“How many tables were in your section?”
“Twenty?”
“You must be some waitress.” He smiled, leaned forward, drummed the table. “Did you really work at the Russian Tea Room? The opulent, famous, centrally located Russian Tea Room?”
“I’ve never even been there,” I said. He laughed, so I did, too.
“Do you have any restaurant experience?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I’m going to Brown in the fall. So I’m a really quick study.”
“Impressive.”
“And I’m on the lacrosse team, so I’m quick on my feet, too.”
“But that also means you’d take off before Labor Day.” I shrugged. “I can’t hire you. For what people spend here, I need a professional staff. We get slammed. Tonight we have almost two hundred covers and…”—he paused, tilted his head—“You don’t even know what that means, do you? Yeah. I’m not looking for someone to train from scratch.”
“Do you know anyone who might be?” I asked. “Because the thing is, I really need a job this summer.”
“Have you thought about retail? A lot of girls like you do that in the summer.”
“Girls like me?”
“You know, Ivy League, blond, Daddy’s got a place in town.”
“You’ve got me all wrong. Girls like me need to make real money,” I said and sat up a little straighter. “I may not have a lot of waitressing experience, but I worked at the Cranberry Inn last summer six days a week. I served breakfast every morning at seven a.m. sharp and cleaned rooms all day after that. I wasn’t late once, and when a guest asked me for something, I always did my best to make sure I got them what they needed. I even ended up with an internship with one of them, a famous writer. And I’m not afraid to clean a bathroom. I’d rather not. But I will.” I wrote my name and number on a napkin and handed it to him. “If you hear of anything, please pass on my number.”
I walked toward the door, but Charlie’s voice stopped me. “Well, I feel like a first-rate asshole. You look the part, but I shouldn’t have assumed.” He grabbed two bottles of fancy carbonated lemonade from behind the bar, uncapped them with some unseen device, and handed one to me. “I still can’t hire a waitress without fine-dining experience, but my buddy Karla is still looking for someone and she’s a little more open-minded.” He wrote Breezes, Jefferson Road on a cocktail napkin. “Tell her I sent you.”
“Thanks.” I was going to mention that I’d already had a phone interview with Karla and she’d rejected me, but I changed my mind. Sometimes you have to take a few shots on goal before you score.
Breezes was about a mile outside of town, right on the sand. From the outside it looked like a beach house. I could smell the ocean from the wooden-planked pathway. The restaurant name was etched in gold above a bright blue door. It was the restaurant attached to the island’s most exclusive beach club, the Wampanoag Club, or the Wamp, as everyone who knew better called it. People were on the waitlist for twenty-five years or more to get in, and I could see why. With its graceful shingles, welcoming porch, combed beach, and cozy cabanas, it was the perfect picture of a classic New England summer. Even from the outside there was a casual elegance that filled you with a sense that this could be your home in some alternate universe where you were so rich you could fling fistfuls of money at the sunset as part of your evening prayers.
The inside was pure Nantucket. The opposite of the Russian Tea Room, there was nothing opulent about this place, unless you counted the ruby-pink beach roses on every table, or the sapphire-bright hydrangea blooms on the hostess stand. The wooden floors were white. Brightly painted oars hung on the pale blue-gray walls. In the middle of the room was a smooth, gleaming bar, and beyond that a giant wraparound porch, protected from the elements by sheets of canvas-trimmed plastic, secured to the frame like sails to a mast. There was a jar on the hostess’s stand labeled OPERATION SMILE. PLEASE DONATE. I picked up a menu. The least expensive thing was a twenty-three-dollar artisanal grilled cheese.
“Hello?” I asked, and when no one answered, I stepped out on the porch, which faced the Nantucket sound in three directions. It couldn’t be denied that it was a beautiful place, even on a foggy day like today. With the exception of perfectly spaced-out yellow and blue beach umbrellas, all slanted at the same angle, the view was identical to the one at Steps Beach, where Zack and I had spent so much time together last summer. Don’t think of Zack, I told myself. Don’t. He doesn’t deserve it.
“A million-dollar view, right?” I turned to see a small, sinewy woman my mom’s age with bright blue hair framing eyes so brown they were black. Bright blue hair is not something you see every day on Nantucket. “What can I do for you? We aren’t open until noon.”
“Actually, I’m looking for a job. My name is Cricket Thompson.” I winced. I was hoping she wouldn’t be able to place me, but people don’t forget a name like mine.
“I already interviewed you, didn’t I? Yeah, I remember. You bombed the wine test. Like”—she made explosion sounds with the accompanying hand gestures—“bombed.”
“Charlie from Three Ships sent me,” I said. “He thought I’d be a good fit.”
“Is that so?” She pushed her glasses up on her head like a headband. “You didn’t tell me you knew Charlie.”
“And I’ve been studying. Ask me anything.” Please, make it easy.
“Okay. What would you recommend with a lobster roll?”
“Pinot grigio, to cut through the richness.” I was ready for that one. On Nantucket, lobster rolls were as ubiquitous as sand.
“Good.” She drummed her fingers on the bar. “How about the roasted-pig confit?”
“A French pinot.” According to Wine Made Simple, French pinot was almost always a good choice.
“Well done. You have been studying. One more.” Don’t let me down, Wine Made Simple. “Hamachi crudo, our most popular dish this summer.”
What the hell was hamachi crudo? I swallowed, and remembered that the book said that when in doubt, the best wine to order was simply one you enjoyed, no matter the dish. The best drink I’d ever had was champagne, last summer, on the Fourth of July, in a little rowboat with Zack.
“Dom Perignon,” I said.
Karla’s face opened up in a smile. “Best answer yet.”
“I know I can do this. I really think you should give me a chance. I’m an athlete, so I’m used to working under pressure.”
“An athlete, huh?”
“I’m playing lacrosse at Brown in the fall.”
“All right, Cricket Thompson, I’ll give you a shot.”
“Yay!” I actually jumped.
“Calm down. We’ll give it a week. See how it goes.”
“Thank you so much!”
“Staff dinner is at four. See you then.”
“Tonight?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” I said, though I still needed to go for a run and practice stick drills. She ducked behind the bar and tossed me a T-shirt the same shade as the famous Nantucket Red pants. “The first shirt is on the house. After that they’re twenty bucks. You got a pair of khakis?”
“I can find some,” I said.
“Four o’clock,” she said. Her phone rang.
“Oh, and um, I need housing, too. That’s what the original ad said?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She saw the number on the caller ID, muttered something under her breath, picked it up, and spoke into the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. She handed me employment forms and gestured at the door.
It’s just nine weeks, I told myself as I pulled on the last of several pairs of khakis in the Nantucket Hospital Thrift Store dressing room. And then I’ll be at Brown. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing could make these pants look good. The waist was high, and not in a cool retro way, and the
y were a little too short. But they basically fit otherwise and would have to do until Mom could send me a better pair from home. I’d tried Murray’s first, the store famous for Nantucket Reds. I’d found a pair that were actually almost flattering, but they were a hundred dollars.
I wandered over to the thrift store, where secondhand khakis seemed to grow like weeds. I found at least six pairs in my size, four of which didn’t have stains, and two of which were from this century. “Those are half off,” the elderly thrift store volunteer said when I set them on the card table with the cash box and old-fashioned adding machine, the same one I’d seen Rosemary use to balance her checkbook. “All ladies’ trousers are.”
“I guess I’ll get them both,” I said.
“You sure you don’t want to check out the books? Hardcovers are a dollar today. I can put these aside for you,” she said, checking the labels as she folded the pants. “Oh, Talbots. You’re lucky. The good brands go quick. I’ll put these out of sight so no one snags them.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, not having the heart to tell her that the Talbots pants would probably have been safe even if they had been displayed on their one mannequin. I ducked into the book room and spotted a display of oversize art books. Even though they varied in size and style, I could tell they’d inhabited the same space for a long period of time. I imagined they had all been donated from one person’s collection, some very dedicated museum lover. One was from the Getty in Los Angeles, one from the Frick in New York, and another was from the Rodin Museum in Paris. I pulled out the Rodin book. The cover was torn, there was a coffee ring on it, and when I cracked it open, the slippery pages smelled faintly like cigarettes.
I sat on the floor and thumbed through it. It was written in French. I could only understand bits of it, but the writing wasn’t the point. The pictures were. Don’t think of Zack, I told myself as I searched frantically for The Kiss. I found it and snapped the book shut, biting my lip. I bought it. It was a sign of some sort. I wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, but I felt Nina next to me again, whispering about something I needed to understand, a place I needed to go and see, even if I had to wear Talbots khakis to get there.
A few hours later, I was twenty-seven minutes early for my first day of training, which was somehow worse than being late. I’d left the inn with plenty of time to spare in case something came up. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but if I wanted to train for lacrosse and make eight thousand dollars in nine weeks, I had to stick to a schedule and not screw up. Every day I was going to eat three healthy meals, run five miles, and get eight hours of sleep. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about Zack and Parker.
When I arrived at the restaurant I had a nasty blister from my flats. I’d always thought of them as comfortable shoes. I’d considered wearing the Easy Spirits Mom had forced on me. I’d taken them out of my suitcase and tried them on and everything, but I couldn’t. Not with the Talbots khakis. Liz told me I looked like I’d mugged a granny and run off with her trousers and trainers. The idea of pairing my granny pants with the Easy Spirits was too awful to think about, but as I hobbled into Breezes I knew I’d been wrong to prioritize beauty.
A bartender was checking bottle levels and making notes. He was facing the Nantucket Sound, jotting something on a form. The clouds had burned off and the late afternoon light was hazy gold. The plastic sheeting that had covered the windows was rolled up. A cool breeze rustled the pages of his notebook.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you have any Band-Aids?”
He turned around as if to speak, but instead of telling me where the first-aid kit was, he let the moment hang in the air, waiting long enough for the blush on my cheeks to deepen to a fevered, stinging glow. It was Guitar Guy, leaning on the bar like he owned the place.
“Nice pants,” he said with a wicked grin.
Fifteen
“SO YOU’RE THE NEW WAITRESS I’ve been hearing about,” Guitar Guy said as he showed me through the bustling kitchen, alive with knives chopping and Spanish chatter, to a little locker room.
“I guess so,” I said, wondering if one of these lockers was going to be mine, and if so, what I was supposed to keep in it. Guitar Guy opened a drawer in a metal cabinet, pulled out a first-aid kit, and handed me the Band-Aids. I took a few, sat down on the bench, and peeled one open. He sat next to me, leaning forward, forearms on knees. He smelled like herbs and spices, in a good way. I slipped off my shoes and applied the Band-Aids, oddly self-conscious.
“Hey, Ben, glad to see you’re showing Cricket around,” Karla said, appearing from around the corner. “Is the inventory done?”
“Sí, el jefe,” he said, and turned to me. “Cricket. Cool name.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.”
This would have been the appropriate place to shake hands, but for some reason neither of us made a move, until at last, he tapped my elbow with his. I tapped his back reflexively. He smiled and tapped again, and so did I. What were we doing? A deep pink punished my cheeks. Karla tossed me an apron. I caught it and held it to my hot face for a second, hiding my blush.
“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about you being a brown-noser,” he said.
“Oh, you should worry,” I said, peeking out from behind the apron. “Blue-nosers are the ones you have to watch out for.”
I met the rest of the employees at the staff meal—chicken curry over rice. I sat at the communal table, determined to be my most charming self. There were three busboys, Hector, Steve, and Kevin; a few line cooks whose names I didn’t catch; a tattooed dishwasher who grabbed some food and returned to the kitchen before I could introduce myself; and three other servers: Nicky, who spent winters skiing in Colorado and summers hanging out in Nantucket; James, a senior at Middlebury College; and Amy, who was tiny and beautiful, like a living doll. She had a thin tattoo—a simple line that encircled her arm like a bracelet—bright red lipstick, and long, mascaraed eyelashes under which her dark eyes flickered with intelligence.
“Do you know her?” Amy asked Ben, without acknowledging that the her was right there, sitting next to him.
“We met on the ferry,” I said. “He touched my nose, like, out of nowhere!”
“That’s weird,” Amy said and stabbed a bit of chicken.
“Well, look at that nose,” Ben said, gesturing to me. “It’s a great nose.” Amy reddened, her face almost matching her lipstick. I covered my nose with my hand as Ben’s knee knocked mine.
“Cricket you’ll be shadowing Amy,” Karla said. “Stick to her like glue.”
“Okay,” I said. Amy pushed her chair from the table, grabbed her plate, walked away, and kicked open the kitchen door. I looked to Ben for help, but he was texting under the table.
“Get back here, Amy,” Karla called. “We’re about to go over the specials, mija!”
It didn’t take long to learn my first lesson: following someone who doesn’t want to be followed sucks.
“What are you doing?” I asked Amy as she punched a number into the computer.
“Uh, clocking in,” she said.
“Do I clock in?”
“Not for training,” Amy said, checking her text messages.
I didn’t know if I was getting paid for the training and I didn’t dare ask. About a half hour later, after Amy had prepped the coffee and tea station, checked the desserts, and memorized the specials, we got our first table. Our second was ten minutes later. And then our third, fourth, and fifth were sat all at once. Before I knew it, our whole section was full. I stood behind Amy as she greeted people, offered drinks, recited specials, answered questions, and took orders, all without writing anything down. I followed her as she wove through customers and staff, hustling back and forth from the bar, the tables, the kitchen, and the computer stations, never once checking to see if she’d lost me.
By around seven thirty p.m., our first ta
bles were finishing their desserts, three others were working their way through their entrees, and the other two were relaxing over cocktails. Amy leaned against the computer stand and I hovered. She sighed and headed toward what I thought was the kitchen, so I followed.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Amy said. “Get lost!”
“Sorry,” I said and slinked back out to what I now had learned was the “floor.”
Ben laughed at me from behind the bar.
“I’m supposed to follow her everywhere,” I said and shrugged.
“She’s in a bad mood,” Ben said with a smile as he poured a glass of chardonnay, two red wines, and a gin and tonic.
“Do you have anything to do with that?” I asked, and for the first time he looked a little sad.
“Just drop these on table five for her, okay?”
“Um, which one is that?”
“The fifth one in from the door on the left.”
“Hey, do you know if I get paid for tonight?” I asked, picking up the tray with both hands. I wasn’t ready for a one-handed carry. Would I ever be?
“Minimum wage. Unless Amy decides to share her tips.”
Minimum wage, I thought, and counted aloud to find table number five.
Right after I delivered the drinks, Karla told me I could go home for the night. “Same thing tomorrow. Wednesday you’ll learn how to close.”
“So I did okay?”
“You did great.”
“Um, did you find out about the housing?”
“We’ll put you out on Surfside Road. I’m sure we can squeeze another bed in there somehow. I think Amy has the double bed. She’ll roll over for you.”
“Oh, okay.” Was she serious? The idea of sharing a bed with Amy sent the taste of chicken curry to the back of my throat. Amy was leaning on the bar, one foot kicking up behind her, whispering something to Ben. What sort of lipstick did she use that stayed on so perfectly like that?
“And it’s a hundred and fifty each week out of your paycheck,” Karla said. “For the housing.”
Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) Page 6
