“Tonight we'll be dining at Fox's,” Mya informed him.
“Foxy's?”
“Fox's.”
“Oh, I was gonna say, Foxy's sounds like a gentlemen's club.”
“It's a lobster house. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I'm not disappointed at all. I love lobster, and I haven't had one since I've been here.”
“How many gentlemen's clubs have you been to since arriving?”
“None of those either.”
“We'll make that our second date—not.”
“I thought this was our second date. What was last night?”
“That was just ice cream … with a kiss on top.” Mya hit her blinker and took a right onto Nubble Road. “Fox's is nothing fancy, but the food is really good, and I asked for a table with a view of the light house.”
“How romantic.”
“No, I'm just trying to get you in the sack,” Mya guffawed.
Allen laughed. “That sounded almost too sarcastic,” he said.
Mya hung a right on Sohier Park Road, and made a quick left into the parking lot of Fox's Lobster House. Allen stared at the lighthouse as she drove.
“The Cape Neddick Light,” Mya said in the monotonest of monotones. “Also referred to as the Nubble Lighthouse. Built in 1879, it sits on Nubble Island. It was added to the National Registry of Historic Places in 1985. A photograph of the lighthouse was included along with photos of the Great Wall of China and the Taj Mahal as an example of one of Earth's most significant man-made structures, in the event the space probe falls into extraterrestrials hands … if they do indeed have hands.” Mya looked over at Allen. “How was that?”
“Very informative.”
“Wait, there's more. I can tell you about the wreck of the Isidore off Bald Head Cliff in 1842; to this day local fishermen claim to see the ghost ship sailing past the lighthouse on pale moonlit nights. And Nubble Island's most famous resident, a twenty-pound tomcat named Mr. T that liked to swim to the mainland and back.”
“Let's save it for dinner.”
“You got it.”
Allen and Mya got out of the Volt and walked toward the entrance. “Does everyone in town know all of the lighthouse's trivia?”
“I don't know. I only do because I used to work as a tour guide for the York Trolley Company. You've probably seen the big red trolleys going around town.”
“Can't miss 'em. Well, in that case, I can't wait to take a ride through town with you.”
“Tips will be accepted, but not expected.”
Allen held the door open for Mya and let her enter first.
“Mya!” said the hostess.
“Hi, Susan,” Mya replied.
“Your table is ready. Are you ready to be seated?”
“I think so.”
Susan picked up two menus. “Follow me.” She led them around the corner to the right, to a four-top next to a window.
Allen pulled out the chair for Mya and she sat down.
“Susan, this is Allen Crane, a friend of mine.”
“It's nice to meet you, Allen.”
“It's nice to meet you,” Allen returned, shaking her hand.
Allen sat down and Susan placed the menus in front of them.
“Justine will be right with you,” Susan said, and returned to her station.
“Do all hostesses know each other?” Allen jested.
“Yes,” Mya replied. “It's an elite network of women. Come to think of it, Susan and I forgot to do the secret handshake.”
“Elite network of women? What about the men?”
“There are no male hostesses, Allen. Only hosts.”
“I see. I wonder what their network is like?”
“Similar, but with much more drama.”
“I would imagine,” Allen responded dryly.
Allen picked up his menu just as Justine showed up with a pitcher of water.
“Would either of you like a glass of water?” Justine asked.
“What the hell,” Allen said. “She's driving.”
“Yes, please,” said Mya.
“What else can I get you to drink?” Justine asked, as she filled their glasses.
“I'll have a Malibu and pineapple,” Mya said.
“And I think I'm going to have a margarita, please,” said Allen.
“Frozen or on the rocks?”
“On the rocks.”
“Salted rim?”
“Yes, please.”
“I'll put those in and give you some time to look at the menu.”
Allen quickly scanned the menu. “Well, I know what I'm having,” he said.
“Already?”
“Gotta go with the lobster.”
Mya's big brown eyes went to the many lobster choices. “Which one?”
Allen stabbed the menu with his index finger. “The pound and a half.”
“Me too,” she said.
Allen looked to his left, out the window. “Nice view,” he said, marveling at the lighthouse.
Allen had seen the lighthouse before, on his last visit to Maine, several years earlier. But just like gazing at the same sunrise day after day, a lighthouse could be admired over and over again.
Mya leaned forward a bit so she could take in the view. “Yes, it is,” she replied. “I've lived here my whole life, and I still find myself snapping a picture every once in a while.”
“I've never been much of a picture taker. However, I did take a few pics a couple mornings ago for an old couple I met on the seawall.”
“Why were you taking pictures for them?”
“They had forgotten their camera, so I snapped a few of the sunrise for them and texted them to the old guy.”
“That was nice of you.”
“That's me, Mr. Nice Guy.”
“Have you decided what you'd like?” Justine asked upon her return.
“I'll have the Lighthouse Dinner with the pound and a half lobster,” said Mya.
“Great choice. And you?”
“I'll have the same thing,” Allen said.
“Okay, I'll put those orders right in,” said Justine, and she hurried away.
“Do you eat here often?” Allen asked.
“No,” Mya replied. “This place is a little more touristy, which is why the prices are a little higher. Usually, if I'm in the mood for lobster, I go to one of the smaller lobster shacks.”
“Do you usually go with friends, or …”
Mya smiled. “Are you asking me if I date a lot, Allen?”
“I … uh—”
“My grammy told me she mentioned to you that I had dated Jim Tucker. Is that why you're asking?”
“Yes, and no. I mean, I was wondering— I mean, I just wondered if you dated a lot. It was a stupid question, I know.”
“I actually don't date a lot. I work most nights, and when I'm not, I'm kind of a homebody. Do you date a lot?”
“This is my first date since I dated my wife.”
Mya reached over and put her hand on top of Allen's. “You're doing very well so far.”
Allen chuckled. “Gee, thanks.”
“Any more questions about my social life?”
“Not now, but I'm sure I'll think of something.”
“The inquisitive mind of a writer.”
“That reminds me. Did Tucker ever tell you why he came back to York?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just something I've been working on.”
“To do with your book?”
“Yes.”
“Why, is there going to be a cop with a really bad temper in the book?”
“Tucker has a really bad temper?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you broke up?”
“Part of the reason. He's also jealous and possessive.”
“The hat trick of any good relationship.”
“Don't get me wrong, Jim never laid a hand on me or threatened me in any way. Oh, he punched a few walls and kicked a f
ew doors, but that's as far as it ever went. We just couldn't get along.”
“Paul Rose knew about our date tonight. He said Tucker told him.”
Mya cocked her head. “Really?”
Allen nodded. “Yes. You didn't tell Tucker we were going out tonight?” He sipped his margarita.
“God, no. I haven't even spoken to Jim in weeks.”
“Here we are,” said Justine. She placed Mya's plate in front of her, and then Allen's in front of him. “Can I get either one of you another drink?”
“Can I just get a water?” Mya asked.
“Of course.”
“I'll have another margarita please,” Allen said.
“Comin' right up.” Justine whipped around and was off.
“I was invited to Paul Rose's house tomorrow night for dinner,” said Allen.
Mya was putting her glass to her lips and froze. “Are you serious?” She had a slight smirk.
“Yes,” Allen replied slowly. “Why?”
Mya shrugged. “No reason.”
Allen studied her face. “There's a reason, or you wouldn't have said it like that.”
“Like what?”
Allen tried to simulate Mya's smirk, but it came off as over-exaggerated.
“I've never made that face in my life,” Mya said.
“Come on, spill it,” Allen said.
Mya set her drink down. “Okay,” she said, looking around the dining room for listening ears. “There's always been a rumor that Paul and his wife are swingers.”
“Always?”
“From when my friends and I were younger.”
“How younger?”
“Like fifteen and sixteen. One of my best girlfriends lived next door to him. She said she saw Paul Rose, his wife, and two other couples through a window one night.”
“And they were all having sex?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And other than your girlfriend saying it, is there any other proof?”
“No. Like I said, it was just a rumor.”
“Started by a fifteen-year-old girl.”
Mya nodded.
“Even though it's probably not true, I wish you hadn't of said anything. Now that's what I'm going to think about all night, for chrissakes. Rose even told me to bring my dog with me.”
“That's kinky.”
Allen sighed.
“I bet Paul's wife wants to take a run at you,” Mya joked. “Younger, handsome semi-famous writer. I bet she—”
“So, you think I'm handsome.”
“But only semi-famous.”
“Here's those drinks,” said Justine.
“Thank you,” Mya said.
“Thanks,” said Allen.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
“I think that just about does it,” Allen said.
Justine smiled and walked away.
Mya noticed Allen tying a plastic bib around his neck. It was emblazoned with a graphic of a cartoon lobster and the slogan Let's Get Crackin'. “Surely you’re not going to wear that thing—they're mainly for the tourists,” she said. “You look ridiculous.”
“Says you. Besides, I am a tourist. And I quit worrying about how I look to other people a long time ago.”
“You certainly march to the beat of a different drummer.”
“I march to the beat of an entire drumline,” Allen said.
Allen forgot about minding his table manners, which is impossible while ripping a lobster apart with your bare hands. First, he grabbed the lobster's body with one hand and the tail in the other and twisted in opposite directions to break the tail off. He crushed the tail in his hand and dug out the biggest hunk of meat with his fingers, dunked it in the cup of melted butter, and popped it in his mouth.
“Oh my God,” he said. “This is so good. It's been at least five years since I've eaten a lobster.”
“About three weeks for me,” said Mya.
“It never ceases to amaze me that something folks call the cockroach of the sea can taste this good.”
Mya curled her lip. “Well, that's certainly appetizing.”
Allen next tackled the claws. He wrenched one loose and tried to crack it with the lobster cracker. When that didn't work, he viciously attacked it with the wooden mallet. The other guests turned to witness the spectacle. Finally the appendage shattered. Seeing he was the center of attention, Allen made an elaborate show of daintily removing his prize with an oyster fork—pinky extended, of course.
A clump of lobster meat sat untouched on Mya's oyster fork, poised halfway between her hand and her gaping mouth.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Mya said. “Now I see why you needed the bib. Watching you eat is more entertaining than feeding time at the zoo.”
Allen wiped his dripping hands on the bib. “Yeah, I'm an animal. I'm not even halfway through this thing, and I'm already wishing I had of gotten two of them.”
Mya laughed. “I think that every time.”
Allen and Mya continued eating, and as they ate, they talked. Mya asked about Allen's writing. She asked all of the usual questions. Why did you get into writing? How do you come up with your story lines? Are the characters based on real people? Did you always want to be a writer? As she went down through the mental list of questions, Allen easily answered each one, because he'd answered them all before. Finally, she asked a question that not a lot of people had asked in the past. It was a question that Allen had only answered honestly one other time, and that was to his deceased wife.
“What would you say is the hardest part about being a writer?” Mya asked.
Allen stared at her for a second, biting a small piece of dry skin on his lower lip. “The hardest part about writing is the voices.”
“Voices? You mean, in your head?”
Allen nodded. “Yes,” he said. “What people who don't write don't understand, is that the characters conversations are going on inside your head before you ever sit down to write. Ever see a Howard Hawks movie? No? Well, the characters are always talking over each other, just like in real life. That's how it is in my head, it's enough to drive you crazy. But when you do start to write, and the characters' distinct personalities and voices start to develop, that's when the magic happens. You sift through those overlapping conversations, looking for just the right words. The ones that say exactly what you want to say. The words that you hope will make your readers feel what you want them to feel. If the story is sad, you want them to be sad. If it's funny, you want them to laugh, or at least smile. If they're not sad, or they don't laugh, then you've failed them. When an author reaches a certain level of success, he or she knows that at any given time, somewhere in the world, someone could be reading one of their books. This creates a constant feeling of pressure to entertain. And the voices in your head, they don't just go away at the end of the day when you stop writing.”
“Wow,” Mya said, “you don't make writing sound fun at all.”
Allen laughed. “It's a lot of fun. I wouldn't trade what I do with anyone.”
“I guess that makes you a glutton for punishment.”
“Maybe it does, but when I get that email or direct message from someone telling me how much they enjoyed my book, it's all worth it. I have some of the greatest fans in the world. I owe each and every one of them my life. I'll never be able to pay any of them back for what they've done for me.”
“Maybe your writing is all the payback they need.”
Allen shrugged. “Maybe.”
Justine stopped by. She saw the glaze of butter and lobster juices on Allen's face and the carnage on his bib, and grinned. “Somebody came hungry, I see. Save room for dessert, Godzilla?”
Allen scooted back in his chair and happily patted his belly. “Does that answer your question?”
Justine frowned, then looked at Mya. “How 'bout you, miss? The Mile High Banana Cream Pie is really tasty.”
“I know, I've had it before. But I'm stuff
ed too.”
“Suit yourself.” Justine set the leather bill holder on the table. “Be back in a few.”
Mya drank the last of her water, and Allen downed the remainder of his margarita. He pulled out his money clip and removed a credit card.
“I'm paying for this,” Mya informed him.
“That's not going to happen,” Allen said. He glanced at the bill, then stuck his credit card in the holder along with cash for the tip. All I need is for Jacob and Oliver to ask me who paid.”
“So, you're saying the only reason you're paying is so two young boys don't bully you?”
“Yeah. Those boys are brutal.”
“Then I'm buying the ice cream,” Mya insisted.
“I thought you said you were stuffed?”
“I am. But there's always room for ice cream. Have you been to Dunne's yet?” Allen shook his head no. “Then you're in for a treat. They have every flavor under the sun.”
Justine returned to pick up Allen's credit card and came back with the receipt a few minutes later. She looked at Allen and smiled hugely. “And thank you for the generous tip. After the Godzilla crack, I was afraid you might stiff me.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” said Allen. “I'm always generous to the stalwart femmes in the elite network of women.”
“Huh?”
“He means you're a good waitress,” Mya chimed in.
“Oh. Thanks, guys. And come again.” She bustled off.
Allen had returned his attention to the lighthouse. “Shall we get out of here?” he asked.
“I'm ready if you are,” Mya replied.
“How far's that ice cream?”
“Right around the corner. It's about a five-minute walk.”
“What do you say we walk over there, grab a cone, and then walk back to the lighthouse?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The couple got up and walked to the exit.
“Have a great rest of your night,” Susan said, on their way out the door.
As they walked along Sohier Road, Mya glanced over to her right, across Fox's parking lot.
“There's actually a shortcut right through there,” she said, pointing.
“Through those yards?”
The Maine Events Page 13
