by Sophie Moss
“Ryan’s not here,” Izzy said. “He had to run an errand.”
Annie looked at Izzy. “Ryan’s not here?”
Izzy shook her head. “He left a couple hours ago, but he should be back any minute.”
“You mean…he hasn’t seen any of this?” Annie asked.
“No.” Izzy’s gaze shifted to the driveway. “Not yet.”
A slow smile spread across Annie’s face. Now she was glad she’d come early for an entirely different reason. Ryan was going to flip when he saw this.
* * *
Ryan’s truck rattled over the steel plates of the drawbridge as he crossed over the narrow strip of water that separated Heron Island from the rest of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. He hadn’t meant to be gone for so long. He hadn’t wanted to leave the island at all today. But he’d gotten a call that morning from another oyster farmer who’d needed to offload a piece of equipment—one of the few pieces of equipment Ryan hadn’t bought yet. When he’d heard that the guy was selling it for less than half the original price, he’d figured it was worth the drive to check it out. And when he’d seen that it was in even better condition than the guy had said it was over the phone, he’d decided to go for it.
It was an investment, he told himself as he turned onto the gravel lane that led up to the farm. An investment that would allow them to buy more seed, move more oysters through the upwelling process, and plant more cages in the Bay, which would ultimately improve both the quality of the water and their bottom line. Despite that, he suspected his father would take one look at the mechanical seed-sorter in the bed of his truck when he unloaded it tomorrow and shake his head.
Pulling onto the grass behind the office to keep the parking spots in the front open for guests, Ryan wondered if his father would even bother to stick around for the open house tonight. He’d made it clear, from the very beginning, that he wanted no part in promoting the business. And while tonight’s event was supposed to be more about the environmental center, both operations were going to be on full display.
It was a decision that, in hindsight, Ryan wished he’d taken a little more time to consider. The response to the invitations they’d sent out had been overwhelmingly positive. Most, if not all, of his board members’ friends had said yes, and when those friends had heard that it was an open house, they’d invited a few friends of their own. Now, if you added in the number of islanders who’d promised to stop by, they were expecting around eighty people.
Eighty people.
That was twice the amount they’d planned for.
Reaching over to the passenger seat, he put an arm around Zoey, drawing comfort from the fact that no matter what happened tonight—even if their first event turned out to be a total disaster—his dog would still love him. She rewarded him with a sloppy kiss on the cheek before jumping out of the truck. Ryan stepped out after her, saw Riley streak across the lawn to greet them, and caught the first whiff of grilled seafood.
“Hey, boss,” Paul said, walking out of the office. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “Any fires I need to put out before our first guests arrive?”
“None that I know of,” Paul said, tossing him a ball of rolled-up cotton.
Ryan caught it. “What’s this?”
Paul pointed to the T-shirt he was wearing.
Ryan’s gaze dropped to the front of Paul’s shirt, taking in the Pearl Cove Oysters logo for the first time. “No way.”
“Way,” Paul said, grinning. “They came right after you left.”
Ryan held up the shirt in his own hands, shaking it out so he could get a closer look, and felt a surge of pride as he studied the design. “I love it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ryan nodded. “This is exactly what I was looking for.”
“Good,” Paul said, laughing, “because everybody’s already wearing theirs.”
“They are?” Ryan asked, following Paul around the side of the office to the picnic area. He hadn’t expected…
Halfway across the parking lot, he stopped. He didn’t even notice when Riley nipped at the shirt in his hand, trying to play tug-of-war. He was too busy staring at the scene in front of him—the beds of ice filled with freshly shucked oysters, the exotic flowers trailing through platters of crab cakes and whole grilled rockfish, the antique oyster tins that had been turned into centerpieces on every table, each holding a bottle of chilled champagne.
From behind the shucking station, Matt and Wesley tipped their heads at him. He walked slowly over to them, taking in the plump, meaty oysters resting in each shell. The sharp scent of potting soil drew his gaze down to a pair of bushel basket planters that someone had filled with a variety of colorful flowers—the first of many that had been placed strategically around the property to soften the edges of the utilitarian buildings.
He looked down at the dock, saw that every hose had been rolled up, every line had been neatly coiled, every empty cage had been carefully stashed out of sight. He could tell that the upwellers had been scrubbed recently, could hear the water flowing easily through the pipes. He felt someone slip a cold beer into his hand, and was about to turn to see who it was, when he spotted the table of photographs.
Were those pictures of…him?
He walked over, reached down, picked one up. It was a picture of him as a seven-year-old child in his father’s workboat, holding up the first rockfish he’d ever caught. He remembered that day, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing this picture before. Still holding the frame, he looked at the next one—a black and white shot of him as a teenager in the same workboat, culling wild oysters while his father manned the dredge.
There were more, several more, he realized as he made his way down the table. He was almost at the end when he spotted a picture of him as a child wearing a pair of his father’s white oyster boots. He was young, maybe around five-years-old at the time. The boots were several sizes too big and came up over his knees, but he looked so happy to be following his father around the docks that it didn’t matter if he could hardly walk in them.
He paused, staring down at the picture for a long time. “Who did this?”
“Izzy,” Matt said. “Izzy did all of it.”
Ryan turned, saw that a crowd had gathered around him, and found her standing on the edge of it, off to one side. Even now—even after all this—she still seemed unsure of herself, as if she were worried about how he might react. “Where did you find these?”
“I got a few of them from Jake,” Izzy answered. “He had a box of old photos that his wife had taken from when you and Becca were kids. The rest I got from your father.”
“My father?”
Izzy nodded.
“He’s seen this?”
“Of course,” Izzy said. “He helped me put it together.”
Ryan looked down at the photograph again. He didn’t even know his father had these photos. “Is he…here?”
“I think he’s in the shed with Jeff,” Hailey said from the door of the environmental center. “Do you want me to get him?”
Ryan continued to stare down at the photograph. If his father was still here, did that mean he was staying? Was he actually going to stick around for the event? He heard voices coming from inside the shed and glanced up just as the two men walked out, carrying a cooler of beer down to the dock. His father’s back was to him, but Ryan could see that he was wearing the Pearl Cove Oysters T-shirt.
Ryan’s gaze shifted back to Izzy. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many questions he wanted to ask. But everyone was still gathered around him, waiting for a reaction. All of that would have to wait until later. “Thank you,” he said, holding her gaze for a long time before looking around at the rest of his staff. “All of you.”
“Hey, boss,” Paul said, nodding toward the road. “I think someone’s here.”
Sure enough, a car was just beginning to make its way up the lane. Ryan set the picture down on the table. With one ha
nd, he dragged the shirt he was wearing over his head and tossed it to Matt to stash under the shucking station. He pulled on the Pearl Cove Oysters T-shirt that Paul had given him, and walked out to meet their first guest.
The pop of a champagne cork behind him was the first of many he would hear over the next two hours. By six o’clock there was a line of cars parked on both sides of the driveway stretching all the way down to the road. All thoughts of having a formal board meeting had been thrown out the window, and each of his board members had come up to him individually to toast the success of his first event.
“Hey, man,” Colin said, walking up to him and grinning. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Ryan accepted the beer his friend handed him and tossed the one he’d been holding into the can for recycling. “I think I’ve been nursing that last one for over an hour.”
“I figured,” Colin said. “You’ve been swarmed since I got here.”
Ryan tipped the bottle back, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve to survey the scene around them. Everywhere he looked, people were chatting, laughing, sipping champagne, and eating oysters. A crowd had formed around the shucking table, where Matt and Wesley were entertaining guests with stories of working on the boat with Ryan’s father. Several people were seated around the tables in the picnic area, devouring the food Izzy and Della had prepared.
Hailey and Ethan were giving tours of the environmental center—explaining the reefs that were being built in the Bay to help rehabilitate the wild oyster species, signing up volunteers to assist with the next planting, and encouraging everyone to bring their children and grandchildren back for a visit. Taylor had taken it upon herself to show off the turtles, seahorses, and fish in the tanks to the few kids who’d come with their parents. And Paul was wandering around taking pictures of everything to upload to social media.
On his way through the picnic area, Paul paused in front of Ryan and Colin, snapped a quick shot with his phone, and gave them a thumbs up before heading down to the dock.
“I had an interesting meeting with Paul earlier this week,” Colin said once he was out of earshot.
“Yeah?” Ryan asked, taking another sip of his beer.
“He didn’t mention anything to you about it?”
“No,” Ryan said. “What’s up?”
Colin leaned a shoulder against the shed. “I’ve been floating his résumé out to a bunch of potential employers. I’ve shown them the website he designed for you, explained how he’s helping you launch this business, and told them that you’d give him a glowing recommendation.”
Ryan nodded. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve gotten a lot of interest. I actually have three interviews set up for him next week.” Colin turned his beer bottle around, showed Ryan the label of a local brewery. “This is one of the companies. I thought it’d be a good fit ’cause they’re relatively small, they’ve only been in business for a couple years, and they still have room to grow.”
“That’s great news,” Ryan said.
“It would be,” Colin agreed, “except that he doesn’t want the job.”
“Why not?”
“He wants to work for you.”
“Me?” Ryan’s brows shot up. “Permanently?”
Colin nodded.
“Shit.”
“I know,” Colin said.
Ryan looked down at the dock, where Paul was showing his most recent pictures to Megan, who was laughing and helping him pick out which ones to post. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him, no. We’ve got to keep his position open for the next group of vets. If we hired everyone who wanted to stay, we wouldn’t have a program anymore.”
That was true, Ryan thought, but he hadn’t considered that some of his employees might want to stay. When he thought about everything Paul had done for him, it was hard to imagine anyone else ever being able to fill his shoes.
“Anyway,” Colin said. “I wanted to give you a heads-up in case he hadn’t talked to you yet. The fact that he hasn’t makes me wonder if he’s planning to try a different approach with you. When he proposed the idea to me, he already had a plan mapped out for the rest of the year with graphs and projections to support his argument. He’s obviously given it a lot of thought. But you understand why we have to say no, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said slowly. He understood. But it didn’t mean that he had to like it. “Have you made any progress with any of the others?”
Colin nodded. “I’ve got a few leads on almost everyone now. Well, everyone except for Izzy. She’s going to be a little harder to place. Her criminal record is causing a lot of employers to balk.” He lifted his beer, took a long swallow. “That said, if any of them could see what she’s done here tonight, I think they’d reconsider.”
Ryan shifted slightly so that he could see her. He’d known she was behind him. He’d been aware of her all night—what she was doing, who she was talking to. He wasn’t the only one who’d been swarmed from the moment their first guests had arrived. Everyone wanted to meet the woman behind the artistic displays of shellfish and mouthwatering mignonette sauces.
Every member of his staff had gone above and beyond, but it was Izzy who’d stolen the show. Over the past two hours, he’d watched her transform into a totally different person. Gone was the detached, guarded veteran who’d first arrived on the island five weeks ago. In her place was a warm, welcoming, approachable woman who seemed completely comfortable in her own skin.
She was a natural host, adept at forging connections and making people feel at ease. She made sure that everyone knew who had catered the event, introducing them to Annie and Della and telling them all about the café. If someone asked her about the oysters, she steered them toward Ryan or Coop. And whenever anyone complimented the rockfish or crab cakes, she walked them straight over to Jake Haddaway and Bob Hargrove so they could meet the men who’d pulled the seafood out of the water that day.
From his spot at the edge of the shed, Ryan watched her walk toward them with a middle-aged man wearing a pink button-down shirt and pressed khakis. The man had a cultured New England accent that screamed Ivy League education and old money. And, like every other person at this party, he was enamored with Izzy.
“I respect what you’re doing,” the man said. “I do. It’s just that—come on, let’s be honest—this is the Chesapeake Bay. You’re never going to able to grow a quality oyster here. The waters aren’t salty enough.”
Izzy smiled, taking the glass of champagne he was drinking and replacing it with a glass of buttery white wine. “It’s not just about the oyster,” she said smoothly, “it’s about what you pair it with. Our oysters might not be as salty as the ones you’re used to in Boston, but they have their own unique flavor profile that’s completely distinct to this area.” She waited for him to take a sip of the new wine before handing him an oyster. “I think if you’d open your mind a little bit, you might be able to taste it.”
The man smiled back at her, taking the oyster and accepting the challenge. Ryan had to stifle the urge to roll his eyes when the man took another sip of his wine, making a big show of swishing it around, before lifting the shell to his mouth and tipping it back.
“No one’s going to compare a Pearl Cove oyster to a Wellfleet oyster,” Izzy said as the man chewed. “They’re the gold standard of the salty, cold-water oysters. Everybody knows that. But we’re not trying to be Wellfleet.”
The man swallowed and Izzy motioned for him to take another sip of his wine.
“As long as an oyster represents the place where it comes from, it matters,” Izzy said. “The Chesapeake Bay has a history and a culture that can be tasted in its seafood. It’s what makes this place so special. And I might even argue that because of that history—because of the struggle our oysters have gone through—it’s an even deeper, richer experience.”
Izzy held out her hand for his shell and the man laughed, clearly delighted with both the attention and the debate.
“All right,” he said, giving her his empty shell. “Let me have another one and I’ll see if I can taste the soul of the Chesapeake Bay this time.”
Izzy smiled and handed him another oyster, but she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook yet. “Have you ever been out to Wellfleet, seen how those guys grow their oysters?”
The man shook his head, his expression turning thoughtful.
“Wellfleet’s run by a father and son team, like our farm is, but their process is a lot different,” Izzy said. “They grow most of their oysters in bags instead of cages. They stake them out in the tidal flats off one of the beaches in Wellfleet Harbor. And because the tides there are so extreme, part of their field is actually exposed twice a day. As soon as the tide goes out, they drive their trucks onto the beach, set up their culling stations, and harvest their oysters without even having to get in a boat.”
Izzy topped off his wine. “We don’t have that option, because our shorelines are too muddy. We have to grow our oysters in deeper water and use heavier cages. And since most of our fields are only accessible by boat, we have to work twice as hard.” She motioned for him to follow her down to the dock. “Let me introduce you to Coop Callahan. He’s been working these waters since he was seventeen, and though I’ve never heard him complain, he’ll be the first to admit that farming oysters in the Chesapeake Bay is not for the faint of heart.”
Ryan stared at her, speechless. How did she know so much about Wellfleet? And when had she become such an advocate for Chesapeake Bay oysters? He thought back to the day, five weeks ago, when he’d given her one to try for the first time. ‘It’s an oyster,’ she’d said. ‘They all taste the same.’
Had she been lying then? Not wanting to admit that she’d felt anything? Because it had been easier to pretend she couldn’t feel anything at all?
Izzy’s gaze lifted, locked on his, as she walked by. The truth was right there, written all over her face. She had felt something, Ryan realized. She’d felt it from the very first day.
Beside her, the man in the pink shirt said something, and Izzy looked away, turning her attention back to their guest. But Ryan couldn’t take his eyes off her. He continued to watch her as she made her way down to the dock, as she introduced the man to his father. When she laughed at something one of them said, the sound rolled all the way through him.
