Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (31 page)

“Kendra, what's wrong? Where are you going?”

“I can't explain now. Can I take the truck?”

“Sure, it's out on Tilton.” Henry dug his hand into his pocket. “But I can drive you, Kendra.”

He held out the keys and I took them. “I have to do this alone, Henry. I'll call you later.”

I turned and ran out of the dining room. I had to get to Mona before she saw that painting and hated me forever.

Mona's back was to me when I walked into the barn, but she must have heard my footsteps, because I was barely inside before she whipped around to face me.

“Why'd you call and ask me to come over to the inn today?” she asked, her voice shaking. I noticed her hands clutching either side of one of the large canvases, and even though the canvas faced her so I couldn't see the front, I had a feeling which painting Mona had gripped between her fingers.

“I wanted to fix things between us,” I answered, and walked over to her. It was the truth, even if now the truth seemed so wrong. In the beginning I thought that finding
Mona's dad would make things right again. She'd believe that I understood. She'd realize that best friends don't just change on each other. But that's exactly what best friends do, because it's what people do. But best friends accept that things change, and they accept that just because their friend changed, it doesn't mean she's still not the best. “I needed to talk to you.”

The backside of the canvas in Mona's hands was blank and raw, its ragged edges stapled to the wooden frame. The only indication that there was anything on the other side was a splatter of dark brown paint along the right-hand side about twelve inches from the top.

Mona moved her hand up until it covered some of the splatter, almost as if she could feel the stands of hair against her skin. “Really? That's all? You had no other reason?”

I didn't offer an answer and Mona didn't wait for one. Instead, she turned the canvas around to face me.

“It's him, isn't it?”

As I stood there, watching Mona's fingers grip the edges of the canvas, the edges of her father's dark hair caught between her grasp, there was nothing I could say.

“Isn't it?” she demanded, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. “This is the man at the inn.”

Still I was silent.

“I can't believe you knew and you didn't tell me,” she breathed, and then, before I knew what was happening, she let go of the picture and her right hand was coming toward my face.

Instinctively, I flinched, jerking my head back away from her hand. Only instead of a fist, Mona showed me her thumb and forefinger, spaced barely an inch apart. “He was this close
to me,” she gasped, her hand shaking. “This close and you said nothing, Kendra.”

My eyes moved from Mona's hand to her face, her eyes dark and cloudy, the sparkle gone.

“Answer me!”

“I couldn't say anything,” I told her, the words finally tumbling out. “What was I supposed to do, just point to the guy and introduce you to your dad? What do you think would have happened?”

Mona dropped her hand from my face and stepped back. “What did
you
think was going to happen? You were the one who called me, Kendra. What was your grand plan?”

I glanced down at the canvas Mona held steady in her left hand and tried to come up with an answer. The truth was, I didn't have a grand plan. Maybe in the beginning I did, when I thought finding Mona's dad would make a difference, would make Mona remember I was the one who'd been there with her all along. Or even make her remember where she'd come from, where she really belonged.

“I don't know what I expected to happen,” I admitted. “I just called you.”

Mona shook her head at me. “I'm having a real hard time believing you, Kendra.”

“Why? Why would I intentionally call you over and then not tell you?”

Mona stared at the canvas in her hand and bit her lip. “Do you really think it's him?” she asked, her voice practically a whisper.

I nodded. “I do.”

“I always thought this was what I wanted, you know? To meet him and talk to him and do whatever it was daughters do with their dads.”

“I know.”

Mona laid the canvas against Poppy's ride-on lawn mower and moved over to the couch, where she fell back onto the cushions and buried her face in her hands.

I followed her and sat down. “I just didn't want to be the one to do it, Mona. I guess it's that simple. I figured it was up to you to decide whether you wanted to meet him.”

“Why do you think she painted him? Did she know who he was all along?”

“I don't think so. I think she'd just lost Poppy and had married Malcolm and she was just trying to figure out where she'd been. I'm sorry, Mona. I am, really. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You know, I always thought finding him would make everything simpler, like I'd finally found the holy grail. Instead, I feel like it would just make everything that much more complicated.”

“It probably would. But I guess one thing we've both discovered this summer is that no matter how hard you try to keep it simple, life gets complicated.”

Mona pointed over to the canvas lying beside the mower. “Do you know who he is? His name?”

I shook my head. “I don't. But I can find out, if you want me to.”

It would be simple enough. I knew what time he checked out and that he used a credit card. All I had to do was go through the receipts and find his name. Only I didn't want to know Mona's dad before she did. It didn't seem fair.

“Do you want me to?” I asked Mona.

She didn't answer right away, she just stared at the canvas. “I don't know,” she finally answered. “I always thought I did, but I just don't know anymore.”

We continued to sit there in silence for a while, the only noise coming from the birds outside on the trees. I could have left Mona there to think by herself, to figure out whether she wanted to get an answer, to end her wondering. But I didn't want to leave her, so I sat there and watched the shadows move along the wall as the morning sun moved high into the sky.

This was my fault and I needed to find a way to fix it.

“I have an idea, Mona, if you're willing to listen.”

She didn't say no, so I forged on. “This is what you've waited for all these years and I'd hate for you to look back and regret not doing something. I'm not saying you have to do anything now, or even ever, but wouldn't you at least like to have something he never had—a choice?”

“So what are you saying?”

I told Mona my idea and she agreed it was the best option. She handed me her cell phone and I dialed the inn and asked to be transferred to the kitchen.

“Hey, Shelby, can you do me a favor?”

“Here.” Shelby handed over a plain white envelope with the Willow Inn logo in the upper left corner.

“Thanks.” Mona took it from her and then held the envelope in the palm of her hand as she ran her finger over the sealed edge. Only instead of slipping her finger inside the flap and tearing it open, Mona folded the envelope and tucked it into her shorts pocket. “Do you have any of those lemon squares?” Mona asked.

“I do,” Shelby answered, and the three of us headed to the kitchen.

When I got home I went straight to the computer. This time when I typed the words into the search bar I wasn't trying to solve a mystery. I wasn't hoping a picture of Mona's dad in a Windbreaker and sailing gloves would pop up on my screen and answer all the questions she'd asked for so long. I really had no idea what image my search would pull up; I just hoped it came with a phonetic spelling so I could finally know how to say it.

As the results appeared I clicked on the first link and there it was, a plate of small chocolate and caramel cookies. I scanned the page until I found the definition, even if there was no phonetic spelling, and wrote it down on a sticky note I found on the desk in the kitchen and slipped it into my pocket.

“Remember when I asked you if you knew what mignardises were?” I asked Shelby the next morning as she greased a baking pan.

“Yeah.”

“Well, mignardises is from the old French word
mignard,
meaning pretty or delicate.”

“And this is important because . . .?”

“Because they're small chocolates or confections that are served for dessert.”

“And?”

“And I think that it's probably something a chef should know. Among other things.” I held out the brochure I'd been keeping behind my back. “Here.”

“What's this?”

“Something I picked up for you in Boston. It's a cooking school.”

Shelby turned the brochure over and read the address. “Boy, you'll do anything to get people off this island, won't you?”

“It's not about leaving the island, Shelby. It's just about doing what you're meant to do. You're meant to cook.”

“I already cook. I make the best damn lemon curd squares you've ever tasted.”

“You're right. But can you spend the rest of your life making lemon squares?”

“People love them.”

“You make great lemon squares, Shelby. You make the best lemon squares I've ever tasted.”

“You bet I do,” she agreed.

“But you could do that in your sleep. It's not a challenge anymore. Besides,” I added, deciding to take my chance, “there are two other meals in the day, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Shelby didn't argue; instead, she opened the brochure and glanced at the pictures. “It looks nice enough, but you know these things”—she waved the brochure at me—“they always make places look better than they are.”

“In this case you can believe me, it's just as nice in real life.”

“What about the Willow?” she asked as the other servers came into the kitchen and put on their aprons.

“You can always come back, right? Maybe you can even convince Wendy to serve something besides breakfast.”

“Kendra!” My mom wiped her chin on her shoulder and then leaned over to kiss me. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Lexi.”

“She's in the back taking inventory, but in about ten minutes the lunch crowd will begin, so get her while she's free.”

I hadn't been in the deli since the day Henry took me there. That day all I could see was my family behind a counter taking orders, my sister spreading mayonnaise on a bulky roll, Mona's friends looking at me. But now that I took the time to look around, all I noticed was what a great job my family had done getting the space together. It wasn't a place where tourists barked orders and complained when they got light rye instead of dark. It was my sister building a future for her and Bart, and my parents pitching in to help.

“Here.” I handed Lexi the paper plate covered in tinfoil.

“What's this?” She took the plate and peeled the foil back halfway. “Who made these?”

I let the bell on the front door finish jingling before answering. “My friend Shelby. She bakes.”

“Are they for me?”

“You, Mom, Dad, Bart, whoever wants one.” Another jingle chimed from the front.

Lexi broke off the corner of one of the lemon squares and put it in her mouth. “That's amazing,” she cooed, licking the powdered sugar off her fingers before calling out to the front counter, “Hey, Mom, come here. You have to try this.”

A third jingle sounded through the deli and my mom stuck her head into the doorway separating the deli counter from the back room. “Not now, the lunch crowd is starting.”

Lexi went over to the sink and washed her hands. “Thanks for the treat.”

I reached for the dish towel hanging from a hook on the wall and tossed it to her. “No problem.”

“Well, I guess we'll see you at home.” She stood there waiting for me to leave. “I should really get out front and help.”

I took Lexi's lead and followed her out front to the counter, where she placed the uncovered plate of lemon squares next to the register for my mom.

My mom was ringing up orders while Bart and my dad prepared sandwiches, wrapping them in white butcher paper before writing the contents on the outside in black marker.

A line six deep was waiting to place orders and my dad and Bart were working as fast as they could to layer the meats, cheeses, and spreads on the pieces of bread lined up before them.

“Want some help?” I asked Lexi.

“That's okay, Kendra, you can go.”

“Really, Lexi. I want to.”

She stopped moving for the first time since I'd arrived. “Well, okay. Why don't you work the register so Mom can help with the orders.”

I stepped into place behind the register and prepared to ring up my first order.

“That will be $19.65,” I told the customer.

“And one of those, please.” He pointed to the plate of lemon squares.

I was about to tell him they weren't for sale when Lexi stepped in and said, “They're two dollars apiece.”

“Why don't you give me two, then. They look delicious.”

Lexi tore off a piece of butcher paper and wrapped two squares. “They are.”

Less than a half hour later all ten lemon squares were gone, and two hours later I finally got to sit down for the first time.

“That's crazy,” I said to no one in particular.

“Thank God,” Lexi answered. “With Labor Day around the corner we need to make sure we keep our volume up every day. Hey, tell Shelby that I'll place a standing order for her lemon squares if she's interested.”

“I'll pass that along, but I don't know how much longer she'll be around.”

Maybe Shelby would decide to go to cooking school, or maybe she'd stay on the island, cook at the Willow Inn, and continue to perfect her lemon squares. And, while three months ago I would have thought that second option was the worse of the two, now it didn't seem so bad. In fact, there was no saying she wouldn't stay and end up becoming the next Mrs. Fields, her lemon squares in every grocery store.