At Wave's End: A Novel

by Patricia Perry Donovan

  Merrill offered Faith her phone. “This came up when we searched for inns in the area.”

  Faith took the phone and stared. There, in full color on the Beacon’s website, under the headline “New Innkeeper Claims Her Prize,” were Maeve, Connie and Faith in the photo Bruce had taken on this very porch, accompanied by a lengthy article that Faith didn’t bother to read. When had her mother sat for an interview? Well, of course Connie would make herself available if it involved spending time with Bruce Neery.

  “I told you we should have phoned,” said Grace, watching Faith’s reaction.

  Merrill took her phone back. “With so much lovely publicity, I’m not surprised you’re filled up.”

  “We’ve come all the way from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Can you recommend someplace else to stay?” Grace asked, leaning on her cane. Faith hesitated only a second before reaching out to take Merrill’s suitcase.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you’ll stay here. We’ve got plenty of room.” With that, she opened the door to her mother’s first official paying guests—the only ones who wouldn’t rely on the town’s emergency vouchers.

  “Welcome to The Mermaid’s Purse, ladies. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  33

  “Coming here was Grace’s idea,” explained Merrill, the taller sister and older by three years, digging into the slice of strata Faith set in front of her. Merrill had overruled an antsy Grace, insisting they wait and eat a hot breakfast before volunteering.

  Sickened by the storm’s devastation chronicled on television, Grace had compelled them to travel the nearly one hundred and fifty miles from their Pennsylvania homes.

  “The birds were the last straw.” Grace leaned her cane against the table. “It’s bad enough these families have to endure the destruction,” she said, her hand trembling as she brought a bite of the egg dish to her mouth. “But when they talked on television about how the local birds had left the shore area . . . Well, when Mother Nature drives even the native birds away, that’s when you know things are tough. We had to come and do something.”

  Watching the woman struggle to eat, Faith wondered how much she could physically contribute to the relief effort.

  “Okay, you’re all set,” announced Connie, who had met the sisters earlier as Faith was seating them in the dining room. “I’ve arranged a room for the two of you on the second floor. That is, if you’re sure the stairs won’t be too much for you.” She eyed Grace’s cane.

  “Not at all, thank you. In fact, I’ll go with you now and have a look.”

  With Grace out of sight, Faith leaned over, unsure how to pose her question. “Will your sister be okay here?” she asked.

  Merrill set down her fork. “Grace is quite the independent one. And tougher than she looks. Although if her oncologist had any idea she were here, she’d probably shoot the both of us. As it is, we skipped out on a doctor’s visit today.”

  “Should you have done that?”

  “My sister’s doing very well. She’s tired, but her treatments are done, and the doctors are optimistic. She’s supposed to be home resting, though, not running up and down the East Coast volunteering.” Merrill leaned over confidingly. “But just try to keep that woman down. When you’ve been a midwife as long as she has, delivering babies at all hours, it’s kind of hard to just relax.”

  “She’s a midwife? That’s so cool, helping mothers give birth at home.”

  “Actually, most of the women deliver at a hospital. But if you want my advice, don’t even get into that hospital-versus-home-birth debate with my sister. She’ll win every time. Grace has some hospital stories that’ll curl your hair.”

  “Not mine! It’s poker straight after the chemo,” laughed Grace, rejoining them.

  “I was just telling Faith about your journey,” explained Merrill.

  Grace grimaced. “Journey schmourney. Please just say cancer, will you? It came down to me needing a break from my cancer, Faith, and my sister here offering to drive my getaway car.”

  “We’re a regular Thelma and Louise,” Merrill said with a grin.

  Grace grabbed her cane. “Come on, Thelma. Let’s go figure out how we can help these poor folks, since they’re the reason we came all this way.”

  34

  With their newest guests off to serve the Wave’s End community by volunteering at the church, as suggested by Faith, and with Fred and Mona comfortable in the salon, Fred reading to his wife from National Geographic, Connie decided to go food shopping.

  “I might be a while,” she said after she and Faith made the food list. “There’s still only one supermarket with power.”

  Enjoying the solitude of the kitchen after the hectic morning, Faith unearthed a pair of well-used cookie sheets from a drawer under the oven and set about oiling them. While dinner preparations would have to wait until her mother’s return, she could at least get a jump start on a roasted vegetable soup that would use up the produce in Maeve’s fridge. Soup and a spiral ham, she decided, the leftover meat going for sandwiches. She could already see that with the comings and goings of guests, mealtimes at The Mermaid’s Purse needed to be flexible; things like soups and salads would be handy “grab-and-go” options.

  In quick succession, Faith peeled and sliced sweet potatoes, then cored and chopped red peppers, piling all onto the sheets before topping them with onion rounds, a drizzle of olive oil, and generous handfuls of dried oregano and parsley plus a sprinkle of red pepper flakes.

  It might take a little while, she thought, sliding the sheets into the heated oven, but she would find her rhythm in this Spartan kitchen. Sometimes cooking could be about keeping things simple, reducing the art to the most common denominator—like toasting rounds of leftover Blue Osprey bread under the broiler and topping them with melted cheese to serve with the soup.

  Just the act of organizing the meal in the solitude of the kitchen relaxed Faith; she hummed softly as the vegetables began to meld together and give off a strong, savory aroma. In the kitchen, she was in control—the way a certain hotel chef had commanded his station many years ago, on a seminal night that had changed Faith’s life.

  It had happened during one of her mother’s tedious time-share weekends, the third or fourth she dragged Faith to in as many months. After sitting through hours of confusing presentations on ownership, exchanges and vacation club points, her mother accepted the salesman’s invitation for a drink. She set up Faith alongside her with a Shirley Temple and a crossword puzzle book, but the bored ten-year-old managed to slip away. Faith explored the hotel and ended up in the darkened, deserted dining room. From here she could observe the imposing chef in the open kitchen at the far end; his tall, pleated hat quivered as he labored beneath white-hot stainless lamps. His hands flew as he diced, scraped and stacked with precision, oblivious to the wide-eyed young girl inching toward him.

  Mesmerized, Faith imagined herself performing the same culinary sleight of hand under the lights one day, wielding knives like surgical instruments.

  Eventually, the chef sensed her presence and looked up, raising his knife in salutation. He pointed to a table, inviting her to come closer.

  This acknowledgment was all it took. By the time her panicked mother located her a few minutes later, Faith had decided to become a chef.

  From that point on, she never looked back, and she worked in any restaurant that would hire her, in any capacity. She hostessed, bused, waitressed, and washed dishes, absorbing both dining room and kitchen operations even after moving east to attend culinary school.

  The rest was history, she thought, checking the tenderness of the roasting vegetables. Now she needed a pot large enough to hold soup for ten; certainly Maeve would have a stockpot or lobster pot somewhere. As she began to rummage through the cabinets, a howl like a caged animal’s came from the direction of the salon.

  Pixie. Annoyed, Faith set the stockpot on the counter and hurried out.

  But the scene she encountered in the salon had
nothing to do with the recalcitrant pet. Instead, it was Mona, come to life, up on her feet and growling and clawing at her sweet husband like an out-of-control alley cat.

  35

  “It’s all right,” Fred told Faith. “Stay back. She gets like this sometimes.” He held his hands in front of his face, shielding himself from his wife’s flailing.

  “What should I do?” Faith asked, panicked. “Call nine-one-one?”

  “No. Please don’t. She’ll calm down in a minute.”

  Faith inched closer, keeping outside the range of Mona’s blows, some of which were landing dangerously close to Fred’s ears. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

  Instead of answering, Fred cooed at his wife. “Mona, sweetie. It’s me, Fred. Everything’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.” He kept up a steady stream of reassurances like mantras until Mona began to calm down, her fists unclenching as the agitation visibly drained from her body. The pair stared at each other for a few long moments, Fred’s eyes warm and loving and Mona’s like a trapped animal’s, until Mona eventually dropped her arms in surrender and licked her lips thirstily.

  Once he was certain the episode had ended, Fred, whose gaze never left his wife’s face, tentatively reached for Mona’s hand. As though someone were adjusting an interior dimmer, Mona’s vacant eyes gradually brightened in recognition. She stepped toward her husband and dropped her face onto Fred’s shoulder, soaking his shirt with her sweat.

  Mona allowed Fred to lead her back to the sofa, where she crumpled into the corner. Fred leaned over and brushed a lock of damp hair from her eyes.

  Faith perched on the sofa arm beside them. “Does this happen often?”

  Fred hesitated. “From time to time. She doesn’t know this place. I imagine it’s scary for her. Disorienting.”

  “Of course it is, especially after the comfort of your home. Are you okay? Did she scratch you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, dear.”

  Faith put a hand on his shoulder. “Somebody needs to.”

  His shoulders slumped under her touch. “You mustn’t say a word. Your mother promised she wouldn’t tell.”

  “My mother knows about these . . . episodes?”

  “She saw Mona have a little spell last night.”

  Faith sighed. “These are more than spells, Fred.”

  “Please. Don’t tell anyone.” Fred’s bandaged fingers gripped Faith’s. “They’ll take my Mona away from me. I don’t know what will happen to her if they do. And I . . . I would die without her.”

  36

  Faith put the kettle on for Fred and Mona, then slipped outside and dropped onto the back steps. She should be angry with Connie for her complicity, but she understood her reluctance to tear apart such a devoted couple. Clearly, Fred would be lost without his wife.

  Perhaps Fred was right. Maybe in a day or two, when Mona felt more at home at The Mermaid’s Purse, her “spells,” as Fred quaintly referred to them, would taper off. If they didn’t, Faith and her mother would have to find another solution.

  “Early in the day for a break, isn’t it?”

  Faith looked up with a start to find David standing on the sidewalk holding a red gas tank.

  “Relax. I come in peace. With diesel and wood.” He set the gas tank on the top step. “Dad’s tied up at the paper. He asked me to swing by with reinforcements.”

  At the mention of Bruce, Faith realized she had never quizzed her mother about the men’s connection.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning on the banister.

  Faith pressed her hands on her knees. “One of our new boarders became a little . . . out of sorts, is all.”

  He mounted the steps, then peered through the window into the kitchen. “My father said you would be housing some locals. How’s it going so far?”

  “All right, I guess. It’s barely been a couple of days. There’s a mother and son who lost their rental, a couple of sisters from Pennsylvania who came to volunteer and an older couple. I think my mother said they lived over on Vine Street.”

  David turned. “You mean Fred and Mona?”

  “You know them?”

  “Yeah. I volunteer at the senior center sometimes. I lead some tai chi and relaxation classes. Mind if I go in and say hello?”

  “I guess it’s okay. But don’t startle them. Mona’s a little—” Before Faith could find the right word, David had opened the back door, releasing the smoky essence of Faith’s roasted vegetables.

  “Damn. The vegetables. I totally forgot about them.” Faith scrambled up the steps.

  “Rookie,” David cracked.

  “Don’t even go there. You have no idea what’s been going on around here this afternoon.”

  “I’m kidding.” He held the door for her. “You rescue the veggies. I’ll see about your guests.”

  Thankfully, the vegetables needed only a stir and a few more minutes. She set the timer for good measure, then wandered into the living room, where she found David sitting knee to knee with Mona, his hands cupping her ears and his forehead touching hers as he murmured words only Mona could hear.

  “Something I picked up down in the islands,” David said, releasing Mona, whose eyes remained closed. “Transference. Mona likes it, don’t you, Mona?”

  Mona’s brows lifted slightly, her eyes darting beneath her lids like a baby’s in slumber. A reflex, Faith decided, heading back to the kitchen. The earlier episode had already worn Mona out; David’s voice simply had lulled her to a calmer place.

  David followed her. “Skeptical, huh? You should try it.”

  “Why? Do you think I need calming?”

  “It’s very centering. I can show you. I’m not trying to make a move here, I swear.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that. Thanks, but maybe another time. You know, the whole thing reminds me of my mother and her crystals,” Faith said, opening and closing drawers under the pretext of searching for a utensil. In truth, she had turned away to hide her flushed cheeks, the consequence of imagining the not unpleasant sensation of David’s head pressed to hers.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t believe in that stuff, either?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say one too many quartzes for positivity is what landed her in this situation.” Having scraped the roasted vegetables into the stockpot, she dropped a handful of bouillon cubes into a mixing bowl and diluted them with warm water before pouring that liquid into the stockpot. Breathe, she told herself.

  “Bouillon cubes?” Swooning, David laid the back of his hand against his forehead in mock horror. “Quelle horreur! What would Bocuse say?”

  Faith turned from the stove, impressed with his knowledge of Paul Bocuse, the Lyonnais chef who revolutionized French cooking in the sixties. “He would say that in a state of emergency, vous improvisez. You improvise.” Using Maeve’s hand mixer, Faith transformed the mixture into semi-smoothness as best she could. She set a low flame under the pot, then seasoned the soup with salt and pepper. Ahh. Her breathing had returned to normal.

  “May I?” David plucked a wooden spoon from a drawer.

  “Be my guest.” Stepping aside, she watched him dip the spoon into the soup, then scrape a sample with his finger and taste it. “Mmm. Almost perfect. Except for one thing.” He pulled a crumpled brown paper bag from his pocket and shook some of its contents onto his palm. Getting a look at the small, brown, crescent-shaped seeds, Faith grinned.

  “Knew it. You one of those stoner cooks who throws pot seeds into everything?”

  “Ha. Wrong. It’s kala jeera. An Indian buddy of mine in the Caribbean introduced me to it.”

  “You always travel with your spices?”

  “Not always. I grabbed it from the Osprey’s kitchen earlier.” He waved his palm near her face. “Smell. It’s got a nutty-grassy thing going on.”

  “Nutty-grassy. Appetizing.” Faith wrinkled her nose at its bitter odor. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Come on. Just a pinch. It’ll complement the
red pepper. I promise. Chefs are supposed to be open-minded.”

  “I am. I just know what I like.”

  “How can you be so sure if you haven’t tried it?” David’s tone bordered on flirtatious.

  “All right. But just a smidge.”

  After crumbling some seeds into the soup, David stirred the mixture with a clean spoon and offered the utensil to Faith. Her tongue tingled as she rolled the flavors around in her mouth; the kala jeera elevated her soup from excellent to exotic. She could envision the zing his spice would add to rice or meat dishes.

  “So? What do you think?” he pressed.

  Faith set the spoon down. “It’s kicky.”

  “I told you,” he said, smacking the counter.

  “Kind of like . . . a reggae band in my mouth,” she cracked.

  David’s grin emphasized the tanned creases around his eyes. “So the fancy New York chef has a sense of humor.”

  “I have my moments. Sorry I doubted you.”

  “Apology accepted.” Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, David glanced around the kitchen. “So, now that I’ve wowed you, what else can we cook up around here?”

  “Sorry, my friend. This was a one-time collaboration. I run a pretty tight operation.”

  “Come on. You have to let me earn my keep.”

  Faith frowned. “What ‘keep’ is that?”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you? She invited me to stay here. As of this afternoon, I’m officially a boarder at The Mermaid’s Purse.”

  37

  Sure enough, the voucher David presented to Faith authorized the same short-term housing stipend from the town council as the other boarders’. Because Wave’s End had condemned The Blue Osprey, David couldn’t legally spend another night in his restaurant’s cramped office/bedroom. That qualified the chef for emergency funding.

  Reading the shock on Faith’s face, David shoved his hands in his pockets. “Listen: if you have a problem with me staying here, I can try one of the other inns. No big deal.”