Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (26 page)

“Sit down,” my mother instructed, pointing to the love seat, while they chose the sofa, moving the pillows so they could sit next to each other and present a unified front.

“Can you tell us what that was all about today in the deli?” my dad asked, although it wasn't really a question.

I didn't know where they wanted me to start: at the beginning, which would explain why Mona and I were hardly friends anymore, or with me and Henry, which would clarify why Mona was so pissed, or with my defense for not telling them I was going to Boston to spend the night with Henry.

I decided to cut right to the chase. “I went to Boston for the night with Henry. Mona wasn't there. We were alone.”

My mom shook her head at me, obviously not happy. Then she yawned, covering her mouth with her hand, and I felt vaguely better, like this wouldn't be that bad.

“Nothing bad happened, if that's what you're worried about,” I told them. “Honestly.”

My dad looked at my mom and then back to me. “That's not what we're worried about.”

If they weren't afraid that I was having sex with Henry in Boston, then what was the problem? “Then what's wrong?” I asked.

I could feel Lexi hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, eavesdropping.

“Look, we know the deli's been taking up most of our time and we haven't been around for you much this summer, but we didn't realize how out of touch we were with what's going on in your life.” My mom stood up and came over to the love seat, pushing my legs aside so she could sit next to me. “It was obvious to us that what happened today was about way more than you going to Boston for the night. So what's really going on?”

“It started with Mona,” I began, and all of a sudden it all flooded out of me, how deserted I'd felt, how alone I'd been until Henry and I started spending time together. Coming home to an empty house every night, feeling like everyone
but me knew their place, knew where they belonged, whether it was Mona with her new friends or the family with the business, or Henry, who managed to figure out how to seamlessly exist in two different worlds without so much as a moment of self-doubt.

“Even Shelby,” I sniffled, and my mom wiped my nose with her sleeve.

“Who's Shelby?” my dad asked, following my train of thought until I started talking about someone he'd never heard of before.

“This girl I work with. She dropped out of school and even she knows what the hell she's doing.”

My mom sat there, rubbing my back. “You know what you're doing, Kendra. You've always known what you're doing.”

I looked over at her, and even though her face was distorted through my tears, I could tell she meant it. That she believed it. And I wanted to believe her, I really did. A few months ago I would have. But I didn't think I knew anything for sure anymore.

“So are you feeling any better today?” Henry was bending down trying to read the labels on the bottom shelf of the baking aisle.

I shrugged. “Maybe, a little. My parents weren't as pissed as I anticipated.”

“Well, I had it out with Mona when she got home.”

“So she knows all about us?”

Henry nodded and broke off a piece of the blueberry muffin he'd been carrying around the store.

“Does she hate me?” I asked, trying to determine whether
Shelby wanted the dark brown sugar or the light brown sugar.

“Hey, you're not the only one here, remember?”

“Yeah, but you're her brother. She probably yelled at you and got it out of her system, but when it comes down to it, she has to live with you.” I decided to buy both sugars, just in case.

“I think she just needs a little time, but she'll get over it.”

Maybe, maybe not. “Hey, what's with the muffin? No bagel today?”

“I like a good muffin every once in a while to keep things interesting.”

Henry followed me to the checkout line, finishing his muffin as I paid. I'd never seen him eat anything but a bagel for breakfast. It was weird all of a sudden, after all these weeks, to think I finally knew Henry and he still managed to throw me a curveball.

“Shelby makes amazing muffins,” I told Henry on our way through the parking lot to the truck. “She makes this one that tastes part orangey, part lemony. She calls it a sunshine muffin.”

And that's when I saw it. It was so clean and sparkly and red, there was no way I could have missed it.

“Where's the truck?” I asked Henry.

“Something's wrong, it keeps stalling out. I took Malcolm's car instead.”

“Malcolm let you take this fishing?” I pointed to the red Porsche parked diagonally across two parking spaces. “Don't you think that's a little overkill?”

“It's not like I had a choice. Besides, who cares?”

“Come on, who are you kidding, Henry?” I could hear my
voice rising, feel the same pit growing in my stomach I'd had at the restaurant with Tom. I could name plenty of people who'd care, and their names were Emily and Devon and Jilly.

“I don't know what the problem is here, Kendra. It's a car.”

He couldn't honestly believe that. “It's a Porsche, Henry.”

By this time, we'd reached the car and Henry had the keys out. “Just get in, Kendra. It's not a big deal. I promise I'll have the truck back in a few days, if it bothers you that much.” His voice was almost testy, and it was a tone I'd never heard from him before. I didn't like it.

“Fine.”

The tan leather seats were firm and smooth compared to the lumpy cloth of the truck. I buckled my seat belt and Henry reached for the stick shift, putting it into first gear. I hadn't even known Henry could drive a manual car.

“So what did Shelby think of the brochure for the school?” Henry asked, revving the engine as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“I haven't given it to her yet.”

“Why not?”

“I forgot it at home.”

“I bet she's going to think it's pretty cool,” he said. “Maybe she could still get in for the fall semester.”

As Henry talked about the school, and how great it would be for Shelby, all I could think about was that I was driving in a car that cost as much as some people's homes. It was so perfect, with a conditioned leather dashboard and spotless floor mats with the Porsche logo embossed in the center. How could Henry even drive this car without feeling completely self-conscious? It was all I could do to keep from watching
the cars coming at us from the opposite direction, watching their expressions as they checked out the red car.

A car like this may have been fine back in Boston, for the girls he went to school with, maybe even Mona at this point for all I knew. But it wasn't for me, someone who'd step out of the immaculate interior of the Porsche and go to work in a kitchen.

“Stop.”

Henry looked at me. “What?”

“I said stop, here, on the corner. I'll get out here.”

“Why? The inn's just up there,” he reminded me, slowing the car down. “What are you doing?”

“I can walk the rest of the way, thanks.” I leaned over and kissed Henry on the cheek before snapping open my seat belt and jumping out of the car.

“I'll call you later, we'll make plans for the weekend,” Henry called after me, but I was already running down the sidewalk toward the inn, the Stop & Shop bag bouncing behind me.

The next day was Saturday, but by this point in the summer, even Saturdays at the inn were pretty smooth. Every room was booked solid, but there were usually only two or three guests waiting for breakfast right at eight o'clock. The rest made their way to the dining room in drips and drabs, taking the opportunity to sleep in rather than follow the scent of Shelby's latest creation downstairs. As much as you'd think Shelby would appreciate the break, she almost seemed annoyed when the number of meals served was less than the number of guests staying over, as if somehow their need for sleep was a reflection on her cooking.

“Big plans tomorrow?” I asked, helping Shelby arrange
a plate of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and double fudge brownies for the sideboard for afternoon snack.

“I was thinking of trying a new recipe I found for berry crisp.”

“So on one of your two days off you're still going to cook?”

“What can I say, I actually like what I do. What are your plans?”

Henry had left a voice mail on my cell phone, not to mention a few messages at home, asking me the same thing.

“I think Henry and I are going to do something,” I told her, but even I noticed I didn't exactly sound thrilled about it.

If she did notice, she decided to ignore it. “Well, have fun.” Shelby untied her apron and slipped it over her head. “I am officially out of here.”

“I didn't hear from you so I made other plans,” Henry explained when I finally called him back. “Some of Malcolm's friends invited us to go over to Nantucket on their boat. Want to come?”

When I didn't say anything, Henry continued talking. “Why don't you come with us? It'll be fun, we'll go to the beach and hang out.”

The beach. I'd hardly gone to the beach at all this summer. “What time?”

I made plans to meet Henry at two o'clock at the yacht club. “You don't have to wear anything
special for the yacht club,” he told me before hanging up.

And as I stood there holding the phone, I wondered if it even occurred to Henry that the thought of wearing something special for the yacht club had never even crossed my mind.

It was past two by the time I got into Lexi's car and headed toward town. I should have left earlier, I knew that. It wasn't like I was doing anything important at home, but I left just late enough to almost ensure I'd miss the boat. To give myself an excuse not to go to the yacht club, not to hang out on Malcolm's friends' yacht with people who'd probably notice I was still wearing last year's bathing suit.

Already traffic was lined up at the intersection, waiting to merge onto Main Street. There was no way I'd be able to find a parking space and make it to the yacht club before two thirty. Everyone was probably asking Henry why he invited me in the first place.

It wasn't even worth it. I reached into my purse and grabbed my cell phone, dialing Henry's number while making sure I didn't hit the car in front of me.

I got his voice mail. “Hey, it's me, traffic is really bad, don't wait, just go ahead without me.”

And then, instead of turning around and going home, I hung a right and headed toward Shelby's house.

“What are you doing here?” Shelby asked when she answered the door. “I thought you had plans today.”

“They changed,” I told her, and followed her into the kitchen. “I thought I'd stop in and see how that berry crisp was coming.”

“The berries and sugar are still thickening in the saucepan, and then I still have to put everything in the pan and bake it, so it's going to be a while.”

“That's okay,” I told her, and sat down on the stool at the kitchen counter. “I can wait.”

Sitting there in her kitchen, it was hard to believe that two months ago I was afraid to even look at Shelby, much less go out of my way to spend the afternoon with her. And it wasn't like she'd changed that much since my first day at the inn, because there were still mornings she'd smack my hand with the spatula when I reached for a slice of bacon. But I'd learned Shelby was less about grand acts of friendship and more about subtle gestures—the picnic she made me and Henry, her offer to fill in for me so I could go to Boston—that spoke volumes. With Labor Day just a few weeks away, Henry would be leaving the island, but I could count on Shelby staying. She probably had no idea how much I needed that right now, to know that come September she'd still be there, planning her menus.

“So how's the hunt for the mystery man coming along?” Shelby asked.

“Not so good. I tried to find some stuff about the regatta at the library but came up empty-handed. The yacht club wasn't much help either. I think the search has officially come to an end, not that it matters anymore anyway.”

“I guess that's the way it goes.” Shelby sat down on the stool next to me.

“Hey, Shelby, do you know what mignardises are?” I asked, not even sure if I was pronouncing the word from the culinary school brochure correctly.

Shelby shook her head. “Nope. Should I?”

“No, probably not.” I told her. “Now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it's gorgeous out and we're inside slaving over a hot stove.”

“
We're
slaving?”

“Let's go to the beach.”

Shelby glanced at the timer on the stove. “We have another fifteen minutes.”

“So as soon as the timer goes off, let's go.”

“It's already three o'clock.”

“All the better, the tourists will be gone and we'll have the beach to ourselves.”

We decided State Beach over South Beach, and I was right: for the most part we had the beach to ourselves. Shelby brought two beach chairs from her house and we planted them in a prime spot near the water.

It was a little weird seeing Shelby in a bathing suit, a blue tankini with yellow polka dots. And just because we were at the beach, it apparently didn't mean she left the kitchen behind.

“Pass me that.” She pointed to the backpack beside my chair and I handed it over to her.

“Anything good in there?” I asked, peering into the backpack for a glimpse of some entertainment.

“
Gourmet
or
Bon Appétit
?” she offered, holding them up on display for me to choose.

“I think I'll just people watch,” I answered, and she put away the
Bon Appétit
.

This late in the day there weren't many people to watch, so instead I looked down the sand toward the inlet, where the water emptied into the salty marshes of Sengekontacket Pond. I watched as over and over again groups of guys climbed out of the water onto the rocks and then made their way up to the bridge, where they'd climb over the side and
jump off into the inlet, repeating the same cycle again and again.