They did. Susan seemed willing to do anything to avoid Christine’s eye contact. For this reason, Christine drank a little too quickly, having to buy herself another round when Susan wasn’t even half-way finished her first. When she sat back down, Susan’s eyes blared into her.
“You would tell me if it has become a problem, right?” Susan asked, eyeing Christine’s glass of wine.
Christine’s nostrils flared. “What are you talking about?”
“Your drinking. You’d tell me if you need help, right?”
“You’re going to do this here? In the middle of the Edgartown Bar?” Christine demanded. Anger rose up like a wave and crumpled against her heart.
Susan shook her head and muttered something, words Christine’s ears couldn’t articulate. Christine suddenly wanted to curse this day. It had started out so beautifully, so alive—a pastry chef position, and her beautiful niece’s arrival. Now, she and her sister sat in a bar, struggling to relate to one another while her younger sister drilled her daughter about her first pregnancy.
Perhaps this was the reality, though. Susan and Lola knew Christine through-and-through. And Christine couldn’t run from the truth of herself.
But Susan surprised her.
“I just can’t stop thinking about that poor girl at home,” she said. “She wants to be a journalist so bad. She wants to please Lola. You can see it and they only had each other for years and now, everything has fallen apart. I wish I could think of a way to help her.”
“At nineteen, we had to figure out everything ourselves,” Christine said.
“But we shouldn’t have had to,” Susan whispered.
Suddenly, Rita switched the song on the stereo. Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” ripped through the speakers, shifting the mood in the bar to a more upbeat one. As she cleaned the bar counter, Rita tossed her shoulders to-and-fro in line with the music. Susan and Christine found themselves doing it, too.
“Mom loved this song,” Susan said suddenly, her smile wide.
“She used to strut around the house, singing it while cleaning,” Christine said.
Susan knocked her wine glass back and ordered another. The mood had changed considerably between them. Slowly, Susan began to tell Christine things about her newfound life on Martha’s Vineyard—things Christine wouldn’t have known just through observation.
Like, “Scott is actually a better kisser now than he was before,” which made Christine double-over with laughter.
“I mean, I should hope so! He’s had a lot more years to practice,” she said.
“Oh, you. I mean, you’ve been out there, playing the field for years. I didn’t know what I was missing with Richard. He was such a snore. Sometimes, I pity that Penelope girl. She’s thirty-one, and she wants to marry a man whose idea of a good time is Scrabble and lights out at nine-thirty.”
Christine snorted. “I wish I would have met him more than just that one time. He looked so handsome in the wedding photos you sent. I put them on whatever fridge I had back then, but my roommate took them off. He said he didn’t believe in marriage. I wonder if Dad had them up anywhere? Gosh. I just really wish I could have gone. How strange that Lola and I missed our sister’s only wedding.”
Susan bit hard on her lower lip. Christine realized she’d pushed the mood back down. Flustered, she searched her mind for something else to say, something to make her laugh.
“Besides. Penelope and Richard don’t know what you’re up to on the daily,” she began, imitating Susan’s marijuana pen near her lips. “You’re a wildflower child.”
Susan’s face fell completely. She looked as though she had seen a ghost. “Will you stop bringing that up?”
“Why? I love that you’re into weed,” Christine said, with a strange, guttural laugh. “It’s just completely off-brand, which makes me love it all the more.”
“You just really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Susan returned.
For a moment, Christine thought that Susan might bolt from her chair and storm out of the bar. She held her breath, waiting. Of course, Susan wasn’t that type of person. Patience flung over her as she nodded, turning her eyes to the ground.
“Anyway. I’ll buy us another round if you get Rita to play another Billy Joel song. I think I’m starting to like it here, as weird as that sounds,” Susan said.
Christine ordered them another two glasses of wine, as Rita switched the song to “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” which kept the girls singing and dancing for a little while longer. Christine and Susan had hardly any memories together like this: just the two of them, exchanging secrets, and finding common ground. Christine was so grateful for it. She was so happy they’d been able to try again.
Chapter Thirteen
Several days later, Christine finished up the pastry baking for the morning and moseyed toward the front lobby of the Inn, bleary-eyed but happy. Susan and Scott stood in front of the desk, as Scott spoke to someone on the phone.
“Yes. Thank you for letting us know, officer,” he said.
“What’s up?” Christine asked as he hung up.
“They almost got Chuck again, in Vermont this time,” he said. He heaved a sigh and then collected his arms around Susan. “They want us to come up to the mainland to look at some paperwork.”
“But we’ll be back tomorrow or the next day at the latest,” Susan affirmed. She dotted the sides of her eyes with a handkerchief.
Was it possible that Susan and Scott were really so emotional about Chuck Frampton’s disappearance? Something about it didn’t stack up.
“Looks like the bistro’s getting a heavy lunch rush,” Susan said suddenly, breaking the hug and nodding. Outside, a gorgeous Porsche flew up toward the side of the Inn. A driver bustled out and then opened the back passenger door to reveal a gorgeous blonde in long, elegant Louboutin heels and what looked like a thousand-dollar sundress.
Christine hustled toward the window of the lobby to watch as the woman walked toward the bistro, her shoulders whipped back and her long legs drawing out before her like she walked a catwalk. Christine’s heart thudded. She would have recognized that woman anywhere.
“It’s Cheryl Donahue. The editor for Bon Appetit magazine,” she whispered, mostly to herself.
When she turned back around, she found Scott and Susan both displaying lackluster smiles. It was obvious they were from very different worlds.
“Don’t you get it?” Christine demanded, looking at both of them. “Zach is going to be in over his head. When she visited us at Chez Frank, one of our waiters passed out from stress.”
Before they could answer, Christine flung herself back down the hallway that led toward the bistro. Just before Cheryl entered the bistro, she tossed herself into the kitchen and gave Zach a huge, bug-eyed look.
“You had better buckle up, Zach Walters. You’re about to be on the ride of your life,” she told him.
It didn’t take long to explain. After all, Cheryl Donahue was something of a god-like name for those in the industry. Still, Zach sprang into action, muttering to himself as he did his work.
“Is this really what we’re going to give Cheryl Donahue? Does it really represent the bistro exactly right? Ronnie! Come here. Only give her this wine list, not the other one,” he said. His words were almost frantic. “And be charming, but not overly so. She doesn’t like a brownnoser. Oh, and Ronnie...”
Ronnie flung around at the door, all the blood draining from his cheeks.
“This is one of the most important days of your life. But don’t stress,” Zach said, pointing at him.
When Ronnie disappeared to seat Cheryl and give her the wine list and a fancy bottle of water, Zach pressed his hands against the sterling counter. He looked on the verge of a panic attack.
“Let me stay and help out,” Christine said suddenly.
“What? No. You’ve been here since four in the morning,” Zach said.
“Come on, Zach. I’m used to this from Chez Frank. I’l
l be your right-hand man,” Christine said. She grabbed an apron and, in no time, began to prep vegetables and banter with Zach about the appropriate dishes to reveal to Cheryl.
They decided on the walnut and endive and goat cheese salad for a starter, along with a basket of Christine’s freshly-baked croissants, which she would surely pick at but not eat fully. Afterward, they would serve fish and a pasta course, along with the crowning jewel of Christine’s dessert-making abilities: the crème brûlée.
“When I made it for her at Chez Frank, she nearly swooned,” Christine said.
“You’re my secret weapon,” Zach said as he hurriedly rushed about the kitchen,
Zach and Christine fell into a familiar rhythm, as Ronnie bucked in and out to serve dish after dish. After the fish was taken out, Christine and Zach hovered just outside the window of the kitchen to watch as Cheryl took her first, contemplative bite, nodded with her eyes closed, and then made a little note to herself on her napkin.
“Is that a good sign?” Zach demanded. “I can’t tell.”
“Nobody can tell with her,” Christine returned.
After she had prepared the crème brûlée, Christine marched out with the little dish and hovered over Cheryl’s table with the fire blower. This was a skill she’d mastered nearly twenty years before, something that had given her ultimate power over some of the other men in her pastry and culinary classes. She wasn’t afraid. As she placed the piping hot dish in front of Cheryl, the woman muttered, “My goodness. Just as good as I might find in Manhattan. How splendid.”
Twenty minutes later, three-quarters of her crème brûlée was finished, and the last of her sparkling wine danced at the bottom of her wine glass, Cheryl rose and marched toward the kitchen. At the entrance, hovering just a few feet from where Zach and Christine stood, both in shock, she called, “I would like to take your photographs, you two. I’ve not had such a splendid meal on Martha’s Vineyard in years.”
Christine and Zach shared a panicked, yet pleased look, before joining Cheryl in the main dining room. Cheryl delivered no more compliments after this, but posed with them, with a large gorgeous smile, and then immediately got on her phone to tell her secretary she would have the article written in three days’ time. Christine and Zach watched as the woman clacked out in her Louboutin heels and then disappeared into the afternoon summer air. The moment she retreated into her Porsche, Christine and Zach fell into each other’s arms and hopped around, making themselves out to be absolute fools to the rest of the guests. But they didn’t care one bit.
Back in the kitchen, Zach poured them both full glasses of wine and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“I think if you hadn’t come running back into this kitchen to help, I might have died today,” he said.
“I know you would have died. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands,” Christine said.
They clinked glasses and studied one another through their first sip. Christine pressed her lips together, stirring in panic. What the hell was going on between them? Why did she feel butterflies in her belly and want to kiss him, have him hold her in his strong arms?
All those years ago, she had thought she’d wanted him, too, until he had wronged her.
Why would he be any different now?
“You’ve been such a surprise, Christine,” he said, suddenly snapping her out of her reverie.
Again, her heart thudded.
“I mean, I know you hate me more than the devil himself, but you’re also a kind and generous friend when you want to be. I can’t thank you enough,” Zach said.
The kitchen was empty around them. Ronnie and the other servers were out on the floor, swarming the tables and picking up plates post-lunch-rush. Suddenly, Zach stepped forward and kissed her. His soft lips fell over hers, and her eyes closed, for only a split-second, as her stomach twisted with desire.
No.
The word rang through her and forced her lips away. She peered up, anxiously into Zach’s eyes, knowing she owed him an explanation. But she couldn’t give him one. She dropped her wine glass on the counter, grabbed her purse, and rushed from the kitchen. Every part of her body felt like it was on fire.
She wasn’t the person Zach Walters wanted her to be. Heck, she wasn’t even the type of person she wanted to be. She was a woman that couldn’t bear children, a depressed human being, and she felt she could be nothing else. She’d left Frank, her last chance at love, and she wanted nothing to do with horrible heartaches or hopeful plans that usually busted into flames.
By the time she slowed down her run, she was nearly home. She gasped and grabbed her knees as her head pounded. Only a few days into her dream job, and she had messed everything up.
This was oh-so-typical Christine.
Chapter Fourteen
When Christine entered the main house, Lola and Audrey were in the midst of a blow-out. They stood out on the porch that overlooked the water, facing one another, so that Christine could see the gorgeous outlines of their profiles—matching facial features including their beautiful long dark hair. Even their voices had a similar ring to it. Although the only difference was that Christine could hear the hard-edge to Lola’s voice.
“The world of journalism is completely different now than it was in the late-‘90s,” Lola spewed. “You needed to use this internship to jump off to the next opportunity. You said you wanted to get a middle-editor position at the paper this year, and...”
“Well, I’m guessing they won’t want an editor who’s six weeks pregnant,” Audrey barreled back.
“So you’re just going to quit?” Lola demanded.
“I don’t know! Mom, why can’t you see this from my side and not from the side of me having failed you, huh?” Audrey asked, not backing down.
Christine’s heart fluttered. She stepped deeper into the house, which caused Audrey to shift over and spot her. Her face was etched with so much emotion. Lola cut up to peer through the screen door.
“Sorry about us,” Lola said. “We just arrived back from the doctor.”
“Got official confirmation of the pregnancy,” Audrey said in a mocking tone. “Yay.”
Christine stepped out onto the porch. She was bleary-eyed, exhausted, and her lips still buzzed from Zach’s kiss.
“I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but someone around here has to wish you congratulations,” Christine said suddenly.
Lola’s jaw dropped, as Audrey’s eyes bugged out of their sockets. Immediately, Christine knew she had said the wrong thing, but how could she say anything different? A baby had been all she had wanted in the world.
“You really don’t need to interject your opinion right now, Christine,” Lola spat as she started to pace back and forth.
“It’s okay, Mom. Come on,” Audrey tried. “We are doing this right here in the middle of everything. It’s not like we’re hiding ourselves.”
“No.” Lola crossed her arms and glared at Christine. “When you were upstairs a few weeks ago in near-constant drunken fights with Frank over the phone, Susan and I decided that that was your business—that we needed to stay out of your life because we didn’t know anything about it. Now, I am asking you for the same respect I gave you.”
Christine sputtered. She felt as though she had been punched in the heart. The wind rushed up through the porch and flung her brunette locks back as her tongue stumbled around for something else to say. “For all its negative consequences, having a baby has so, so many benefits and joys, as well. You’re picking the girl apart when she only made the same mistake you did at her age.”
“She’s having a baby with a man who won’t even answer his phone when she calls!” Lola cried out.
“Yeah? Well, men are disappointing. I know that. You know that. Women have to be ten times as strong and ten times as optimistic, and we have to lift one another up,” Christine continued.
“You can give me this feminist baloney if you want, but you will never understand what it means
to be a mother,” Lola spewed. “Every single day, I lived for this girl. It was just us. It was only meant to be....”
Suddenly, the screen door whipped open to reveal Wes Sheridan. He looked just as stormy as Lola, his eyes sure of themselves and his lips downturned. He glared at Lola, his hand-stretched over the screen door to hold it open.
“How dare you speak to your sister like that?” he demanded.
Christine fell into an immediate state of shock as the pain of Lola’s words cut into her. Nobody spoke for a few moments after that.
“So what, she doesn’t have kids. So what? That doesn’t mean she isn’t a fine and genuine person. That doesn’t mean that she isn’t worthy of love or compassion.”
Lola sputtered. “Dad, you’re confused. That isn’t what I meant.”
“Don’t you tell me that I’m confused,” Wes stammered. He stepped further out onto the porch, allowing the door to slam closed behind him. “I may be losing my marbles, but I know what I see right in front of me. I see you, Lola, acting like a little brat. I see you, Lola, not understanding how hypocritical you’re being with your own damn daughter, Audrey. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, welcoming you girls back into this house, but if you continue to belittle one another the way you just belittled Christine, then I will have to ask you to leave. Christine loves you. She doesn’t deserve that.”
With that, Wes turned, grabbed the screen door, and stomped back into the house. Mesmerized, Christine watched him go, while Lola collected her computer and backpack from the porch, glared at Audrey, and said, “We’re getting a hotel for the night. Come on.”
Audrey’s eyes linked with Christine’s for a long time as she followed her mother from the porch. Christine felt the fear and pain that swirled there behind those big baby blues. She knew it was a fear she would never fully experience the fear of bringing a life into this world, unsure if you could fully lift it up yourself.
When they were gone, Christine poured herself a glass of wine and snuck onto the porch swing, watching the waves. All her life, she’d imagined her father liked her the least of all the Sheridan sisters. She would have never in a million years written something like what had just occurred. It was enough to make her reconsider her entire life.
Firefly Nights Page 9
