair held back by a red bandanna tied like a kerchief, and jeans. She wasn't looking to score with one of the college guys working at the inn for the season, that's for sure. If it wasn't for the short brown hair sticking out from the back of her bandanna, she could have even been mistaken for a boy.

“We're out of vanilla,” Shelby announced to no one in particular.

“We can't be.” Wendy reached for the cabinets above the counter and started opening and closing doors. “I could swear I had vanilla in here somewhere.”

“I've looked everywhere.” Shelby hadn't opened a single cabinet door or pulled open a drawer, but her statement was so matter-of-fact, so filled with confidence, I don't think any of us doubted her.

“Can you live without it?” Wendy asked.

“I'm making brûléed orange French toast,” Shelby told her, as if that in and of itself was an answer.
Of course
she needed vanilla.

Wendy pointed to a blue ceramic cookie jar on the counter next to the stove. “Kendra, go in the petty cash and run to Stop & Shop for some vanilla.”

“Only pure vanilla extract,” Shelby instructed. “No imitation crap.”

Maybe I wasn't the best person to be picking out ingredients for Shelby's recipe, having been in the kitchen all of seven minutes. There were four other servers who I figured had to be way more qualified. Still, I wasn't about to plead my case. I didn't know how to make brûléed orange French toast or which table was number five, but at least I knew my way to Stop & Shop.

I walked over to the cookie jar, untied my apron, and left through the swinging door.

“What are you doing here?” I hadn't expected to see anyone I knew at the grocery store this early, much less someone who didn't even have a job to get up for.

Henry held up a bagel with cream cheese. “Grabbing a little breakfast.”

“A little early, isn't it?” I scanned the aisles for a sign that would point me in the direction of vanilla extract.

“Are you kidding me, I was up at four thirty.” Henry came over to where I was standing in front of a pyramid of green apples stacked at the end of the produce aisle. “I was over at Seth's Pond, caught a few trout. Yesterday I didn't catch anything for the third day in a row.”

“Do you go every morning?”

Henry took another bite of his bagel and for a minute I almost thought of asking him for a bite. I was starving.