Whisper Beach (19 page)

He clicked through a few photos. “Here's what they looked like when we first planted them.”

Van leaned closer to study what appeared to be little sticks rising up from the plowed earth.

“And this is the next spring.” He brought up more photos.

Straight rows of wire trellises supported by evenly spaced metal posts. The area between the rows neatly mowed. And the fledgling vines, trained to grow up and along the wires.

“They've really grown,” she said enthusiastically. Then shrugged. “At least it seems that way to me.”

“They're doing well. Knock wood.” Joe knocked on the desk, and so did Van. This gained her a smile from Joe. They looked at each other until Joe pulled away. “And here's last fall.”

Another photo at another angle, some close-ups, then one with a young man and woman with a little girl.

“Is that Maddy?” Van asked.

“Yeah. They were back visiting for Thanksgiving.”

“They? Is that her family?”

“Yeah. She and her husband and little girl, Josephine—we call her Josie. Three Joes and a Josie all in the same house for the holidays is little confusing, but hey. They live in Ohio. They're expecting another kid pretty soon now.”

Van smiled, but she suddenly felt very sad. And that was something new for her. She'd long ago accepted that she would never be a mother, nor a part of this boisterous family.

“Are you doing this by yourself or did your dad finally come around?”

“Drew and Brett decided to invest. We made a chunk of change on the land we sold. And a big chunk of it was divided up among the kids.

“Dad retired, but the Enthorpes have never been a family to sit back and do nothing. He was alternating between watching television and walking out to look at the condos where the pastures used to be. Granddad was cranky and . . . well, they were driving Mom crazy. Since they've gotten involved they still make fun and complain, but they're happy as two clams.”

He changed the photo again. An aerial shot of the acreage planted in grapevines.

Van could see the stream where they sometimes fished and swam and that edged the planted land. She remembered the fun they'd had. And eating early dinner with the family, a loud raucous crowd, who had opened their home to her. As Joe spoke she could see them all as if she were back there again. And she realized that those dinners and afternoons had been the bright spots in her life and she'd forgotten them in the overpowering memory of unhappiness.

“Thanks.”

Joe frowned at her. “For showing you photos of our vineyard?”

“Yeah.”
And your enthusiasm, your family and your love for them, and for being an anchor for me when I didn't even appreciate it. Didn't even know I should appreciate it.

“If you'd like to see it, I mean up close and personal, I'd love to take you out there. I'm sure everyone else would love to see you. Dad was just asking about you the other day.”

“Thanks. I'd like to see it, but I— I'm only here for another ten days and I promised Dorie I would help streamline the Crab.
It hasn't come into the twenty-first century. She's trying to do it all herself, and she's got overlap, and inefficiency, and well . . . It could take me some time.”

“Is that why you're back? To help Dorie?”

“No. I was on my way to— I'm on vacation. I stopped to attend Clay Daly's funeral and the rest as they say is history.”

“Dorie suckered you into staying?”

“Pretty much. I didn't see you at the funeral.”

“I couldn't make it.” He clicked out of the file; the screen went dark.

Van wondered about the abrupt change in mood.

“You do restaurants, too?”

“Too?”

Joe shrugged. “I've seen your website.”

“Yeah. I own and operate a sort of glorified cleaning, housekeeping, scheduling service. You know, for busy Manhattan families that don't have time to do it all, and aren't organized enough to do what they do efficiently.”

“Basically you fix people's lives.”

“You mean since I didn't do such a great job with my own?”

He lifted her right out of the chair, held her arms, and looked directly into her eyes. “You did a great job with what you had. I always admired that. If you— I understand that you had to get away, but I'm sorry if I was the thing that drove you to it. I'm still not sure what I did, but if it was me, I'm truly sorry.”

“Joe, it was just circumstances. Better left in the past where it belongs.”

“So you aren't going to tell me?”

“Joe, I don't—” What could she say? She didn't remember? That was a blatant lie. And he would see through it; he'd always
seen through her. That had been what she loved most about him; he saw through her and still liked—loved—what he saw.

She shook her head, suddenly having trouble trying to talk. She took a breath. “It's all good. And I'm so glad things are working out with the vineyard. But I have to get back.”

They both seemed to realize that he was still holding her in place. He let go, she stepped back.

“So you're staying at Dorie's.”

“Isn't that a kick?”

“Suze, too?”

Van nodded. Reluctantly smiled. “And Dana, too, though please don't tell Bud.”

“How do you think I got these bruises?”

“Not a drunken brawl.”

“Well, I can't speak for Bud and the other bozos that joined in, but last night I was wearing all those beers, not drinking them.”

“I just—”

Joe put his fingers over her mouth. “Jumped to the wrong conclusion. I know. It's okay, as long as the next time you jump, give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Deal.”

“So it's like a weeklong slumber party over there, huh?”

She gave him a look that made him laugh.

“That is so you. I'm glad to see that hasn't changed.”

“Unlike the rest of me?”

“The rest of you seems fine, too. I just wasn't at my best last night.”

“Neither was I.” Van walked to the door.

He opened it for her. “So if you finish up with the Crab and change your mind about going out to the farm, or if you just want to have coffee or something, give me a ring.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She stood there for a second, indecisive. Did she just walk away? Shake hands? Give him a quick hug?

He walked down the steps ahead of her, and she followed him. He opened her car door and she climbed in, smiled at him before he closed the door.

And she drove away.

I
S THAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND,
J
OE?”
O
WEN GOT UP FROM WHERE
he was sitting on an empty boat trailer, reading a comic.

“She used to be.”

“She's really pretty.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“How come she's not your girlfriend now?”

“I'm not really sure,” Joe said.

“Man, that's stupid. I think you oughta get her back.”

“Thanks for the advice, man. You finish untangling those dock lines?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what do you say to some lunch?”

Since Joe didn't keep food in the marina office, they drove into town to a local place known for its homemade pasta and thin crust pizza. Ordered enough food for three grown men.

Owen dug in with enthusiasm.

Joe thought about Van.

He'd left it in her court, whether they would see each other again or not. Maybe not the smartest move he ever made. But he wasn't totally sure he wanted to see her again.

No, that was a total lie. If the glimpse of Van he'd had today was the real Van, then he absolutely wanted to see her again.

But if this was just her on good behavior because Dorie had made her come apologize, something he wouldn't put past their old friend, then he should let it go.

He didn't want to open up only to be shut down again. He sure didn't want to go through that kind of heartbreak again, and he doubted she did either.

So he'd wait and see. He had plenty to do, maybe too much, to embark on reawakening their relationship. As intriguing as the idea was, his work came first.

Next week he'd shut down Grandy's for all but the regulars who could fend for themselves. Grandy would be home from the hospital by then, and though he wouldn't be able to run the marina, he'd be able to oversee the daily operations. Maybe he could get Owen to come after school to help.

The kid was a good worker and needed the money. From the little Owen had said, Joe knew he lived with his mother and two younger sisters. And that he'd started going out with the clam diggers to help stretch the limited food budget.

Labor intensive, illegal, and too late for a kid to be staying up if he planned on getting to school the next day. He could be a big help to Grandy.

Joe would move back to the farm, concentrate on the vineyards, get the grapes harvested. Start the fermentation process. Then he'd start planning for the next leg. Tasting room and possibly a store. He'd have to run the numbers. And of course it was dependent on the success of the crop.

He wondered if Van could help him with the setup of the winery. Then he dismissed the idea. She had her work in Manhattan, which she was probably anxious to get back to. He doubted she would be interested in a little winery and vineyard.

Then again, she was helping Dorie fix up the Crab.

But would she be interested in helping him? And would he want her to? There was a time when he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with her, but that was a long time ago. He hadn't found anyone since that he'd felt as strongly about, who he could share everything with—until today. The first couple of times they'd met this past week, it was awkward and she was definitely standoffish, but today . . . today it had almost been like before. Her enthusiasm fueled his. He'd fallen into an energy he knew so well, so quickly, that it was kind of scary. And she had, too.

Was it worth it, just to see where it would go? Was he totally self-destructive to take the chance? Was this a temptation that was bound to fail?

“Are you going to eat that last ravioli?”

Owen had finished his spaghetti, and a slice of pizza. Joe pushed his plate across the table. The kid would make himself sick eating so much, like a feral puppy afraid his next meal might not come.

Joe motioned to the waitress, a woman he'd known in high school, and ordered a large spaghetti and meatballs to go.

D
ORIE LOOKED AROUND
the kitchen of the Blue Crab as she sipped a cup of coffee. The whole thing needed upgrading. But she didn't have the money to do it right. Hell, she didn't have the money to do squat. If Van really did take on the Crab as a project, Dorie would have to pay her on time.

At least she'd put aside enough money to keep going for a while in spite of Harold's sticky fingers. He had his shortcomings, but, hell, he'd never raised a hand to her.

Dorie chuckled. She'd like to see him try. Harold wasn't so bad in the scheme of men. But it seems the older he got, the more discontented he got. She kept thinking he would run out of steam, but no.

Though she had to admit, she'd rather have him running around than sitting around after work watching television and doing nothing. They suited each other.

But the kitchen, on the other hand, had fallen to an all-time low. It was clean—hell, she didn't need health department problems—but the appliances were old. And she'd accumulated so many utensils and God knows what, she wouldn't even know where to begin sorting and organizing them.

But Van did. She'd walked right in wearing that little bikini, taken one look, and started moving things around. The kitchen already looked less cluttered, and with a little effort they would uncover enough counter space to accommodate an extra food prep station or two.

Yep, the Crab could be hopping again instead of hanging on by its pincers, crowded in the summer, closed down in the winter. Most people were still willing to wait for a table, wait for the food. Dorie had kept prices down by hiring a young waitstaff, giving work to a few kids during the summer while keeping her costs down.

But she should have been giving them more training. And she should have kept a few regulars on for the transition between seasons, not have to hire new staff at the end of the summer.

The waitress-busboy collision in the restaurant yesterday was one of many.

Dorie crossed to the fridge and pulled out two boxes of frozen
lobster ravioli. Another large container of her vodka sauce. It was homemade; she knew because she'd made it herself. The ravioli weren't, but they were from a local market who made them.

She tried to buy local when she could. She chuckled. She always had. Now it was something called “artisan.” Restaurants charged an arm and a leg for some of the same food Dorie served for a song.

But local markets were becoming scarcer with the loss of one family business after another: Whitaker's poultry farm, Fratelli's bakery, the Enthorpes' dairy farm. She'd been through three different vegetable markets and finally had to move to a wholesaler for most of her produce.

It couldn't be helped, but it wasn't the same. Maybe she should let Van go on to her vacation and call it quits.

V
AN HAD THOUGHT
she would apologize and leave, and that would be that, one more loose end tied up. But she didn't feel like she'd tied anything up, except maybe tying the past more firmly to the present, and maybe her feeling for Joe tied firmly to the man.

For a few minutes looking at the photos of the vineyard, it was almost like she'd never left. So much so that she was almost surprised when she stood up from the computer and they were in the present again, both a decade older.

Dangerous,
she told herself. Dangerous to pretend that things could be the same again. Besides, it was impossible. Why was she even thinking like this?

Dana was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when Van returned to the house.

“Back so soon?”

“It's not so soon.” Van gave her a sour look, though she wasn't even annoyed, more amused than anything. “Catching up on current events?”

Dana held up a pencil. “Looking at the want ads.”

“Any luck?”

Dana returned Van's sour look. “Same old, same old.”

“Dorie said you studied to be a manicurist.”

“Yeah. Dumb work, looking at other people's fingers for a living. But better than waitressing where you're on your feet all day.”

Van thought she should be thanking her lucky stars to even have that, instead of grousing, but that was Dana, through and through.

“Suze back?”

“Nope. But Dorie said if you're interested, she's over at the Crab.”

“Great. Want to come?” Van asked as an afterthought.

“No . . . thanks.” Dana went backing to perusing the want ads.

Van went upstairs to get her notes, then headed over to the restaurant.

She found Dorie standing in the middle of the kitchen, not exactly a queen surveying her kingdom, but close.

“You're back. How did things go with Joe?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

Van went over to the coffeepot. “They went fine, but don't get any ideas. How old is this coffee?”

“Fresh. What kind of ideas?”

“You know the kind where Joe and I fall madly in love again like some Hallmark movie.”

Dorie snorted. “I wouldn't be so naive. But did you get along?”

Van poured herself a cup of coffee. “Yeah, actually we did.” She sat down, looked across the table at Dorie. “It was kind of freaky,” she admitted. “For a few minutes it was like it always was. He showed me photos of the vineyard. It's amazing, he's amazing. He just reinvented himself when the dairy farm closed.”

“See, you still have a lot in common.”

Van raised her eyebrows. “Reinvention.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Van shrugged. “He said if I'd like to go out to the farm and see the family, to call him.”

“That boy.” Dorie heaved a huge sigh. “Are you going to call?”

“No. I mean, it just seems like something that doesn't need to be done. I'll be leaving in a few days, and that will be that.”

“And is that how you want to leave things? ‘That will be that'?”

“Dorie, I left things long ago. It's senseless to revisit them or open up any old wounds.”

Dorie stopped. “Yours or his?”

It took Van a second to respond. “Both, I guess.”

“Huh.”

“I— I still like him, I think. He's growing grapes. I know he must have been pretty devastated when they had to sell the dairy farm. It's all he ever wanted to do. Run the family farm. But he figured out what he could do and did it. You have to admire that.”

“Yes. you do. What about the rest of him?”

“The rest of him?”

“Don't be dense.”

Van smiled, though she didn't want to. “That's nice, too. It always was. Now do you want to talk about the Crab or not?”

“Hit me with it.”

“I've made some notes, mainly about traffic patterns and cosmetics. Come out to the dining room.”

Dorie pushed open the swinging door.

“First problem. Do you know how many near misses you have every time a new order comes up?”

“Don't tell me. I just cross my fingers and hope for the best.”

“That is not a plan. We'll have to look at a few options and choose one to implement.”

“I don't have a lot of money to spend on upgrades—or to pay you for your expertise.”

“Really, Dorie? After all you've done for me, you think I'm going to let you pay?”

“Damn straight you are. But the other . . .” Dorie trailed off.

“We'll come up with a compromise. Now here is another major problem, but an easy fix. I was working from memory, so this is not exact.” Van showed Dorie the schematic of the dining room she'd gridded out on the graph paper. “I know you're strapped for table space in the summers, but you have to lose at least one of these tables by the kitchen door. You'll save on glasses and china. It's just a matter of time before someone trips and dumps food all over the diners sitting there. If we move this one and reroute waitstaff and bus staff, we should be able to . . .” Van explained her ideas for making the transporting of food more efficient.

“Why didn't I think of that?” Dorie asked as she stood at Van's shoulder comparing the drawing to the current arrangement of tables.