“I don’t. You’ve been through a lot.”
“It’s just . . . I thought I’d finally gotten us settled once and for all after my husband and I separated. I had this crazy idea it would be an adventure for Gage and me to take a winter rental near the water.” She wiped her nose with the towel. “Then the damn storm hit. Some adventure.”
“Did you lose a lot?” Faith thought of the mountains of discarded belongings beginning to accumulate at the beach.
She shook her head. “Not that much, compared to others. We left our last place in kind of a rush. That part’s complicated. But the things I brought there have a lot of sentimental value. We also lost—misplaced, I hope—the one thing that means anything to Gage: the new puppy from his dad.”
No wonder Gage had been so angry up at their beach house.
“That night, I told him to keep Tucker on the leash. But did he listen? Now my son’s wearing that leash like a necklace. He even sleeps with it. Like that’s going to bring that dog back.”
“Try to think positively. Maybe somebody found him.”
“I’d like to think so. Friends have taken Gage to check the shelters in the area, but so far, nothing. There’s still so much confusion.” Roxanne shook her head. “I feel so guilty. Stupidly, we didn’t elevate the furniture or . . . No one thought the water would come up that high. And now I have to uproot my kid again.” She blew her nose. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m a terrible mother.”
“No, you’re not,” Faith murmured. Speaking of mothers, where might hers be? Boarders or no boarders, the two needed to talk. “Can I make you a cup of tea or something?”
“Nope, I’m good.” Roxanne coiled her wet hair over one shoulder. “I know I sound ungrateful. I’m not. This place is a gift. Your mom gave us the two upstairs singles. But I just want to get us back into our own place as soon as possible. Our lives back to normal, whatever that will be. But I can barely find the energy to—” With a sigh, Roxanne glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Yikes. It’s late. I need to get back up to the beach. The town said everything has to be out by the curb by tomorrow. Before the bulldozers come. Thank God friends are coming to help, or I might never get through it.” Roxanne sniffed, then wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Anyway, thanks for listening. I better find Gage now.”
Watching Roxanne through the window over the sink (Bruce had taken care of the plywood removal as well), it struck Faith that she had learned more about the inn’s new boarders Roxanne and Gage in those few minutes than she had ever discovered about even her most faithful Piquant customer. Had Roxanne simply overshared, her emotions raw from the storm’s trauma, or were guests at the inn always this open?
Faith leaned on the sink. Before even boiling water at The Mermaid’s Purse, she felt the weight of the boarders’ concerns. This was going to be different from life at Piquant, that much was clear.
Squaring her shoulders, she went in search of her mother.
27
Faith found Connie in the salon folding towels and raised her eyebrows at the startling transformation. Her mother had abandoned her habitual flowing skirts for tailored slacks and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. She had knotted a white canvas butcher’s apron at her waist and pulled her silver hair into a bun.
In short, her mother seemed to have channeled Maeve’s style to greet the new boarders.
“Faith!” Connie exclaimed, getting up from the couch. “I’ve been so worried about Maeve. I couldn’t get through to the hospital. Tell me everything.”
Anxious as she was to get to the bottom of Bruce’s evasiveness, Faith set those concerns aside to fill her mother in about Maeve.
“That poor woman,” Connie said when Faith finished. “She’s lucky we were here.”
“Right. About us being here. We need to talk, Mom.”
“All right, but I only have a minute. Some guests have already arrived.”
“I know. I met Roxanne and Gage. And I think it’s wonderful you want to help them. And any others that might come. But things are different now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Maeve’s going to be out of commission for quite a while. I think we need a better plan.”
“If you’re talking about running this place, these guests aren’t expecting the Ritz. I expect things will be pretty relaxed.”
“Of course. I get that. Between the two of us, we can manage things for the time being. But what happens in a couple of weeks, when you have to go back to work? This started out as a trial run, remember?”
“Tell that to Nadine.”
“I’m just saying that maybe you should go back to Maeve. Ask her to contact the contest’s runner-up.”
“And give this place up before I’ve even given it a try?”
Faith moistened her lips. “You’ll have your turn for a bit, and then there could be . . . a transition period between you two. You have a lot to lose here by being impulsive, Mom.”
Connie sat down again and took another towel from the pile to fold. “I’m very aware of that,” she said, shaking the towel.
“Good. Because we’ve been here before. Let me see.” Faith tapped her chin, mentally riffling through her mother’s exploits. “Remember when you jumped into that work-at-home assembly job?” When Faith was in high school, her mother impulsively signed on to purchase thousands of dollars in poorly made craft materials, only to have her employer reject most of her assembly work.
“This is completely different. You can’t compare yarn to people’s lives. And by the way, thank you for reminding me of my failures.”
Here we go: Teflon Connie. “That wasn’t a failure, but it was rash. I’m suggesting you see these boarders through the next few weeks. Then, maybe one day, after you retire, you can come back—”
“Out of the question.” Her mother’s voice tightened. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find another way to make this work.”
“I never said I wouldn’t help. I just want you to see the big picture. You know, nothing’s been right about this from the start. Maybe Maeve’s accident is a sign you should just walk away from The Mermaid’s Purse.”
“I love this place already. And anyway, I can’t walk away.”
Fear flushed Faith’s neck again. “Why not?”
“Because I signed the transfer-of-ownership papers. The day after you dropped me off.”
This was what Bruce had hesitated to say: her mother had rushed headlong into full ownership.
“Did Bruce talk you into doing that?”
Eyes on the laundry, Connie grabbed another towel without finishing the previous one. “Of course he didn’t. Why would you think that?”
“Because he seemed to know about it.”
“Well, I might have mentioned . . .” Connie smoothed the newly folded towel repeatedly. “I know you told me not to commit, but just once, I wanted something all my own.”
“But the day I drove you down here, we decided you would wait.”
“No, Faith. You decided. You wanted me to wait. But why should I hold out when I won this place fair and square?”
“So all that talk about just taking some vacation time?”
“That was true. At the time.”
Faith crossed her arms. “Please tell me you didn’t quit the factory.”
Connie looked away, silently fiddling with her apron strings.
“Please tell me you didn’t give up your apartment. Throw away your entire future.”
“The apartment was a rental. And I don’t view this as throwing away my future. The Mermaid’s Purse will be my security. Coastal real estate is a good investment, isn’t it?”
Faith stared. “Usually, unless a hundred-year storm rips through it. Have you given a thought to taxes? Utilities? Maintenance? Staff salaries?” Faith could go on and on, but what was the point? The damage was done. “Can I at least look at the papers?”
“They’re with Mr. Walker, Maeve’s accountant. And anyway, it’s too late to chang
e anything. The Mermaid’s Purse is mine fair and square, for better or worse. And these families coming need our help.” Connie got up and walked over to the fireplace where Faith now stood. “So it’s up to you: are you staying in Wave’s End, or not?”
28
Quivering with indignation, Faith stormed outside, where Bruce had just loaded the empty gas tank into his trunk.
“You knew about those ownership papers, didn’t you?” Faith said. “That’s what you wouldn’t tell me in the car earlier.”
“I don’t like to get in the middle of things.”
“Why do I have the feeling you already have?”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Faith, but your mother’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”
Barely two weeks in and this guy was already going to bat for her mother? This level of loyalty was fast, even for Connie. Tempted to give Bruce an earful about some of her mother’s more memorable choices, Faith kept herself in check. “You don’t know her very well. She can be . . . impulsive.” Faith paced in the driveway. “There’s got to be a loophole. Aren’t there review periods or something for these things?”
“In some cases, but I believe that window has closed.” Bruce crossed his arms and leaned on his car. “Why exactly are you so riled up?”
“Because . . . because I know how this works. At some point, I’ll have to clean up this mess.”
“Of course I don’t know the history between you two—”
“No, you don’t.”
“And it may not be my concern, but there might be another way to look at this situation.”
“Really? And how is that?”
“Maybe you’re meant to see that your mother got to Wave’s End in the nick of time. That you should cut her some slack while she gets those poor families settled. They’ve been through hell over the last few days.” After a final, deliberate look at Faith, Bruce climbed into his truck and started the engine.
You’re right: it’s not your concern. Mind your own damn business, Faith thought as Bruce departed. How dare he question her compassion for the storm survivors after she spent the previous day assisting them? And didn’t Xander fit in the same category?
Going to sit on the back steps, Faith felt drained from the hours at the hospital with Maeve, and from her depressing conversation with Xander that had essentially left her unemployed. She just didn’t have it in her at the moment to fight Connie on this one, not after her mother’s latest disclosure.
A month ago, Faith had slept soundly with the knowledge that, thanks to Connie’s food-processing job, her mother would soon be solvent enough to never worry about food, shelter, medical care. And in spite of Connie’s trip east, Faith had convinced herself her mother would never jeopardize that security. But then her mother had done that very thing, by virtue of signing those papers and tying herself inextricably to the inn.
Faith could see no way out of this one. And hell, maybe Bruce was right. Her mother was a grown-up. If Connie Sterling wanted to be an innkeeper, then she should damn well be an innkeeper, come hell or high water—the latter being something of a liability in Wave’s End. And as her mother said, the inn was now legally Connie’s; she could always sell the property if necessary.
Inside, Connie was back on the couch, flanked by piles of folded towels.
“You know what, Mom?” Faith said, hands on hips. “This inn is yours now. And since it looks like I’m out of a job, I’ll stay for a bit and help. At least until you figure out another plan.”
Shoulders slumping in relief, Connie rose and hugged her daughter. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me, honey.”
“So I guess that means I’m working for you.” Faith attempted a smile.
“Great. Because I’ve actually thought of a few things that need doing.” Connie rummaged for a paper in her apron pocket. “For starters, a restaurant up at the beach has offered to donate some food, as long as someone could come and collect it. I’d go myself, except I still need to get ready for an older couple arriving this afternoon.”
“No problem. Just point me in the right direction.” Faith spotted her bag beside the couch. “But may I at least throw my things upstairs before you put me to work? I mean, I do merit a bed now that I’m working here, don’t I?”
“Of course you do.” Connie tapped her chin. “Let’s see: second floor, first door on the right.”
Upstairs, Faith recognized the room from Maeve’s tour and dropped her bag beside the wrought-iron trundle bed.
“Find it okay?” Connie poked her head in.
“Yes, thanks. Oh, wait a second. You forgot something.” From a brass hook Faith grabbed the paisley skirt Connie wore the day at the airport and tossed it to her mother.
“No, I didn’t.” Catching the skirt, Connie then folded it and slid it into a drawer.
“Why are you putting it in there?”
“Because that’s where the rest of my things are.”
“But . . . but you just said this was my room.”
“It is. You’re bunking with me, honey. Make yourself comfortable. We’re going to be roommates.”
PART 4: HONEYMOON
29
As she drove to the beach in the old wood-paneled wagon that turned out to be Maeve’s, Faith told herself she’d be fine on the trundle bed alongside her mother in the cramped bedroom, although the thought of sleeping so near to Connie did make her a little uncomfortable. The closest they had come had been sharing a set of bunk beds long ago, an experience so far in Faith’s past she could barely recall it. Maybe as a child she had been afraid to sleep alone, and her mother kept her company. She’d have to remember to ask Connie about it when she got back.
But as for the current arrangements, as her mother had just explained, it made sense to make the inn’s remaining rooms available for additional families; also, doubling up would save electricity, relieving the burden on the overtaxed generator.
Besides, she’d stay in Wave’s End only long enough to settle her mother into her innkeeping routine. During that interim, the two likely would be so exhausted from running The Mermaid’s Purse all day they’d fall asleep the second their heads hit the pillows.
A block ahead, the beachfront loomed. The town had reinforced the barricade since yesterday; today, uniformed guards patrolled the line of hazard-orange sawhorses stretched across the road. Faith pulled over and called the number for David Huntington that her mother had given her.
“Tell them you’re here for me,” the restaurant owner instructed. “The Blue Osprey. I put you on the list.”
Sure enough, after Faith mentioned David’s name, the officer waved her through. As she followed the beach road in a direction she hadn’t gone the day before, her mouth fell open at lifeguard stands splintered like matchsticks, stretches of boardwalk peeled back like the chocolate shavings she used to garnish Piquant desserts, concrete benches corralled in a vacant lot after detaching from their boardwalk stations.
A few blocks beyond, the road veered sharply right at a sparkling expanse of water. Faith spotted the top half of a sign—THE BLUE—its bottom buried in a sand dune. A tanned, wiry, thirtyish man in a long-sleeved T-shirt and baseball cap worn backward over his ponytail shoveled furiously, working to free the sign.
Faith rolled down her window. “I’m looking for David? I’m from The Mermaid’s Purse.” Behind him, the restaurant’s aluminum roof buckled under the sand’s weight.
The man pulled off his sunglasses and squinted at her. “Right. The food. Park as best you can.” He pointed his glasses at the debris-filled street and disappeared inside a screen door. After finding a spot to leave the car, Faith followed, taken aback at the sand blanketing the dining room floor. Despite the barrage of beach that had forced its way inside, some tables had survived the onslaught, remaining upright, frozen in time, still set expectantly with white tablecloths and mismatched chairs, fall mums wilting in bud vases, awaiting patrons who might stroll in at any mome
nt.
The rest of the tables had been piled against a back wall.
Faith found David inside the narrow, well-equipped galley kitchen. A large cutout serving window offered a view of the entire dining room, as well as the waters beyond, thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows.
“This is a beautiful setting,” Faith said.
“Yeah, it is. Was.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve got bread, produce and some semi-defrosted pumpkin–sweet potato bisque if you’re interested. The soup will be fine if you serve it in the next day or two.” He pulled stainless pots from the fridge and set them on the counter. After accepting a ladle, Faith began to transfer the soup into plastic lidded buckets he set in front of her.
“Mamouna’s. Yummy Brooklyn sorbet,” she said, recognizing the containers. “I love their lychee cilantro.”
“One of our best sellers here in the summer.”
“We sold it, too. Until the storm.” Faith detailed the pummeling Piquant suffered at Nadine’s hand, and her reasons for coming to the inn’s aid in Wave’s End.
“Lottery, huh? I heard something about that. After the last few days, I bet your mother’s feeling like she won the booby prize.”
“Quite the opposite, actually. I’m not sure she totally understands what she’s gotten herself into.”
“Did any of us?” David clapped the lid on the last bucket. “I guess this little place doesn’t exactly measure up to your fancy city restaurant.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Faith surveyed the menu taped above David’s prep station: grilled watermelon and conch salad, shrimp and grits, prosciutto-and-arugula-topped pizzettes—all from locally sourced ingredients. “Looks like you know what you’re doing. Where did you train?”
“Self-taught, mostly. Picked up a few things in the Caribbean. I worked in a bunch of restaurants there to support my surfing habit. Dream of mine forever to open a restaurant.” David hopped up onto the counter. “We opened last Memorial Day. To pretty good reviews, I must say.”
At Wave's End: A Novel Page 8
