Independence Day

by Amy Frazier

  Sean’s lobster boat, the Alexandra, was pulled alongside the wharf where Sean was unloading a dozen or so traps in obvious need of repair.

  “Hey!” his brother called out. “Lend a hand, will you? I need to load these on my truck.”

  Nick rolled up his sleeves. He was wearing a dress shirt, good trousers and leather loafers. The traps were still wet. Crusted with barnacles and dripping with algae, they were not street-clothes-friendly. But he wasn’t about to sit around while his brother worked. He reached for a trap Sean had just slung onto the wharf.

  “Good God, man!” Sean barked. “Get a pair of boots and a rubber apron from Pop.”

  Dry cleaning and a session with the shoe polish seemed a less involved option than going inside and listening to Pop’s complaints.

  “I’m okay,” he said, hefting a trap and heading for Sean’s truck parked alongside the pound.

  Sean shook his head. “You always were hard-headed.”

  As the two men worked silently unloading the traps from the boat, loading them on the truck, the physical activity began to clear Nick’s head. It was strange how, growing up, watching his father try to make a living as a carpenter working mostly seasonal jobs for summer residents during some pretty tough recession years, Nick had vowed to get a steady profession—not manual labor—something with a salary, a regular vacation, benefits. And security. But now that he had all those, had them for going on fifteen years, he jumped at chances to escape the confines of his office to do something physical—run the cross-country trail at school or help at the loading dock.

  “You’re a mess,” Sean said.

  Nick grinned.

  “Hop in.” His brother climbed down the wharf ladder into the Alexandra. “Come with me while I moor her. You said you don’t get enough time on the water.”

  Nick climbed into the big boat, undid the lines, then leaned against the gunwale as Sean guided her out into the harbor.

  “So I’m guessing this isn’t just a social call,” Sean said while the engine rumbled and the late-afternoon sun glinted off the high tide.

  Might as well get to the point even though he’d like to just soak in the salt air and the gentle swell of the water. Enjoy the peace.

  “What does the family have to say about Chessie and me? About the girls?”

  Sean didn’t speak right away. Instead, he brought the boat up smoothly next to his mooring float, next to the waiting punt. Snagging the line with a gaff, he secured the Alexandra. Then he opened a cooler. “Beer?”

  A beer or twelve sounded good about now.

  Not waiting for an answer, his brother opened two bottles, handed him one, then took a slow swig of his own. He looked long and hard at Nick.

  “We’d like to know if there’s anything we could do to help,” he said.

  “With what?” Nick didn’t want to offer up anything that wasn’t already floating on the McCabe airwaves.

  “Mostly with Gabriella. Kit, especially, is worried. She knows from experience how much trouble a teenager can get into. Says she would have been a lot better off with a little more family interference.”

  “Gabriella’s taken care of. She’s grounded.”

  “And that will solve the problem for how long? A big family can provide a safety net—”

  “Chessie and I will cope.”

  Sean raised an eyebrow.

  “So you all think Chessie and I are in trouble.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Nick, in my opinion, whatever’s between you and Chessie should be worked out between you and Chessie, unless you tell us otherwise. But your girls…that’s another story. We all know how hard it is to raise kids. The way I figure it, when Alex becomes a teenager, I’m going to enlist all of you for a tag-team event. There’s no shame in taking all the help you can get. No weakness.” He tossed his empty beer bottle in a plastic bucket for emphasis.

  “You think that I consider asking for help a weakness?” Nick tossed his empty on top of Sean’s.

  “Why do you always have to go it alone?”

  “I just have. It hasn’t been a conscious effort.” Was that a lie? “I went away to school. I got a job away. Now I’ve worked my way back here. My hometown. If I’m such a loner, would I return?”

  “I don’t know. You’re here, but you’re still acting as if you’re away.”

  “How am I supposed to act?”

  “Maybe as if you’re glad to be back home. As if you’re glad to see us.”

  “I am glad to be back. Glad to see all of you.”

  “But…?”

  “No buts.”

  Sean eyed him skeptically. “Growing up, you were our second father. When you left for college, I was nine. Mariah was thirteen. Brad, eleven. Jonas, only seven. It was a huge loss. And then you chose not to come back… I, for one, certainly wondered if we were somehow to blame. I know Pop blamed himself for putting so much responsibility on you as a kid. Thought you only had bad memories of home.”

  It hurt Nick that his siblings and father thought that.

  “No, I actually liked taking care of you guys,” he admitted. He knew he could control the kids. What he couldn’t control was Pop’s fluctuating income. Even back then he sensed his father’s fear of failure, sensed the high stakes. Hand-me-down clothes were a given. They ate Spam and nothing else at far too many suppers. And on more than one occasion, the utilities had been cut off. But whenever Nick confronted his father with his own boyish fears, Penn would tell him, “A show of emotion never put food on the table. Hard work does.”

  Sean smiled. “You know what I liked? Your grilled cheese sandwiches—”

  “With maple syrup.” He’d forgotten about those.

  “Now Alex loves them.”

  Funny, he hadn’t introduced them to Gabriella and Isabel.

  “Sean… I followed the jobs to provide for my own growing family. And now… I’m not trying to keep any of you at arm’s length. This job is a bear. You know the last principal got fired, and I was brought aboard to turn the building around. It’s taken most of my time—”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to add to your worries. Just know that we’re here if you need us. We needed you, and you were there for us. Now we’re in a position to help.”

  “Thanks.” Nick felt a little guilty that Sean was being so open, while he’d not been absolutely honest. Returning to the fold as an adult dredged up that old fear of failure and the dire consequences of failure where family was concerned. And failure was not an option for him.

  “We’d better get ashore. Kit and I are taking Alex to a minor league baseball game in Portland tonight.” Sean slid over the side of the Alexandra and into the punt.

  Nick followed. “Sounds like fun.” He envied Sean the simplicity of parenting a nine-year-old.

  When he drove the Volvo into his own driveway, the side door swung open. Isabel, dressed in one of his white, long-sleeved dress shirts, a black tie and black pants, stood at attention, a dish towel over one arm. It appeared she’d drawn a mustache on her upper lip. Now what?

  Watching her dad climb out of his car and gather his briefcase from the back seat, Isabel hoped Aunt Emily’s plan would work, but she had her doubts.

  Earlier at the beach, she’d kind of had a melt-down. While the kids had raced in the shallows, she’d sat on the blanket and blubbered to her aunt about how screwed up her family was. Surprisingly, Aunt Emily had really listened. And she’d offered a few explanations and suggestions as if Isabel was an adult who could understand. Not like Mom and Dad who were trying to keep everything a secret and pretending they were okay and handling things when Isabel knew they weren’t.

  Aunt Emily said even the best marriages weren’t all happily ever after. That couples went through peaks and valleys in their relationship. She thought it was easier to climb out of the valleys if you could just get a little time alone to talk things through. But that was hard with jobs and kids. So
she’d helped Isabel cook up an idea for a little romantic supper. Just something to show Mom and Dad that she and Gabby loved them, that they appreciated them. That’s really all kids could do, Aunt Emily said.

  After the beach outing, they’d picked up chicken breasts with wild rice and asparagus at Cape Catering. Isabel and Gabriella were to keep the meal warm and set a pretty table in the dining room. Of course, Gabriella had been a problem. She’d been sitting on the side steps sulking and refused to have any part of the project until Aunt Emily had given her a good talking-to. Cripes, if Isabel had any chance of having a kid like Gabriella, she was getting her tubes tied.

  Finally, Gabriella had agreed to stay out of sight and work the kitchen while Isabel provided the continental wait-staff. Standing at the door, waiting for her father, she could hear her sister, just beyond the kitchen’s closed door, thumping around, banging pots and pans. You’d think she was making the meal from scratch.

  “Monsieur,” she said as her dad approached, a puzzled expression on his face, “let me take your briefcase. Madame is waiting in zee dining room.”

  As he gave up his briefcase, she hoped her mom wouldn’t be turned off by the green streaks down the front of his shirt. Opening the kitchen door a crack, she slid the briefcase through, then led her father into the dining room where her mother sat at the table, sipping cranberry juice from a wineglass.

  “Your party, monsieur,” Isabel said, pulling his chair out for him.

  Mom smiled. “Apparently, while we were out, the town rezoned. We’re now a French bistro.” Right from the start, she’d seemed pleased with this idea.

  When Dad sat, Isabel bent over him solicitously. “And would monsieur care for an aperitif?”

  His mouth twitched. “What are you offering?”

  Mom raised her glass. “I recommend the house cranberry.”

  “Cranberry it is.”

  Isabel might be wrong, but she thought she saw him relax just a little bit as she took the bottle of juice out of the empty utility bucket filled with ice. Maybe Aunt Emily had the right idea.

  “Holy crap!” Gabriella’s voice came from the kitchen.

  “Zee chef,” Isabel said, filling her father’s wineglass, “eez new. And vurry temperamental. I must check!”

  In the kitchen Gabriella was pulling the warming pan of chicken, rice and asparagus out of the oven. Flames were shooting from the dish. Without thinking Isabel poured the remaining cranberry juice over the flames which immediately disappeared only to leave an unrecognizable charcoaled lump.

  “What happened?” Isabel didn’t have to look far to see Gabriella had set the oven, not on warm, but on broil. The juice-soaked dinner was beginning to emit an acrid smoke. She hit the vent button over the stove. “Quick! Open the windows wider before—”

  The smoke detector went off with an ear-splitting shriek.

  “What’s going on?” Dad stepped into the kitchen.

  “Nothing! It is zee house specialty,” Isabel insisted, reverting to role. “Poulet flambé. Your primitive American kitchen apparently is not up to zee challenge.” She shoved her father back into the dining room. “Chat up zee madame,” she said. “She is getting lonely.”

  Mom didn’t look lonely. She looked worried. But let Dad handle her. Isabel had a poulet flambé to rescue.

  Back in the kitchen, she pulled the battery out of the smoke detector to stop the infernal noise, then surveyed the damage to the dinner as Gabriella sulked.

  “Told you this was a stupid idea.”

  “Shut up!” Isabel cut through what she thought was chicken. A very small core seemed unsinged. The rice and asparagus were toast.

  Toast. That was it.

  “Go pick some parsley out of the garden by the door,” she ordered as she pulled out the toaster. “And any ripe cherry tomatoes from the pot on the top step.”

  As Gabriella slouched off, Isabel made toast from bread which seemed a little green around the edges. She cut off the crusts, slathered what remained with butter, then put slivers of blackened chicken on top. The arrangement looked pretty spare on the plates, but wasn’t that par for the course with French cuisine? When she’d garnished the lot with a few sprigs of parsley and a sliced cherry tomato each, it didn’t look half bad. But it needed something. Any fancy restaurant she’d seen on TV had plates with designs etched in sauce. “Go get the squeeze mustard.”

  “You are so bossy,” Gabriella complained as she retrieved the yellow plastic jar. “I don’t need a third parent.”

  Isabel ignored her sister as she garnished the edge of each plate with a thin design in mustard. Gabriella might not know it, but this was important. As to taste, well, she hoped Mom and Dad were overwhelmed by the romantic atmosphere.

  Plates in hand, she pushed through the door into the dining room.

  Chessie looked at the strange meal set before her, then up into her daughter’s expectant face. “This looks…wonderful, sweetheart. Thank you.”

  Tentatively, Isabel smiled. “Dad?”

  With a lopsided grin, Nick lifted his glass. “Here’s to you, kid.”

  Their daughter let out a big sigh. “Call if you need anything,” she said, brightening considerably. “Otherwise, our fine establishment prides eetself in providing our diners with privacee. Privacee and romance, that’s our motto. Bon appetit!” With a flourish of her dish towel, she disappeared into the kitchen where she and Gabriella could be heard in muffled disagreement.

  “Well,” Nick said, prodding the thing-on-toast with his fork. “What do you suppose this is?”

  Chessie used her napkin to suppress a giggle. “I don’t know, but I hope the toast isn’t from the moldy bread I was saving for the seagulls.”

  He put a blackened slice in his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. After a moment in which he looked as if he thought the morsel might detonate in his stomach, he said, “Chicken, I think. In a very former life.” He took a big gulp of cranberry juice, then looked at the two remaining slivers on toast. “Lucky for us they went minimalist.”

  Chessie’s heart melted. Obviously, the girls had worked very hard to make this meal. And on a night when she was scheduled to cook. And now Nick was willing to choke it down.

  “Their hearts were in the right place,” she said as she dipped a sliced and fanned cherry tomato in mustard. “And the sauce is fittingly French’s.”

  It didn’t take them long to finish everything on their plates.

  “What happened to your shirt?” she asked as she tried to coax the last few drops of juice from her wineglass.

  “I stopped to see Sean. He was transferring some traps for repair so I helped. Sorry.” He brushed at his stained shirtfront.

  “That’s…great.” It was. That he’d made an effort to speak to his brother overrode any laundry issues. He didn’t, however, seem inclined to tell her the gist of their conversation.

  Isabel popped her head around the door. “I hope you have saved room for deezurt!”

  “I don’t know.” Rubbing his stomach dramatically, Nick leaned back in his chair. “I’m pretty full.”

  “But,” Isabel replied, clearing their plates, “zair eez always room for zee Jell-O!”

  When she opened the door to the kitchen, the smell of smoke drifted out as Gabriella could be heard to mutter loudly, “Well, I’m just going to have to throw this pan away!”

  The Jell-O had been scooped from individual plastic serving cups into bowls that weren’t quite clean, but Chessie felt as if she were eating crème brûlée off bone china. Without prodding, her girls had prepared a meal with Nick and her in mind. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t need the behavioral contract she felt certain Nick had brought home in his briefcase. She might not be able to stop him from laying down the law, but she could delay him.

  “Bra-a-vo, bra-a-vo, bravo, bravissimo!” She began to sing and clap the chant Nick had taught their daughters as little girls to tell the cook—always Chessie in the past—the meal was particularly appreciated.


  Nick picked it up, and the two adults chanted like loonies until Isabel appeared in the doorway, dragging a soap-sudsy Gabriella. They bowed, Izzy more enthusiastically than Gabby, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Kids. You couldn’t live with them, and you couldn’t ever figure out what they might do next.

  “That came out of left field,” Nick remarked, a bemused expression on his face. “What do you suppose got into them?”

  “I’m not going to overthink it. It was…charming. Thoughtful and charming.”

  “But I’m starved,” he admitted, keeping his voice low. “And there’s no way we’re going to raid the refrigerator without hurting their feelings.”

  “Come with me.” Chessie took his hand and led him up to their bedroom. There she got down on her knees and fumbled under the bed. “I keep these for emergencies. Ah, yes!” She held aloft a half-empty can of mixed nuts.

  “You keep these hidden, why?”

  “I need them at the ready. When I need a PMS salt fix, even a trip to Branson’s takes too long.” She opened the can. Unfortunately, her periods had always been wildly irregular, and she hadn’t seen one in quite a while, judging by the stale nuts. “It’s the best I have to offer.”

  “Sold!” Grabbing a handful, he laughed and the flash of his white teeth was heartening. Of late he rarely got beyond a forced grin.

  Like naughty children, they sat on the bed and greedily finished the nuts. Because he’d gone along with the girls even though he looked so tired, Chessie relented in her laundry prohibition. “Why don’t you take a shower,” she said, “and I’ll presoak this shirt.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice.” He shrugged out of his shirt, and Chessie was struck by his physique. He’d taken care of himself. He would. He’d see it as a responsibility, think he couldn’t take care of his family if he wasn’t in A-one shape.

  As he ran the water in their bathroom, she looked at his soiled shirt. This past week in particular, his wardrobe had taken a hit. But not because he was thoughtless. Just the opposite. He was a hard worker, her Nick. And a wonderful provider. But his focus worried her. She couldn’t erase the memory of her own father, a classic workaholic, who worked himself to an early grave. After his death, her mother quickly remarried and immediately moved to Europe with her new husband. Because she didn’t get along with her stepfather, Chessie begged to remain stateside. An arrangement was made with two elderly aunts, one of whom died while Chessie was in high school, the other when she was in college. The absence of family made Chessie readily agree to Nick’s offer of a traditional family.