At Wave's End: A Novel

by Patricia Perry Donovan

  “All right, then.” Bruce got to his feet. “You seem pretty set on this. I did ask around. It seems buses to the city will run on a limited basis starting tomorrow morning. But you’ll have to get yourself back up to Ashcroft. And you better get there early. With the trains out, there’s bound to be a crowd.”

  Faith clapped her hands. “Thank you. I will. And I’ll find a ride.”

  Relieved her transportation dilemma had been solved, Faith spent the rest of the afternoon at the church, where many more families had sought refuge since her departure. A hardwired generator provided plentiful power.

  Also during Faith’s absence, donations had begun to arrive: mountains of clothing, food, and cleaning supplies that newly recruited volunteers now sorted. In the kitchen, someone had dropped off a crate of tomatoes and several bags of canned goods. Spotting Alicia, Faith offered to put together some soup.

  “Bless you,” replied the de facto shelter manager.

  By the time Craig stuck his head in to offer a ride back to The Mermaid’s Purse, Faith had a makeshift pasta e fagioli simmering for the crowd’s dinner. She found day-old Italian bread that she buttered and seasoned for garlic bread.

  Back at the inn, her mother and Maeve had put in a solid day’s work as well, cleaning and freshening rooms as best they could in the cold, dark house. Bruce had been too busy to come by and remove the plywood from the windows or drop off the promised generator.

  “I hope Bruce doesn’t forget about us.” Maeve wrung her hands. “It’s going to be so darn gloomy in here without any light.”

  “He said he wouldn’t,” said Faith. “He’s going to be pretty busy covering the storm’s aftermath. I doubt you’ll be able to count on him as much right now.”

  “He always takes care of me,” said Maeve.

  “Anyway, after all the guests have been through, they’ll be happy to have a bed and a roof over their heads,” said Faith. By the time she left the church, Alicia’s “Housing Wanted” board had been plastered with index cards. Faith had mentioned the inn’s availability, and hoped others would come forward to offer shelter.

  “So how’s this going to work, anyway?” Faith asked. “Will you simply offer the guests breakfast, as usual?”

  Maeve shook her head. “Under these circumstances, we’ll have to be more ‘full service.’ Three meals a day—simple ones, but they’ll be counting on us for that. As for linens, laundry, housekeeping, we’ll play it by ear. See what they need.”

  “Maybe Faith our chef here would like to work a little magic tomorrow night and whip up a fancy welcome dinner for our new guests?” Winking, Connie nudged her daughter.

  “Ordinarily, I’d love to, but I’m heading back to the city tomorrow.” Craig’s friend drove a cab; Faith had booked him for six o’clock the following morning.

  Although they tried to convince her to stay, Faith remained resolute.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to check on Xander and the restaurant. Besides, Mom, Maeve’s a pro at this. And now you’ll really get to see what it’s like to be an innkeeper.”

  Given the inn’s sudden reinvention as a storm haven, Faith decided to table her concerns about Connie becoming a permanent fixture at The Mermaid’s Purse. They still had nearly two weeks before her mother was due back at work.

  As the three finished leftovers by candlelight, fatigue overtook Faith. Though even a slow night at Piquant could be far more physically taxing than her work today, the last eight hours had depleted her emotionally. She could only imagine how she would feel tomorrow, faced with her ruined restaurant.

  Excusing herself, she gathered her belongings and placed them by the couch so she could depart quickly in the morning. She then lay down and closed her eyes, certain she’d fall asleep immediately, except that the recollection of the desolate couple up at the beach kept interfering. Why hadn’t she approached them and mentioned the inn’s availability? Faith crossed her fingers that word of openings at The Mermaid’s Purse had reached them.

  Faith sighed and turned over, eventually edging toward slumber, only to be jolted awake by a crash outside the salon window.

  24

  Once off the couch, Faith could see the nearly full moon through the salon window—odd because she had lain down in the inky darkness imposed by Bruce’s storm-proofing. She tried to open the window, but its ancient sash wouldn’t budge. She could see nothing in the side yard, but the cries outside sounded like someone suffering excruciating pain.

  “Mom. Mom!” Faith grabbed a flashlight from the coffee table. “Somebody’s outside. I think they’re hurt.”

  “I’m right here.” Connie met Faith in the front hall, tightening the belt of her bathrobe.

  “We should call the police. Where’s Maeve?”

  “I assume bed. She said good night.”

  “Stay here. I’ll check.” Faith bounded into the kitchen to check Maeve’s adjacent living quarters, which were empty, then reported back to her mother. “Where could she have gone?”

  “I remember her complaining earlier about the house being too dark for the guests.” Connie’s eyes widened. “You don’t suppose . . .”

  Without waiting for her mother, Faith yanked open the front door. She hurried down the steps and around the side of the inn, waving her flashlight and illuminating a splintered sheet of plywood hanging by a corner. Lowering the beam to the ground, Faith dropped to her knees in the damp grass, where Maeve lay crumpled and whimpering next to a fallen ladder, her right leg twisted unnaturally beneath her and a hammer just beyond her reach.

  “Mom. Call nine-one-one. Use my phone. It’s charged,” Faith ordered as her mother caught up to her.

  “But how bad—”

  “Never mind. Just call.”

  As Connie fled to summon the EMTs, Maeve reached up in protest. “Just give me a minute, dear, and I’ll be fine.” She attempted to raise her head, but grimaced and fell back onto the damp lawn. “Oh, my. I think I’ve really done it.”

  “You’ve got to stay still, Maeve.” From the ladder’s angle and the height of the window, Faith knew Maeve had fallen hard. “Help will be here in a little bit.”

  “One more yank and I would have had it,” Maeve cried softly. “I used to be able to do all these things myself. I hate having to depend on someone else.”

  “They’re on their way.” Returning from summoning the authorities, Connie knelt on Maeve’s other side and covered her with a blanket. “It’s all right. We’ll get you to the hospital, and you’ll be good as new.” But as she met her daughter’s gaze over Maeve’s chest, Connie’s eyes revealed her fear. “This is bad,” she mouthed.

  Lips pressed together, Faith nodded imperceptibly.

  After a few minutes, Connie got to her feet, motioning for Faith to follow her a few yards away from Maeve. “I’m going to get dressed,” she whispered.

  “You’re going with her?” Faith asked.

  “Who else is there?”

  “You might end up at the hospital all night.” Faith glanced back at Maeve, who moaned softly.

  “Maybe so, but Maeve has no one. We can’t let her go alone. And with you leaving at the crack of dawn . . .”

  “What about the guests coming tomorrow?”

  Connie glanced back at the inn. “I suppose I could leave a note on the door and tell them to make themselves comfortable. Or try to get hold of Bruce.”

  That man is not everybody’s salvation, Faith thought, frustrated.

  Faith walked back to where Maeve lay and crouched again to comfort her with a squeeze of her hand. She thought of her packed bag beside the couch, her early-morning cab, the restaurant recovery operation awaiting her in New York. As much as she yearned to hop into that taxi in a few hours and head back to the city, it was clear her mother could not manage both Maeve’s medical crisis and the boarders’ imminent arrival. Alone in Wave’s End, Connie had only Faith to turn to, whereas Xander could at least count on some of the bar- and waitstaff to bail him out—lite
rally, in this case, given the seawaters that surged through Piquant.

  Bruce had even said so that morning: another day wouldn’t matter.

  As the siren’s wail announced the ambulance’s arrival, Maeve moaned again.

  Faith got to her feet, brushing dirt from her sweatpants. “You stay here, Mom. I’ll go to the hospital with Maeve.”

  “But how can you? What about your boss? Piquant?”

  “Xander will understand. Stay here at The Mermaid’s Purse. That way, when your first boarders arrive tomorrow, you’ll be ready to greet them.”

  25

  “You can at least save the wine, can’t you?” Faith asked Xander, rubbing her eyes at the predawn light splintering through the hospital blinds. She had been curled up in the waiting room chair for more than an hour now while Maeve had her scans, benefiting from a rare live outlet to charge her phone, while the person next to her eyed her, phone in hand. It had been only two days, but the scarcity of power had already brought out the worst in some people, Faith noticed.

  Fortunately, the facility agreed to treat Maeve. Most of the coastal hospitals had been running on generators after evacuating several hundred non-acute patients to inland hospitals the previous day, according to the exhausted nurse who assessed Maeve in the crowded emergency room.

  Following that evaluation, Faith sat beside Maeve’s stretcher for close to four hours before a technician came and took the woman for her MRI and CAT scans. It might be a long wait, the technician warned her as he wheeled Maeve away. Faith used that opportunity to call her boss.

  “The wine is unsalvageable,” replied Xander. “I can’t risk serving bad wine to customers.”

  “Oh, Xander. I can’t even . . . I’m just so, so sorry.” How Xander had prized his carefully curated wine cellar.

  “Not that I’m likely to have customers anytime soon. Piquant is done, for now.”

  Leaning her head against the wall, Faith winced as Xander described how little he had salvaged from the inundated interior, how propping the entrance open the entire first day had done nothing to dissipate the mildewed stench inside. Already, a spongy emerald waterline had sprouted on the dining room walls about four feet from the floor, he said, marking the water’s torrential passage through the restaurant.

  “What about upstairs?” she asked.

  The glass high-rise overhead had the feel of a ghost town, he said, its wealthy owners having evacuated.

  Faith massaged her throbbing temples. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

  “Stick around and get a timeline on the utility repairs to the neighborhood. Then there’s the remediation, new wiring, new floors . . .” Xander’s voice trailed off, husky with worry.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help. I’ll be back in a couple of days at most.” She got up and peered down the hospital hall for any sign of Maeve or the X-ray technician.

  “I appreciate that. But Piquant’s going to be out of commission for months, at least. I can’t afford to pay you.”

  Or repay you. The words hung between them.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Why did I say that? It does matter. If only he didn’t sound so damned desolate. “We’ll figure something out, Xander. I have a stake in the place, too.”

  “About that. You have no idea how shitty I feel about the loan. My timing sucked. But there’s no point in coming back here right now. There’s nothing left.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re there.” Woozy from exhaustion, she fought tears. In Piquant, Faith had finally found the restaurant where she belonged and a boss she respected, even if money management wasn’t his finest suit. Back when she began working as a chef in the restaurant Xander managed, he noticed Faith’s potential, encouraging her and connecting her to the top kitchens in the city, finally rewarding her with a spot in his own. She knew the Piquant staff thought there was something romantic between them. And there had been, fleetingly, back when they initially met. But outside the heat of the kitchen, the attraction simmering between them fizzled.

  Fortunately, they salvaged their friendship, which remained strong.

  And now Nadine would wrest all of that from her.

  “You’re a fantastic chef,” Xander continued. “Any restaurant would be lucky to have you.”

  “Don’t say that. I don’t want another restaurant.” Faith flushed at the rare praise from her boss.

  “I know some folks uptown. You might have to go back on the line for a bit, until you show them what you’re made of.” He paused, exhaling, and Faith pictured him spewing a stream of smoke at Piquant’s awnings the way he did on their mutual breaks. Those awnings were probably shredded by now.

  “Say the word, and I’ll make some calls,” Xander prompted.

  “No. No calls. Not yet.” They’d opened Piquant together, and it would kill her to leave. And even as Xander watched his business wash away, he still looked out for her. “I’ll let you know.” Faith hung up before he could hear her crying.

  26

  Once Maeve was admitted, Bruce picked up Faith from the hospital. On the drive back to Wave’s End, she outlined Maeve’s condition: the scans had ruled out head trauma or internal bleeding, but her X-rays indicated a badly fractured hip. Surgery to place a pin within the joint had to wait until the swelling around it subsided.

  “So Maeve’s looking at an extended hospital stay,” Faith said. “Followed by several weeks of inpatient physical therapy.”

  Bruce tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “Well, it’s unfortunate, but it could have been far, far worse. Thank you for going with Maeve. For staying with her. I know you had other plans.”

  Faith stared out the window. “Those plans appear to be on hold at the moment.” On the sidewalk, she spotted a very determined Superwoman, whose satin cape rippled as she wrangled a bumblebee on a leash while herding a pint-sized pirate, a witch and a zombie. It was Halloween, Faith realized; she had completely lost track of the days.

  “In any event, I’m grateful,” Bruce continued. “I’d say your mother taking over the reins of The Mermaid’s Purse couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time.”

  Opportune for whom? Faith wanted to ask. “It is lucky my mother’s there,” she said instead. “But she hasn’t exactly taken the reins—at least not legally, anyway.”

  “Is that your understanding?”

  Her guard up, Faith eyed him, but Bruce stared resolutely at the road. He seemed like he knew something. Had Connie already taken him into her confidence? Please, no, Mom. Bruce seemed like an okay guy, despite being somewhat condescending. She sighed, her neck hot with anxiety, hoping her instincts were wrong and Bruce’s inquiry was innocent. “Yes. My mother has some decisions to make. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” Sniffing, he rubbed his nose. “I must have misunderstood.”

  “Misunderstood what?”

  “Nothing. You should have this conversation with your mother. Now, did I mention I hooked up the generator this morning?” Bruce launched into a series of instructions about the inn’s temporary power source. “You can have a hot shower when you get home.”

  When they eventually pulled into the driveway of The Mermaid’s Purse, Faith frowned at the earsplitting rumble.

  “Generator. You’ll get used to it.” Bruce hoisted a gas can out of the trunk. “I’m going to go feed the beast. You should head on in. Your mother’s anxious to hear how Maeve is.”

  And I’ve got a few questions for her. She let herself in through the unlocked back entrance, turning to pull shut the stubborn screen door. As Faith fiddled with it, something hard nailed her squarely in the back. She turned.

  “Crap. Sorry. My bad.” A tall young man in jeans and a black T-shirt loped across the kitchen to scoop up a Frisbee from the floor, the length of chain around his neck scraping the tile as he did so. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, fine. It’s cool.” Faith blinked in the stark white kitchen. Something about the teen seemed familiar. “Are y
ou a friend of Maeve’s?”

  “Maeve? No. I just moved here with my mom. We, like, lost our place.”

  “I’m Faith. Nice to meet you. And I’m sorry about your house.” Why was her mother allowing the inn guests access to the kitchen, a space normally reserved for staff?

  “Whatever. It’s not like it was totally ours. We were renters. You homeless, too?”

  “No. I’m here to help my mother, Mrs. Sterling.”

  “You mean the owner? Connie seems cool.”

  Owner? Had her mother represented herself that way to the boarders?

  Faith watched him spin the Frisbee toward the tin ceiling, flinching at the ting of plastic on metal. “Gage Castro. What is wrong with you? Apologize right now.” The raspy demand came from a tall, slight woman in the kitchen doorway—the boy’s mother, Faith presumed. Her long wet hair had left damp patches on her oversized Metallica sweatshirt.

  That voice. Faith recognized it from the beach yesterday: the mother and her surly son arguing over the missing dog. Embarrassed to have been eavesdropping, she was relieved that neither guest appeared to recognize her.

  “Chill, Mom. I did already.” Gage rolled his eyes. “I’m out of here.”

  “Nervous energy. Sorry if he was bothering you,” she said once her son had bounded out the back door. “It’s been a long couple of days. I’m Roxanne.” She extended a thin hand, ringless save for a thick silver ankh thumb band. “Mother of Gage, obviously. So, what brings you here? Sand damage? Trees? Six feet of water in your basement?”

  “Actually, my place in Brooklyn didn’t even lose power. I’m Faith, Connie’s daughter. I’m here helping, sort of.”

  “That’s nice of you. Everybody’s been so kind.” Her eyes filled. “Damn. Sorry.” She tore a paper towel from a roll by the sink and dabbed her eyes. “I thought I had finished crying. Guess I haven’t. You must think I’m nuts.”