Sea Fever (5 page)

”

“We don’t do catering here,” Antonia said from the kitchen pass

through. “We do take-out. You can look at a menu, if you want.”

35

“Oh.” Jane’s face folded. “Well . . .”

“How many guests?” Regina asked.

“I don’t— thirty?” Jane guessed.

She could do thirty, Regina thought, excitement balling in her

stomach. She could feed thirty in her sleep. As long as Margred was

willing to help with setup . . .

“Talk to the inn,” Antonia said. “The chef there can probably—”

“I already asked at the inn. Forty-eight dollars a head, he wanted,

and twenty-four for the kids, who won’t eat nothing but chocolate milk

and hot dogs anyway.” Jane’s soft jaw set. “I want you to do it.”

“So take a menu,” Antonia said.

“Frank really liked those little crab cakes,” Jane said to Regina.

He liked her food.

She could do this.

“Why don’t I put together some ideas,” Regina said, already

reviewing appetizers in her head. Tiny grilled sausages, that was easy, the

kids could snack on those. Canapes. Maybe Gorgonzola with pine nuts?

Roasted asparagus wrapped in proscuitto. “I can come by the shop later to

talk. Thursday?” Thursdays she worked from lunch until close.

“Thursday morning?”

Jane beamed, relieved and triumphant. “Thursday morning, sure.”

“Is that all you came in for?” Antonia asked.

“Yes.” Jane’s gaze flickered to Margred; lingered on her belly. “And

to see the bride, of course.”

“Well, you’ve seen her. Now we can all get back to work. Real

work,” Antonia added as Jane sailed out the door. “Not wasting time and

money on Frank Ivey’s birthday party.”

36

“It’s not a waste,” Regina argued. “We can do this. We should do

this.”

“We don’t have the staff,” Antonia said.

It was an old argument, one that started the headache behind

Regina’s eyes. They alternated shifts now, mornings and evenings, both

of them on during the lunch and dinner hours and Margred filling in as

needed. “So we hire—”

“Who?” Antonia demanded. “Anybody around here wants to pick up

extra cash, they get it working the stern on a lobster boat, not scrubbing

pots or serving fancy appetizers.”

“I’m just saying if we developed a catering business— just as a

sideline—”

“We’re doing fine without it.”

“We could do better.”

Catering would give her a shot at an expanded menu and more

flexible hours. But what Regina saw as an opportunity, her mother saw as

a rejection of everything she’d worked for.

“So now you have a problem with the way I’m running the

restaurant?”

Regina’s head pulsed. “No, Ma. It’s business.”

“It’s bullshit. Jane only came in here because she wanted to get a

good look at Maggie.”

Regina pressed her fingers to her temples. “What the hell are you

talking about?”

“I’m only telling you what everybody’s saying.”

“What are they saying?” Margred asked.

“You got married in an awful hurry. Could be—” Antonia paused

uncharacteristically before plunging on. “Some folks figure you must be

pregnant.”

37

“Ma!” Regina protested. Instinctively, she looked for Nick, but he

was upstairs in the apartment they had shared since she brought him

home over seven years ago: four small rooms with mice in the walls and

the smell of garlic and red sauce rising from the kitchen below.

“What?” Antonia folded her arms across her chest. “Some people

find out they’re expecting, they actually marry their baby’s father.”

Oh, God. Regina’s stomach flipped. Like this day didn’t suck

enough already. Her mother couldn’t be content with control of the

restaurant, she wanted to run Regina’s life as well.

“That doesn’t always work out, Ma.”

Antonia glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Margred had abandoned wiping tables to listen.

“You married Dad,” Regina said. “How many years did he stick

around? Two? Three?”

“At least you got your father’s name.”

“And that’s all I got. You did everything. Paid for everything. He

never even sent child support.”

“Oh, and you did so much better with the Greedy Gourmet.”

Frustration closed Regina’s throat. She had never been able to talk

with her mother. They were like oil and vinegar, too different to ever

really understand one another.

Or maybe they were too much alike.

“I wasn’t—” She worried the crucifix around her neck, running it

back and forth along the chain. “I’m trying to tell you I appreciate—”

“He loved us. Your father. Not everybody is suited for island life,

you know.”

38

“I know. Jesus.” Did they have to exhume every skeleton in the

family closet just because Jane Ivey liked Regina’s crab cakes better than

her mother’s lasagna? “I’d leave myself if I could.”

The words hung on the air, thick as the grease smell from the fryer.

The hurt on Antonia’s face registered like a slap.

Regina bit her tongue. Crap.

“I am not pregnant,” Margred said.

Antonia rounded on her. “What?”

“You wanted to know. I would like a baby. But I am not pregnant

yet.”

“You want a baby?” Regina repeated. Remembering her own

pregnancy with Nick, when she was sick all the time and tired and alone.

“You just got married.”

Antonia snorted. “Married, hell. They only met six weeks ago.”

Margred arched her eyebrows. “I was not aware of a time

requirement. How long must you know someone before you can get

pregnant?”

Memory swamped Regina: Dylan, plunging thick and hot inside her,

filling her, stretching her. Her own voice panting, “I could get pregnant!”

Her stomach dived. Oh, God. She couldn’t be pregnant. Nobody

could be that unlucky twice.

The bell jangled as a scarecrow figure pushed through the door: thin

face, thin beard, dingy fatigue jacket over layers of sweatshirts.

Not a camper, Regina thought, despite the backpack. The patina of

wear, the dirt embedded in the creases of his knuckles and his boots, went

deeper than a week in the wild. Homeless, maybe.

“Can I help you?” Antonia asked in a voice that meant something

else. Get out. Go away.

39

Regina understood her hostility. World’s End barely had the social

services to support its own population. The ferry and the local businesses

catered to residents and tourists, not the homeless.

The man eased the pack from his broad, bony shoulders to thump on

the floor. “I’m looking for work.”

“What’s your name?” Regina asked.

“Jericho.”

“Last name?”

“Jones.”

At least he had a last name. It was more than Margred had offered

when she first came to work for them.

“Do you have any restaurant experience, Mr. Jones?”

His gaze slid to meet hers, and her breath caught in her throat.

Alain used to say the eyes were windows to the soul. Regina figured

it was mostly a line to get her into bed, but she knew what he meant. You

could tell when nobody was home. But this guy . . . His eyes were

crowded, haunted, like he had too many people living in his head,

jockeying for position at the windows.

Schizophrenia? Or substance abuse?

She didn’t care so much if he was using. Half the staff at Perfetto’s

had been addicted to something, booze or drugs or the adrenaline rush of

a perfectly performed dinner service. But she wasn’t hiring a crazy to

work in her mother’s kitchen, her son’s home.

“Call me Jericho,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “Fine. Do you have any—”

“I washed dishes in the Army.”

Margred set her bus tray on the counter. “You were in the Army?”

40

He nodded.

“Iraq? My husband was in Iraq.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Regina bit back a groan. Of course he would say that. He’d probably

say anything to get a job. Or a handout.

“We’re not hiring,” Antonia said.

Margred frowned. “But—”

Jericho picked up his pack. “Okay.”

That was it. No resentment. No expectations. His flat acceptance got

under Regina’s skin, made them kin somehow.

She scowled. Nobody should live that devoid of hope. “You want to

wait a minute, I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said.

He turned his head, and she did her best to meet that haunted, eerie

gaze without a shudder.

“Thanks,” he said at last. “Mind if I wash up first?”

“Be my guest.”

“He trashes the restroom, you clean it up,” Antonia said when the

door had closed behind him.

“I can clean,” Margred said before Regina could bite back.

Antonia sniffed. “We can’t feed everybody who walks in off the

street, you know.”

Regina was irritated enough to shove aside her own misgivings.

“Then maybe we’re in the wrong business,” she said and stomped into the

kitchen to make the man a sandwich.

She glanced up the apartment stairs as she passed. Nick had already

visited the kitchen to eat his lunch and punch holes in the pizza dough.

But she could call him down for a snack, shoo him outside to play.

41

Summers were tough on them both. School was out while the restaurant

stayed open longer hours. Nick had more free time, and Regina had less.

This summer for some reason had been worse. Maybe because Nick

was old enough now to chafe at his mother’s restrictions. Regina rubbed

the headache brewing between her eyebrows. She ought to be able to

sympathize with that.

“Nick,” she called.

He was silent. Sulking? She’d been short with him this morning.

Distracted, Regina thought guiltily, trying hard not to remember

Saturday night, Dylan’s hands on her hips as he moved slickly, thickly

inside her.

No sex on the beach was as important as her son.

“Nicky?”

The restaurant cat, Hercules, meowed plaintively from the top of the

stairs.

No answer.

Worry trickled through her. On World’s End, everybody knew

everybody’s business. Every neighbor kept an eye on every child.

Children here still walked to the store alone, still played on the beach

unsupervised.

But she’d told Nick and told him not to leave the restaurant without

telling her. There were dangers on the island, too, tides and fog and

gravel pits, teenagers in cars, strangers with haunted eyes . . .

Regina shook her head. She was not letting herself get spooked

because some homeless guy had wandered into the restaurant looking for

work and a sandwich.

Knowing she was overreacting, however, didn’t keep her palms from

sweating, didn’t stop her heart from hammering in her chest. When you

were a single mom, there was nobody to share the worry or the blame,

and so the worry doubled and every danger assumed terrifying

proportions. Anything could threaten this tiny person who had been

42

entrusted to you, your baby, your son, the best and most inconvenient

thing that had ever happened to you, and it would all be your fault

because you hadn’t been taking care, you hadn’t wanted him in the first

place.

Regina forced herself to release her grip on the stair railing. Okay,

definitely overreacting now.

She opened the unlocked door to their apartment, Hercules darting

between her ankles into the empty living room.

“Nick?” She cocked her head, listening for the sound of the

television, the gurgle of water from the bathroom.

But he was gone.

43

Four

NICK BARONE EYED THE LITTLE BLUE SKIFF hauled up on

the rocks with longing. He could take it out. He was old enough; he could

handle it.

And if he went out on the water alone, his mom would probably kill

him.

She was already mad. Not with him. With Nonna. Nick had heard

them arguing, his grandmother’s raised voice, his mother’s low tones.

The sound made his stomach hurt until he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t

stand being cooped up in the boring apartment with nothing to do but

listen to the two people he loved best in the world fighting with each

other.

So he got out.

Nick hugged his knees and stared at the flat, bright water, waiting for

his stomach to settle. His best friend, Danny Trujillo, was sterning on his

dad’s lobster boat, so Nick couldn’t hang out at his house, and a bunch of

summer people had taken over Nick’s favorite sitting-and-thinkingspot.

He watched them: a couple of moms and a half-dozen kids, from almost

his age to a baby.

No dads. Probably the dads were fishing. Or maybe they worked on