Help Yourself

by Rachel Michael Arends

  Chaser rises and play bows. She waits while I suit up and follows behind as I carry my board down the three flights of stairs and across the walkways over the dune to the ocean. She watches from shore while I wade out into the frigid water.

  I argue with Martin while I clamber up on my board and fall back into the freezing surf again moments later. I argue with clients, employees, my father, Katie, and then Martin again. I repeat the process until I can barely think or feel anymore. I try to keep the conversations in my head, but I know they escape sometimes into cries and screeches like the seabirds’, like the foam flying from the waves, like the primal roar of the ocean itself.

  Finally the time comes for me to either go back to shore, or not. It always does.

  I lay back in my wetsuit with my head floating. I could let my surfboard go and simply turn over. I could let the waves bash me and not fight them. It would be harder to swim to shallower water and then to put my feet on the bottom and walk to shore, against all the forces and currents that would encircle me, weighing me down more and more as I got closer to dry earth again, as I lost the buoyancy of the water and the numbness of the cold. I would have to drag myself across the wide beach and up so many hard wooden stairs, only to be alone.

  I sigh and roll over. The ocean begins to overtake me with the solemn earnestness of not giving a damn.

  Chaser barks from shore. She barks again and keeps it up with increasing urgency.

  “Jesus,” I curse.

  I’ll go back to earth again, for no better reason than to feed my dog.

  I swim with my board toward shore until I can put my feet down on the shifting sand.

  Darkness has closed in by the time I get to dry beach. I can’t see Chaser up ahead of me. I call for her when I have dragged myself across the cold, wide desert to my stairs.

  “Chaser, come on!”

  I still don’t see her. I look up and down the beach for any sign of movement. There’s nothing. She seems to have abandoned me, too.

  “Chaser!” I yell, less kindly than normal.

  Finally I hear her bark. I look around.

  Through the darkness, I perceive movement first. For a fleeting moment, I pray it will be Katie. Somehow whole, and alive, and approaching…

  Then I hear Chaser bark and see her white-gold feather-duster tail as she comes closer. She wags it happily, like life is inherently good.

  I hang my head and turn toward the stairs. “Come on, girl,” I grunt.

  Chaser barks once and I look back. It takes me a moment to trust my eyes, to see that she’s not alone.

  She has brought a mermaid with her.

  Chapter Eleven

  IN WHICH MERRY EMBARKS ON A CAREER

  As told by Merry, who hopes everybody likes it

  It has been a whirlwind week! I just put together another shipment of cookies and sundries for the two little ladies in Peaksy Falls. Mom and Grandma have each written to me twice already. Though the little ladies keep peppering me with questions about the game show they’re sure I’m working on, it’s still been nice to hear from them.

  I’ve enjoyed getting the news of folks back home, too. Mom wrote to say that Harley Hancock’s wife, Missy, had her twins, and they’re just as healthy and cute as can be. Mom said she and Grandma were so anxious to see those babies that they went right on over there and knocked on the door. I was pleased as peaches to hear that; they sure do need to get out more! Mom said they brought over lots of presents in honor of the blessed event, which likely means they unloaded a trunk full of eBay and QVC items still in their shipping boxes.

  This morning, I only have time to scratch out a quick reply to their latest letters to slip inside their box. I end it with:

  I’m having the time of my life!

  Maybe that seems weird, seeing as how I’ve been working like a dog and all. But, so help me God, it’s the truth.

  I got up at 5 a.m. to finish the salads, desserts, and rolls that I’m fixing to bring around to island realtors and shops as well as office buildings in the city. Today is the day that I launch my catering business.

  Wish me luck!

  The countertops are chock full of food. I’m packing sample sizes of every item into pretty cardboard containers I bought from the bakery near the swing bridge. The owner said business was even slower this winter than last year. She was tickled for the chance to get rid of her extra odd-shaped boxes before they yellowed in her store room, and I was just as happy to get them.

  The printer did a really nice job on my menus. I also got business cards and some cute stickers I’ll use to seal the boxes. Once I get everything packed up, I’ll drop off my samples like little seeds and hope people will like them so much they’ll order more, and my business will take root.

  Fritz won’t check off this task unless I’m in the black by the end of my time here, so I’ve got to start bringing in cash ASAP. I’m tracking all my expenses on my trusty spreadsheet, which will make it easy to see the bottom line. The things I learned in college are a lot more fun when I’m applying them to my own business than they were when it was some musty old case study from a book. Though I’m trying to enjoy every minute of it, I don’t have to remind myself that this is the most serious game I’ll ever play. And I’m not the only one who stands to lose if I fail.

  I’m wearing one of my pretty new outfits, and I have my makeup and hair done just like the ladies at the salon taught me. I’m getting used to myself looking this way, but I tell you what, when I walk past a mirror, I sometimes still jump a little. If I stop a second, though, I have no doubt that I’m the same old me. My eyes are blue like they’ve always been, the scar over my left eyebrow hasn’t gone anywhere, and my smile is still in place, even if it looks a little bit nervous today.

  I hear Fritz sigh. He’s been doing paperwork at the kitchen table for the past hour.

  I know that he can be grumbly, and insulting, and bratty as all get-out, but I also know that I never in a million years would have tried to start my own business without a big kick in the butt. My dad has passed on, but he sure left a good kicker in his place.

  I don’t know how on earth Fritz knows so much about so many things! He has an opinion about everything under the sun.

  “Are you going to get out for a beach walk today?” I ask him as I load the cooler. “I never did see the beachy clothes you bought when I was getting my hair done.”

  “I didn’t buy any,” he says, without so much as looking up.

  “You didn’t?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “So you don’t have to keep up your end of the deal when you strike a bargain?” I ask, maybe sounding saucy.

  “Do you really want to argue with me about such a minor issue?” he asks. “I am keeping up my end of this horrendous bargain.” He sweeps his hand around, indicating the room, the ocean, me, and pretty much everything.

  He sets right back to work on his papers.

  I don’t want to fight, so I try to make up with him. “It was so pretty when I went out earlier.”

  “So purdy?” Fritz mocks my accent.

  “A weird spiny fish had washed up on shore,” I tell him. “Its eyes were so human! It wasn’t decayed at all, either; it looked like it could just swim right away.”

  “Trust me, Merry, if it could have, it would have,” he mumbles.

  Fritz helped me get all my ducks in a row for this catering business. I was willing to follow the saying that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, but Fritz said I had to do things the “proper” way. I suppose I can put up with his frowns and sighs and mockings and stubbornness after all he’s done to help me.

  “Do you know what kind of a fish it was?” I ask.

  “Sounds like a deflated puffer fish. I can’t say that I blame him for just dying and washing up. His last words were probably: Screw it, I’m so damn sick of the ocean.”

  “I’m sorry you have to be here,” I say.

  Fritz sighs. “There’s a book o
n the shelf that has all the shells and sea life you’re likely to find here.” He points to a white wicker bookcase that also holds a stack of battered board games.

  “You really miss home, and Victor, don’t you?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes and turns back to his papers. “Don’t ya?” he mocks me quietly.

  I don’t give up that easily, though.

  “I’ve never been to London. I bet it’s just beautiful. What do you miss most about it?”

  He puts down his pen and sighs again.

  “Everything. I miss the city, the lights, the pavement on the streets, the traffic, the architecture, the people…” He looks up. “Shall I go on?”

  “Oh my goodness, yes! I want to hear all about it. I’ve never been out of the country—not even to Mexico or Canada. I’ve always loved watching travel shows on PBS and dreaming about going on long visits all over the place. I want to see the buildings, eat the food, and hear the accents. Will you tell me all about London once I get back here tonight?”

  “Sure, Merry,” he says. He picks up a little scrap of bright pink paper and holds it tight in his hand.

  I try to sound confident. “Now I’ve got to go off and see what I can do about task number two.”

  “Go on, then,” he says.

  “Want to come along?” I ask. I suppose I’m a touch scared.

  “You’ll do fine, Merry,” he says with more kindness in his voice than I’ve heard yet, which I know isn’t saying a whole lot, but still.

  It was one thing to talk a big talk. It was nice to have an excuse to shop for all the ingredients I needed to make my favorite staples. I loved spending days in the kitchen, only breaking long enough to chat with Uncle Max, or be mocked by Fritz, or to walk along the beach. I even had fun packing everything up in the little boxes. But now I have to go out there and sell myself.

  “You’re still here?” Uncle Max asks, coming into the open living room from my dad’s bedroom, which he has taken over. I can tell by his messy white hair, and from the pillow creases on the side of his face, that he’s been napping in bed.

  “It looks like I might just get this beach house after all,” he says.

  With that backhanded encouragement, I pick up one of my new coolers. It has Help Yourself written across it in green Sharpie marker. I was fixing to write it on there yesterday, but since Fritz knows calligraphy, he did the honors.

  I begin to haul it down the stairs.

  “Don’t forget to drop that bag of goodies next door on your way out,” Uncle Max says, pointing to the small shopping bag I packed for our neighbor. The one I met on the beach a few nights ago.

  “Do you want to run it over there for me?” I ask. “I’ve sort of got my hands full right now. And since he was your brother’s friend, he probably wants to give you his condolences.”

  “Oh no, not me,” Uncle Max says. “I’m a homebody these days. Stay in and rest, you know. Doctor’s orders.” He grabs a pack of cigarettes off the side table and heads for the deck.

  Fritz shakes his head when I look at him.

  Phil and I have exchanged some nice love notes and recipes since I’ve been here, and we’ve had a few sweet phone talks. This time away from each other is turning out to be the highlight of our relationship. But the truth is: I don’t mind delivering the goody bag next door.

  I want to see Jack Morningstar up close again. Our kitchen window overlooks his deck, and since our deck is further forward, he can’t see us. So it’s a pretty convenient setup for spying. I haven’t said so to Fritz or Uncle Max, so don’t breathe a word, but Jack is gorgeous. I catch myself staring out my kitchen window when he’s in view.

  I feel a little guilty when I happen to be making a recipe that Phil taught me while at the same time stealing looks at Jack. Maybe that’s part of why I’ve experimented with ingredients and done more inventing here in the past week than I’ve ever done before. It wouldn’t feel right to pass someone else’s dishes off as my own, either, so I have changed up all my old standbys at least a little, sometimes a lot. Now I can honestly say that this is my business and nobody else’s. And do you know what? It all tastes wonderful. Maybe some things aren’t as delicious as Phil might make them, but they’re good enough for Uncle Max to rave about, and they’re mine.

  There’s something else about Jack that draws my attention, now that I reflect on it. His shoulders sag, and he walks slow, like he’s just plum given up. When I met Jack the other night, my big goal was to get him to smile. I thought maybe he would need rescuing, so I went down to the beach. It looked like he was in pretty deep. I’m not a great swimmer or anything, so I probably couldn’t have helped him anyway, but I went outside just in case maybe I could.

  His dog had been barking like crazy, and when she saw me, she ran right over. By then, Jack was making his way to shore. It was getting dark fast.

  “Chaser, come on!” he yelled when he made it to the beach. I hoped he couldn’t see me because if he could see me and he yelled in that tone, well, I wouldn’t have liked it one bit.

  Jack’s sweet dog stayed by my side when he called for her. I wished she’d just go to him, but she stayed by me.

  “Chaser!” he called again, sounding tired and fed up.

  Since his dog wouldn’t budge, I figured I’d have to take her on over to him. Chaser wagged her tail beside me and sort of pranced, like we were in a parade and she was the star of the show.

  I had seen Jack before it got dark. I guess my eyes had adjusted to him because I could still make out his face all right. Sometimes it seemed to almost float over the darkness of his black wetsuit, and that was strange. But then I’d see his arm or leg catch some moonlight, and he’d snap into place as a whole man again.

  I don’t think he saw me at all, not until his dog led me up really close. I’m pretty sure I scared him, coming out of the darkness like that.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Hi there.”

  “I’m sorry my dog bothered you.”

  “Her? She’s no bother. She’s the prettiest dog I’ve ever seen. I can tell she wouldn’t hurt a flea.” It was true as rain.

  He smiled. I was glad to be close enough to see it.

  “She usually sticks right by me,” he said.

  He motioned for her to sit and she did. He gave another signal and she flopped down. It was comical how she went in less than a second from sitting at attention to completely flattened right to the ground, from her tail to her chin.

  I laughed and clapped my hands together.

  He smiled again. “I fell in love with Chaser the first time I saw her do that.”

  “Me too!” I said.

  He took off his black glove and put out his hand. “I’m Jack Morningstar.”

  “I’m Merry Strand,” I said.

  We shook hands.

  The waves crashed loud against the shore, so I had to stand close. “We were worried about you out there,” I said.

  He fell quiet for a minute.

  “Do you live nearby?” he asked when he found his tongue again.

  “Yes, sir. I live over there,” I pointed to the house.

  “With Claude?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m afraid he passed away.”

  He nodded slowly. I heard him sigh in between the sound of waves hitting the shore.

  This is no time for lollygagging or reminiscing! I finish hauling the coolers down and tuck them safely in the back of my borrowed SUV before I walk next door to Jack’s house. I hear commotion inside when I ring the bell, and soon Chaser jumps against the door. She wags her tail and stares at me through the window, like she’s sure the bag I’m holding is full of dog treats. Jack doesn’t appear for so long that I figure maybe he’s not there.

  He doesn’t have a garage, though, and his car is sitting right in the driveway. I would’ve noticed him go down to the beach since I can see his deck so well from the kitchen, where I’ve spent the whole morning. It’s not my business, though, if he’s napping
or working or who knows what.

  As I turn to leave, I see him come to the door. He looks like he doesn’t know if he should open it.

  I smile big.

  He still doesn’t seem sure. Maybe he thinks I’m going to try and sell him something. And when it comes right down to it, I suppose I am.

  “Remember me? I’m your neighbor,” I say through the door. “I brought you some food.”

  He motions for Chaser to sit and she does. He opens up.

  “You brought me food?” he asks, like he’s sure he misheard.

  He has one of those voices, sort of deep and mellow, that just makes me want to keep listening. But I can’t right now because he’s quiet.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, handing over the bag.

  “Thanks,” he says, like it’s a question.

  I start walking away, feeling a little lighter now that I made my first delivery. I flash him another smile over my shoulder.

  “Y’all are welcome!” I call. “I hope you like it!”

  I hope everybody likes it, I think as I march up the sidewalk.

  Chapter Twelve

  IN WHICH FRITZ AND POLLYANNA SQUABBLE LIKE CHILDREN

  As told by Fritz, at times in tones unmentionable

  “So what’s your normal job?” Merry asks.

  She’s standing at the kitchen counter preparing food, as usual. She is still working every night when I go to bed, and she is already working each morning when I wake up. I almost never see her sit down. Merry runs all over the region for ingredients, works countless hours in the kitchen, and then delivers food to the clients she has already managed to win over. She is a very busy woman.

  I’m no shirker myself, mind you. I enjoy a hard day’s work. But Merry is far more stubbornly determined than I would have guessed. I might not even mind it if she were somewhat less busy. Occasionally—rarely of course—I almost wish that I could spend a bit more time with her.

  The old man has been passing his days either reading or dozing. Especially now that Merry cooks for us, he seems contented with very little. Like a baby, he eats and sleeps and doesn’t appear to do much else. Merry’s dishes, especially her chocolate cake, have certainly endeared her to him.