Off the Trails

by Emily Franklin

  “Oh, I’m kind of klutzy when it comes to this type of thing. I learn eventually, but I’m bound to spill with the first few. Especially since we’re …” She pauses, taking a breath to steady her stomach. “Rocking.”

  “Nonsense.” Matthew hands her the slotted spoon and waits with his thick arms crossed over his chest.

  Melissa shrugs. What do I have to lose? I already foolishly spoke my mind, insulted his design, and appear to have no knowledge of food at all. If I slosh the whole pot onto my new shirt, I’ll just jump over the side and swim ashore. She grasps the spoon and sticks it into the fluffy egg whites, only to eject some of it onto the floor when the floor lifts and drops under her. “Whoa.”

  “Speedboat going by. There’s a no-wake sign, but no one listens.”

  Melissa swallows her pride and her nausea and tries again, grabbing a mound of egg whites with the slotted spoon and depositing it into the custard.

  “How long do I wait?” she asks, looking at Matthew for an answer. He doesn’t give one so she counts to twenty and lifts the egg white cloud out and pours some custard into another apostrophe dish that she gets from under the counter.

  Matthew leans on the bare steel counter, eating the dessert with a spoon. Melissa places her dish near his and tries hers tentatively. The smooth sweet liquid slides down her throat, the egg cloud melts in her mouth, and she can’t help but smile. “This is brilliant. And I’m not just saying that. I’m semi-nauseated but it’s so good I don’t care.”

  Matthew looks smug but grins. “And that, my dear, is the plan behind the person. The reason for the fuss. And of course the rest of the dishes are just as good.”

  Melissa watches Matthew finish the custard by lifting the apostrophe to his lips and drinking it directly from the bowl. “The tourists love that—you know, casual dining elements mixed with haute cuisine …”

  “All the same,” Melissa says, negging the idea of slurping from the bowl, “I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” She puts her bowl and spoon down.

  “Quit?” Matthew’s voice is as animated as it is on television. If Melissa closes her eyes for one second she can imagine she’s home in her parents’ living room listening to him on air. “Why quit when I haven’t even hired you yet?”

  Melissa clears her dishes and his out of habit, then stands with her hands full, wondering where the sink is. She knows her cheeks are betraying her attempts at a cool demeanor.

  “How did you know I was looking for a job? Do I scream desperate?” She finally finds the sink and casts a weary gaze toward the chef.

  “Not exactly a scream. More like a whisper.” He waves at the air. “Not to worry—it’ll pass with experience. Same thing with love. I used to give off an air of neediness that sent the ladies running in the opposite direction. Then I realized if I adapted my kitchen confidence to love I wouldn’t be alone.”

  Melissa wonders where all this is leading, if he’s giving free romantic advice or hiring. Or both. “And did it work?”

  He displays his left hand. “Married for nearly twenty-five years.”

  Melissa nods, remembering his bio on the flaps of the many cookbooks she’s seen—one daughter, one son, happily married, world travel. “And you’re about to have a cooking show?” Melissa doesn’t realize until she notes his surprised face that maybe this isn’t public knowledge. What was that girl’s name? Emmy Taylor, Dove’s old friend, had mentioned it. Sorry to pry.

  Matthew disregards it. “Yes, in fact. Or—rephrase that—I might. We might if …” he sighs, looking frustrated. “If my errant son ever comes around to the idea.”

  Melissa nods, recalling an interview she read once in a glossy magazine about Matthew Chase, known affectionately as Matty, in which he had spoken about his daughter’s business sense and his son’s lackadaisical attitude toward the restaurant industry. Without the focus of the food preparation, she feels her legs start to sway again. “So …”

  Matthew begins assembling a plate of brightly colored fruits and gives signals to waitstaff, who appear as though out of nowhere. “Start tomorrow. Front of the house or back.” He raises his neatly trimmed eyebrows and pulls on his mustache, then explains. “Kitchen or waiter—your choice.”

  Melissa rushes to him and shakes his hand. His laughter tells her he finds her charming. “Thanks! Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I wanted a job. Needed, not wanted.”

  Matty chuckles and checks an item off his clipboard. The kitchen starts to hum with activity: salad prep work, careful slicing of melon and guava, sauces, and dish washing. “Remember what I said—don’t seem desperate. Just be.” He breathes in with his eyes closed. “Very Zen.”

  Melissa tries it. “Okay …”

  “And don’t think just because you aced the rather unconventional interview that you don’t have to work.” He points to her with his pencil, clicking it on the clipboard. “It’s like I always tell my son. You have to show what you can do, not just say it.”

  “I will,” Melissa says. She glances around the large room, wondering what her role will be. Then she remembers her housing options and that Harley had said there were accommodations available. “Um … not to push my luck or anything, but you wouldn’t know where a new employee might find a place to stay?” Melissa’s body thumps with the possibility of solving her woes in one day—clothing, job, bed.

  Matty’s mouth twists, his eyebrows pull down as though his whole face is a frown, and then he yells an order over his shoulder about freezing some lemons. “That, I’m afraid, is out of my hands.” Melissa nods and begins to walk away.

  “It’s only … I’m kind of stuck,” Melissa says under her breath.

  “Just ask around,” Matty says. “You never know who might have a place to rent.”

  8

  “WHERE ARE WE GOING, exactly?” Dove asks. Melissa leans forward in the van so she can hear the answer over the heavy wind. Blowing into the vehicle, the night air brings gusts of wind that whoosh and swirl, causing excitement to bubble up around them. The day had been extraordinarily hot. The tarmac had seemed soft under Melissa’s feet as she went to work for the first time, showing up at Isles Floatant expecting to wait tables or prepare gourmet food only to find she’d been given the task of peeling, slicing lengthwise, and freezing entire crates of bananas. Her arms ached and her feet were sore, but she felt glad she had a job. A place to stay, however, hadn’t happened. I’ve asked everyone if they have a place, but no one does, she’d reported back to Dove.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” Gus says. “I’m just following the van in front, anyway.”

  Melissa can tell from his eyes that he’s kidding, though there is another van in front and, in front of that, a few cars filled with boat crew and vacationers all around their ages. “So you have no idea where this winding road leads?” she asks.

  “Nope!”

  “So why’d you insist that we wear our bathing suits in the dark?” Dove inquires, trying to get over the fact that her reuniting with William didn’t happen in the morning due to further boat problems. I want to see you so badly, he’d said into the radio again. But when the Pinnacle had run aground because of an out-of-date depth chart, the bottom of the boat had suffered and it needed further repairs. I’ll be there tomorrow, William had promised.

  “I don’t know how much more I can take of this waiting and waiting,” Dove says to Melissa in the breezy van.

  “It’s just one more night,” Melissa says. “You can do it. Think of the reward.”

  Dove nods, but feels the familiar doubts rush back. “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “At least you’re not wondering where your next night of sleep will come from,” Melissa says. “I’ve asked everywhere! It’s not like I can afford one of the luxury suites at the resorts.”

  “I wish you could keep staying on board with us,” Dove says, loudly enough that Gus hears.

  “But she can’t.” His voice is firm. “The owner’s coming in a few days and
she’ll figure it out. We can’t risk it. Sorry.”

  Melissa shrugs, trying to appear casual. Against her better judgment she borrowed a bathing suit from Dove. In the excitement they shared while both told about their workdays—Dove’s in the tiny kitchen, Melissa’s in the enormous one—borrowing the small suit seemed like a good idea. But now, in the rushing dark, Melissa is fully aware of how differently she and Dove are built. The suit’s straps cut into her shoulders and the legs into her thighs. At work tomorrow I’ll buy a cheap suit from a cart near the beach. In the meantime, I’m not planning on going swimming anyway. “No big deal, right? I’ll just ask around tonight … wherever it is we’re headed.”

  The van speeds forward on the dark road, then slows as it edges its way up a steep hill.

  “From Charlestown we just go south on Main Street,” Gus says. His words evaporate into the air. “Almost there.”

  The van pulls to a stop amid a crowd of other cars, mopeds, and people, all standing around talking and laughing.

  “This is it?” Melissa asks as she climbs out of the van.

  “No,” Dove says, realizing where they are as she looks around. She pulls Melissa over to a steep-edged cliff from which stone steps descend. “That is it.”

  “Whoa.” Melissa stares down at a vast stone pool. Steam rises from the dark water into the blue-tinted air.

  “Hot thermal springs!” Gus says excitedly and trots down the steep steps after a group of bikini-clad girls.

  “You want to go in?” Melissa asks Dove, hoping she’ll say no so the issue of the too-tight bathing suit won’t come to light.

  “Absolutely.” Dove nods. “I was here once years ago and my parents thought it was improper to shed my clothing … so I didn’t get to go. Come on.”

  Melissa and Dove take the steps carefully, stopping to look at the ocean far off to their right, moonlight shimmering on its surface. Random voices float up to them, each of the steaming pools seeming to have a different crowd in and around it.

  “Let’s find a quiet spot,” Melissa says once they’re on the grass.

  “I have to change,” Dove says. She plucks at her shirt and shorts.

  “Why didn’t you do it back at the boat? You practically shoved me into this suit.” Melissa groans as she lifts her shirt partway to display Dove’s suit.

  “You wanted it. I had no intention of swimming so I just brought a one-piece. Navy blue. Trimmed in white. Very tasteful.”

  Melissa smirks, dreading the moment when she has to strip down. “I’m sure your parents would be proud.”

  Dove wrinkles her lips and looks around. “Hey, it looks like they’ve added a few things since the last time I was here.” She gestures with her chin. “Changing rooms, massage huts—check those out.”

  Melissa follows Dove’s gaze and sees the wooden changing areas, a few brightly colored small tents with massage tables inside, and then, something—or someone—that Dove didn’t point out. “Isn’t that …”

  “Max,” Dove says as he strides over to them, shirtless in the breezy night, his physique as glorious as ever.

  Melissa watches Dove’s face for signs of surprise, but she appears calm. So he’s here, so what? Dove thinks, focusing on a particularly tall palm tree in the distance to avoid making eye contact with Max. Just because he’s here doesn’t mean I have to talk to him.

  “Dove?” Melissa touches her shoulder. “I’m going to find that quiet spot we talked about, okay? Just change and come find me.”

  Dove crosses her arms over her chest and then rethinks the gesture, wondering if it’s too defensive. After all, what do I have to prove? Nothing. She fiddles with the bathing suit in her hands.

  “Are you annoyed that I’m here?” Max jumps right in.

  Dove puts one flip-flop-clad foot on a wooden bench that overlooks the steaming pools. “Is that a question you really want answered?”

  Max tilts his head and sits on the bench, his wet skin glistening in the moon rays. “After everything that’s gone on between us, yes.”

  Dove lowers her voice and sits on the other end of the bench from Max. “I guess I am. I mean, I left Les Trois and I thought you were staying. It’s not a difficult assumption to make.”

  Max laughs sarcastically. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe you wanted to make that assumption because it’s easier for you?”

  Dove clenches her jaw. She thinks about being at school with Max, about wanting him to want her, about their friendship, about how he kissed her ex-best friend, Claire. “Easier than what?”

  “Easier than doing what you’re going to have to do now.”

  Dove turns so she has a clear view of Max. Max in the snow. Max in the moonlight. Max the temptation that threatened to get her to betray William. “And what, exactly, do I have to do now?”

  Max puts one hand on Dove’s bare thigh. “You had William at Les Trois without me. You had me at Les Trois without him. Now you have both of us in the same place at the same time.” Max’s bright green eyes are magnets for Dove’s. She locks her gaze to his, her hands shaking so much that she can’t fiddle with the bathing suit or anything else.

  “And?” Dove asks but she knows the answer. Tomorrow, William and I will see each other for the first time in ages. What if it’s not the same? What if it’s not as good? Or, what if it’s even better? She looks at Max. And what if I never saw Max again? What would that be like?

  “And I think—before I head back to Oxford—I’d like to know for sure one way or the other.” He keeps his hand on her, tenderly but firm, and speaks in a calm voice. “If you like him, I mean really truly do, I’ll vanish.” He removes his hand and looks at the shimmering ocean water. “And if, on the off chance you decide you can’t live without me …” He cracks a smile and looks at her, semi-joking and half serious. “Then tell him.”

  Dove stands up, her hands still shaking. “So that’s it?” Max nods. She thinks she’ll feel angry with Max. Or angry that William isn’t here. Or anything other than what she does. “I guess it makes sense.” She stares at him. Max or William. No pretending, no second-guessing. Just figuring it out.

  9

  HAVING LEFT DOVE AND Max to talk, Melissa heads toward the massage huts to investigate. “The price list is over there,” says a woman dressed all in white. “Are you tense? Could you benefit from a Swedish-style relaxing massage?”

  “I’m sure I could.” Melissa smiles. Only my wallet won’t allow for it. Oh well, at least the thermal hot springs are free. She walks behind the huts and finds a little clearing in which one of the smaller pools is framed by verdant foliage.

  Checking first to see that no one is nearby, Melissa sheds her clothing and tests the water, dipping a toe in. The heat feels intense.

  “Ouch. Hot!” Melissa says aloud.

  “Yeah, the temps range from 104 to 108,” a guy says.

  Melissa looks up from where her toe is poised and, upon seeing none other than the hot guy she’d noticed on the dock wearing orange shorts, she is horrified to be bursting out of her—Dove’s—swimsuit. “Well, that’s my kind of temperature!” She quickly and immediately slips into the water, immersing herself in steaming liquid. At first it stings her skin, making her want to jump out and run for the jungled woods or at the very least cloak herself in a towel. She closes her eyes.

  “Feel good?” the orange-shorts guy asks.

  Melissa opens her eyes and finds herself directly opposite him in the six-foot-wide pool. “At first it hurt, but now it kind of feels good.” Being in the water sets her at ease, despite the fact that she’s in such close proximity to the first guy since Gabe to set her heart on its own rhythm.

  She can barely see the boy’s face in the semidarkness. It’s freeing to be in the water, she thinks. Like hiding. They begin to speak, first about the hot springs, then about the island, about their hometowns.

  “So, you’re part American, part Aussie?” she asks.

  “Yep. And you’re fully from down und
er?”

  “You sound like a tourist saying that,” Melissa scolds. She flicks her hands in the water and wonders where Dove is, if she and Max are shouting or reconciled.

  “I’m a tourist of everywhere,” he says. He dips all the way under the steamy water and emerges a little closer to Melissa, resting his back against the smooth stone wall.

  “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “Just that I’m from all over, lived all over, so while I feel comfortable pretty much everywhere, I don’t ever feel fully at home.” He puts his mouth to the water and blows bubbles. “Sorry—was that too much of a confession?”

  Melissa sinks so that only her face and hair are out of the water, her ill-fitting outfit fully covered. “I like confessions.”

  They sit in easy silence for a few minutes, hearing laughter and raucous shouts from over the hedges but not leaving their pool to investigate.

  “This water makes my blood race, I think,” Melissa says, and doesn’t regret letting a personal thought leak out. After all, it’s true. She rubs her arms, feeling the cool air on her skin and then, suddenly, hoping the guy leaves before she has to, lest he be privy to her borrowed suit.

  “Don’t you want to meet up with a friend or something?” Melissa volunteers, unsure which answer she hopes he’ll give.

  “You trying to get rid of me?” Hoisting himself out of the water, the guy sits on the edge of the pool, watching a couple of other bathers walk by in towels.

  Melissa moves closer to him. “No, no. Not like that. Only …”

  An awkward moment surfaces. He thinks I’m not interested in … whatever he’s interested in—talking, hanging out. “Stay. It’s fine.”

  He laughs and points to the ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK sign. “Is your heart okay?” the guy asks.

  Feeling her pulse speed up right as he says that, Melissa slicks her hair back with some water and nods even though her heartbeats per minute are definitely up. Being near him is a rush. The hot springs are new and different. “Fine …”