The Way Home (7 page)

Mac and cheese? It took Avery a moment to wrap her mind around the idea. Of course, there would be families on vacation out here, but she had never thought of this café as a likely destination for children. Still, she had better rethink things if she didn't want their parents to wind up at the Tuna. It had been a mistake not to list anything for them on the menu.

“That's four covers, Avery,” Gena reminded her when she hesitated. “We've only had six other customers so far—”

“All right, all right. I can do mac and cheese, no problem.” Avery pressed her fingers to her forehead, a little habit she had when she felt stressed. As if to hold the top of her head on when it felt like it might blow off. In a calmer voice she added, “We have some fresh orecchiette and artisanal—”

Gena had handed in the order for the table to Teresa and was already halfway to the kitchen door. “It's better if I don't know. Just use a lot of butter and make sure the cheese isn't too smelly.”

“Coming right up,” Avery promised.

Teresa started on the appetizers—steamed mussels with white wine and garlic, and an arugula salad with goat cheese.

Avery set some water to boil for the pasta then stared into the big steel fridge, wondering which of the exotic cheeses she had on hand was the least odoriferous.

“There's a block of cheddar, down on the bottom. Behind the cream,” Teresa told her.

Avery eagerly dug out the modest New England staple, good old cheddar cheese. She set in on the work table, sliced off a chunk, and dumped it in the Cuisinart to shred it.

“Is this your secret stash of cheese?”

Teresa laughed. “It's Jack's. Whenever you go out on an errand in the afternoon, he makes himself cheeseburgers.”

“Cheeseburgers? Where does he get the burgers?”

“Oh, those are hidden back in the cold box somewhere. You'll have to ask him if you want to borrow a few.”

Avery sighed. “It is slow out there . . . but not slow enough to add burgers to the specials.”

A short time later, all the dinner orders were filled and no new customers had come in. Avery felt so fidgety back in the kitchen, she put on a clean white jacket, smoothed her hair—which she wore in a tight bun while cooking—put on a dab of lipstick, and walked out in the café. It was half past nine. Customers filled exactly four of the tables. She doubted that many more would come in now, but she walked from table to table with a welcoming smile and asked how everyone had liked the food.

Some reactions were very enthusiastic, some merely polite. While she got more yeas than nays, to Avery, a tepid response felt crushing. A young couple in the corner, holding hands across the table, was the most lavish with their praise. Avery could have stood listening to them compliment her all night.

And almost did. Until Gena gently tugged her away. “Sorry, but you told me to say something if you were hovering.”

“Was I hovering? I thought I was just . . . chatting.”

Gena gave her a kind but doubtful look. “No one wants to go out for a romantic evening and have the chef sitting in their lap.”

“Oh, right.” Avery could not argue with that. She was trying to advertise her café as the perfect setting for a romantic dinner. She didn't want word to get around that food was good but the chef stalked the patrons. Not good.

As she headed back to the kitchen, she caught a bit of conversation from an older couple. “—the place is pretty, but the halibut was a little dry,” the husband complained.

Dry? Aren't you the guy who asked me to hold all the sauces and broil it to smithereens?
Avery wanted to whirl around and counter. But she just bit her tongue, waiting to hear what the wife said. “I liked my dish. You just ordered the wrong thing.”

Avery took a breath, feeling vindicated. Until the husband said, “If you ask me, we should have gone down the street to Larry the Tuna.”

“The
Lazy
Tuna,” his wife corrected him.

The husband waved his hand at her. “Whatever.”

Avery stomped into the kitchen, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She stood at the steel work table, taking deep breaths to calm her nerves.

Teresa came up beside her and rested a hand on her back.

“What happened to you? Did you eat a bad scallop or something?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” Avery marched to the cold box. “Tell Gena not to let table three get up from their seats. Tell them the chef is sending out a special dessert.”

A few minutes later, Avery watched from the window in the kitchen door as the Lazy Tuna fans practically had a duel with their teaspoons as they devoured their complimentary dessert.

“They loved it,” Gena reported gleefully. “They practically licked the dish and left me a huge tip.”

“Score one for our side,” Avery murmured.

“What did you send out there?” Teresa had been busy at the stove and hadn't seen the final masterpiece.

“The Chocolate Barge, with an extra-heavy cargo of praline ice cream and bittersweet fudge sauce.”

An admiring light shone in Teresa's small blue eyes. “Like I always say, when the going gets tough, the tough get cooking.”

“Two orders of the Barge,” Serena announced coming into the kitchen.

“I got this,” Avery told Teresa. It was a small victory, but something.

But at half past ten it seemed apparent that no one else was coming to dine at Café Peregrine. Serena asked if she could go. She had a date in town. The rest of the crew stayed, and by the time they shut the door, Teresa had cleaned the entire kitchen. Jack set to work sweeping and mopping the floor while Gena stored the dishes and glasses that had gone through the dishwasher.

Avery was busy making everyone a late dinner. She had told them to order anything they wanted from the menu. Most restaurants gave their staff an evening meal, but it was usually an inexpensive dish, pulled together by the chef with odds and ends.

Even though the night had not gone as planned, everyone had worked hard. Avery still wanted to celebrate her first night in business; she wouldn't let this rough kickoff bring her down.

She was sure that the tips had not been great for her servers. Some waitresses would complain, but Serena and Gena had not said a word. She hoped business would be better as the weekend went on, for their sake, too.

They gathered at the big steel work table sitting on high stools, and Avery served them each her special dishes. They talked and laughed and finally relaxed, joking again about the couple who gobbled their dessert and the kids who had curious looks for their gourmet mac and cheese.

It was half past eleven, but Avery could still hear music from the Lazy Tuna. She was sure her staff could hear it, too, and felt grateful when no one mentioned it.

* * *

C
LAIRE
was not sure how long she had been out on the porch knitting. She just wanted to finish the sleeve of the sweater she was working on. The murmur of the baseball game floated out through the sitting room window, a pleasant, summer night sound, blending with the dull, distant beat of the ocean waves and the soft hum of insects out in the darkness.

On her way up to bed, she passed the sitting room and peeked in. Jamie was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep, his head propped on a throw pillow, his long legs dangling to the floor.

His cell phone was on his chest, buzzing and vibrating. She was surprised it didn't wake him.

She didn't mean to breach his privacy, but it was not hard to read the short message that lit up the screen.

Yo dude. Hanging @ Ryans Pub.

Where is $$$ U owe me, man?

 

Claire took a quiet step back. She shouldn't have looked at the message; it was private. But now that she had, it made her wonder.

Jamie owed someone money. Was that why he'd come out here—seeking help but not being able to say it outright? Either way, it seemed that this job had come at a good time for him for more reasons that one.

If he were in the city tonight, he would be carousing with his friends, not sleeping in front of the TV at half past ten. She wondered if he would get bored out here. That could be a problem. Claire caught herself. She couldn't fret over every little possibility. He was an adult and could figure things out for himself.

She leaned over and roused him. “Come on, Jamie. You ought to go up to bed.”

He nodded sleepily, then slowly sat up, grabbing his phone before it fell on the floor. He rubbed his face and yawned. “I can't believe I fell asleep . . . I'm beat.” He rose to his feet, then signalled good night with a dazed wave. “See you tomorrow,” he said, walking wearily out of the room.

Claire said good night, then shut off the television and snapped off the lamp. She wondered if Jamie had second thoughts now about the job. Maybe he had not expected it to be so much work.

She hoped he would give it a chance. Life at the inn had its own distinct rhythm, like the tides and the sea. An ebb and flow of activity, hectic and slow times. It was never hectic forever, nor did the quiet last very long.

When she passed his room, no light came from under the door and she heard soft snoring. She would have to see how he acted tomorrow. It was his decision to stay or go. If this didn't work out, it would be hard for her, but either way, Claire knew she would have to accept it.

Chapter Five

C
LAIRE
barely caught sight of Avery over the weekend. She was a slim, fleeting shadow, first one out in the morning and the last one back at night. But on Monday morning, Claire noticed it was almost ten and Avery still had not come down from her room.

Liza was in the kitchen, pouring herself coffee. The guests were starting to check out, and she had to get the bills prepared.

Once the guests were gone, Liza had some errands to take care of in Boston with Daniel and would be gone the rest of the day.

“Do you think Avery is all right? She's usually up by now. Maybe she's not feeling well,” Claire said.

“She must be tired. Even if the café didn't do a huge business, opening weekends are very stressful.” Liza spoke from experience. It wasn't too long ago she had suffered from those same jitters.

“I guess you're right. I won't bother her. I was just concerned. I'll save her some breakfast,” Claire added.

Avery had not given them too many details, but from the little she did say, Liza and Claire gathered that the café, had not been mobbed with customers. They offered words of encouragement, but Claire could sense Avery's disappointment and even her doubts about choosing the island.

Claire was sure the young chef was tougher than she looked. After a second breath, Avery would dust herself off, put her apron back on, and head back into the ring.

Sometimes it seemed to Claire that the art of getting along in life was a series of adjustments. Like steering a sailboat. You could never reach your destination in a straight line, but only by tacking this way and that, adjusting to the wind and current and whatever else God, in His wisdom, saw fit to toss at you.

Jamie was outside, preparing a stretch of fencing for a fresh coat of paint. Claire watched his progress from the window. He was scrubbing the old paint off with a wire brush and seemed to be doing an able job.

Jamie had given his best effort at all the tasks asked of him over the weekend and had also been very helpful with the guests, seeming eager to keep them comfortable, running in and out of the dining room, or up and down the stairs, for their many requests.

Claire was pleased to see him making such a sincere effort. Liza seemed pleased so far, too, which was a relief. Claire felt so responsible for Jamie doing well. She knew she had put Liza in a difficult spot by asking her to hire him.

“I can't believe I slept so late. You must be serving lunch by now.” Claire turned from the window as Avery walked into the kitchen. Though she was dressed in brown cargo pants and a pale blue tank top, she still looked half asleep.

“Not quite. You've been working hard. You needed the rest. Your body will tell you what you need if you listen to it.”

“I think it's telling me now I need some coffee. Lots of coffee.” Avery met Claire's glance with a small smile as she lifted her mug for her first sip of the day.

“I hope it said you need some food, too. There's some scrambled eggs and bacon in that covered dish. And banana muffins on the table, too.”

Avery took a seat at the kitchen table and helped herself. “This looks good, thanks. I didn't eat much last night. When I'm cooking I smell the food so much, I lose my appetite.”

“Really? I can't say that's ever happened to me. With all my taste tests, I must be eating my full share in the kitchen. Then I sit at the table and have even more,” Claire confessed.

“That is the danger of being a professional cook, too much tasting. Though we get plenty of exercise.” Avery took a bite of muffin, closing her eyes a bit to savor the flavor. “I hope I get a chance to watch you in action sometime, Claire, and learn some of your recipes. I've heard you're a real genius with shellfish.”

Claire laughed at the compliment. “Oh, my. I don't know about that. My cooking is pretty basic New England fare. But I would be happy to have you in my kitchen anytime, Avery. That would be my pleasure.”

Avery had been at the inn for a full week. She hadn't had time to search for a rental on the island. Liza had generously offered a long-term rate for the next few weeks, so Avery wouldn't have to worry about her housing situation on top of getting the café off the ground.

Avery rose and brought her dishes to the sink. “That hit the spot. I'll see you later.” She picked up her big handbag and slipped on her sunglasses. Claire wished her a good day and continued cleaning the kitchen.

By eleven, the inn had emptied out. The Rapps and Foxes were the last group to go, and Mr. Rapp stopped by the kitchen to say good-bye to Claire.

“You let me know when that cookbook is ready. I have friends in the publishing business.”

He had teased her about this before. Claire smiled and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Rapp. I haven't forgotten about your connections. I'll let you know when I get to work on it.”

She was sure he wasn't serious, though it was a very nice compliment. She had no idea how she would ever go about writing a cookbook, even if she wanted to. Practically all her recipes were in her head and the few that were written down were so stained by kitchen spills and annotated with changes over the years, they were all but illegible. It would be a real winter project, she decided, one that could take a few winters.

She had just finished mopping the floor when Liza appeared in the doorway. She looked very pretty in a floral-print cotton dress and sandals with heels, her long hair gathered at the back of her neck. Her city outfit, Claire called it.

“Well, I'm off. I guess we won't be back until late. Don't worry about dinner for me,” she added.

“All right. If anything changes, just call.”

“I will. Jamie can help you clean the rooms upstairs,” Liza added. “Where is he?”

“He's out back, working on the fence behind the barn. He's been scraping all morning.”

“Oh, right.” Liza looked as if she had forgotten about telling him to paint the fence. “He can leave that to help you inside. It will be too hot to paint out there in a little while anyway.”

“Right.” Claire had thought of that, too. Besides, he couldn't go much further with the job. They needed to buy some primer and paint.

After Liza left, Claire headed outside to check on his progress. A blue, cloudless sky arched above and the sun beat down mightily, though it wasn't even noon, searing the back of her neck as she walked across the property.

She found Jamie scratching at the pickets with the brush in one hand, the other hand holding his cell phone to his ear. He was laughing at something and didn't notice her standing there. Suddenly he turned. He clicked off the call and stuck the phone in his pocket.

“A friend of mine has a problem. I had to talk to him a minute.”

“All right.” She looked over the pickets. He had missed a few spots. More than a few. But the new paint would cover it, she reasoned.

“I couldn't get it all. I did the best I could.”

He looked at her, wondering if she was going to tell him to do the work over, she guessed. He wasn't even a third of the way done. She thought he would have gotten further by now.

“As long as you get most of it off. The primer will help. But you need to press the brush harder,” she added, doing a patch herself to demonstrate. “Maybe some steel wool would help. We can get some when we run into town later for the paint. Liza went into the city today. You and I will clean the rooms. You can get back to this later.”

“Fine with me. It's getting hot.” Jamie put his hat back on, then followed her back to the house.

Cleaning the guest rooms was not the most appealing job, she thought, but it was easier than scraping paint off a fence.

It was past one o'clock by the time they'd cleaned all the bedrooms and baths. They had decided not to stop for lunch until they were completely finished. The beds were left without sheets but Claire liked to make them up right before the room was occupied, so the linens smelled fresh.

While Claire fixed lunch—ham and cheddar sandwiches with fresh coleslaw on the side—Jamie carried several baskets of laundry down to the laundry room in the basement.

Claire sliced a juicy tomato to top the sandwiches. It seemed like such a luxury to have a young man around doing the heavy work. That alone was worth an extra salary.

Jamie gobbled his sandwich then made himself another.

Claire realized he must have been hungry awhile and had agreed to put off lunch to be a good sport. She would think twice before suggesting that idea again. She was nibbling the last of her own sandwich while he ate dessert, chocolate cream pie left over from Sunday night's dinner.

“This pie is awesome. It's the best thing I ever ate in my life.”

Claire laughed at the extravagant compliment. “You said the same thing about the coconut cake on Saturday,” she reminded him.

“Right. I did. But if I had to live on a desert island, I'd take the pie,” he said decisively.

Claire had never considered that scenario, eating pie on a desert island. “That would be more like a dessert island,” she quipped. “Given the choice, I'd take the pie, too,” she added. “And I'd also take some utensils, so I could cook with the local ingredients.”

Jamie smiled at her reply. “When are we going to town? I need to pick up some stuff at the drugstore. If we can make a stop,” he added.

“I suppose we could.” Claire sipped her iced tea. She had been thinking of skipping the trip to town today. She really wanted to get started on the laundry. She didn't like to leave it piled up down there, even for a day.

But what would Jamie do all afternoon? He had finished the jobs on Liza's list, and Claire didn't know what else needed fixing. She could ask him to clean the porch and water the flowers, but that was really busywork and the flowers shouldn't be watered until late afternoon when it cooled down.

“I can go myself if you're tired,” he suggested. “I could get the paint and my stuff and stop at the grocery store for you.”

He had misread her delay in answering. But that wasn't a bad idea. He could go by himself. Why not? If she stayed here, she could have all the wash done by suppertime.

“I think that would be all right, if you promise to drive safely. The Jeep can get a little finicky in the heat. But it's a short trip. It shouldn't bother you.”

Jamie listened attentively. She could tell he was hiding a smile. He was feeling a bit cooped up, she guessed, and eager to be on his own awhile. He had been here since Friday and hadn't even had time for a swim.

While he washed up and changed his T-shirt, she made a list of items they needed at the hardware store and a few at the supermarket. Then she drew a map of Cape Light's Main Street on the back. She handed it to him along with the car keys and a fifty-dollar bill. “If you get lost or can't find something, just call me.”

“Okay, see you later.”

Claire watched out the window as he started up the Jeep and turned onto the main road. She suddenly had second thoughts about letting him take her vehicle. Just nerves, she told herself. She hoped he was a careful driver. She hadn't even stopped to ask him about that. But what would his answer have been? Of course he would say he was a good driver.

Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later. Running errands was part of his job. Claire reminded herself that so far, at least, he had done nothing to suggest he wouldn't be trustworthy and responsible.

* * *

A
VERY
worked alone at the café on Monday. Her staff did not arrive until four, and they wouldn't open for dinner until five. She busied herself with small jobs, checking how much food they had used up over the weekend and tallying up the receipts.

The guest checks from the grand opening weekend added up to a number that was anything but grand. Avery knew she had to do better if she was going to stay in business. She put the accounts aside, poured herself a big glass of iced water, and went outside to get some fresh air.

She sat at an umbrella table and watched the ocean awhile. The beachfront was quiet today, almost deserted compared to the weekend. Not that the beach crowds had helped her much. She really had to figure out a way to take advantage of that.

She leafed through a pile of local newspapers and circulars, trying to see where she could place more advertisements. Maybe people were just reluctant to try a new place that hadn't been reviewed. She had to work on bringing reviewers in, too.

What's Happening in Cape Light?
seemed like a good place to start. It was a large-format tabloid. A scenic shot of Cape Light Harbor was featured on its glossy magazine-type cover. The magazine was published every week and was mainly advertisements—ads for everything from B&Bs to renting Jet Skis—with a few articles about local attractions and lists of things to do in the area.

Avery cut out a few ads from other restaurants that caught her eye. She was so intent on cutting neatly, she didn't notice Mike walk up to the table until he was peering over her shoulder.

“Looking for a place to eat out? There's a cute café that just opened on Ferry Street.”

She turned and forced a smile. It would have been funny if the café had done better business over the weekend. As it was, his gentle joke felt like a jibe.

“Hi, Mike. What's up?”

“Nothing much. How are you? Recovered from the weekend?”

She glanced at him, then back at the magazine. “I was surprisingly tired, considering how little business we did.”

I might as well say it before he does,
she reasoned.

He looked at her a long moment. She hoped he wouldn't gloat. “It's the stress. No question,” he said finally.

He sat down at the table without waiting for an invitation. He looked very attractive today, in a white polo shirt and sunglasses. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair. He looked tan and fit, without a care in the world. She wondered what he did for a living when he wasn't running the Tuna. Maybe he was one of those restaurant owners who did so well during the summer, they took the fall and winter off and wandered around the Caribbean or Hawaii.