by Nan Rossiter
“Have your Scrabble board ready.”
“I’ll have my hopscotch board ready too.”
She smiled. “Game on.”
“Game on,” I said with a wistful smile. “Don’t forget the Boone’s Farm either.”
“Strawberry Hill?”
I shook my head. “Country Kwencher.”
“How ’bout Tickled Pink?”
We laughed and then a voice behind us called out, “Excuse me, miss, are you boarding?”
“I am!” I called back; then I turned to Lizzy. “Love you,” I said tearfully, giving her another hug.
“Love you too,” she said, brushing back her own tears.
I smiled and turned to lug my mom’s heavy suitcase up the ramp; then I stood on the back deck, waving as we pulled away. To see us, you’d think I was going to England instead of to an island just thirty miles off Cape Cod, but at that moment, it felt like we would never see each other again. I waved until she was just a speck of color; then I dried my eyes and looked out across the ocean toward the life—my new life—that lay ahead.
When the ferry docked in Nantucket, I felt in my pocket for the key to the cottage, reassuring myself, and as I lugged my mom’s suitcase down the ramp and began walking up the cobblestone street, I felt as if my mom was with me. Holding the handle that her hand had held last made me feel as if her touch was still there. It was the first time I’d ever felt her presence or had the odd feeling she was looking out for me.
Chapter 11
It was early June when I moved to Nantucket, so there were still plenty of restaurants and shops looking for help. The jobs these businesses were looking to fill, however, were for cashiers and waitresses—both of which I had experience doing, but neither of which I wanted to do.
The first few days, I walked along the sunny cobblestone streets, peering into shops and learning my way around. One morning, I encountered construction and inadvertently followed a detour down a narrow side street. At the end of the street was a long gray building with weathered cedar shakes and an attractive sign that said, NANTUCKET BREAD AND BAKED GOODS—WHERE THE DOUGH ALWAYS RISES. Underneath, a smaller sign said, HELP WANTED—INQUIRE WITHIN. I stood on the sidewalk, considering, but when I smelled the lovely aroma of freshly baked bread drifting from the shop’s open windows, I felt certain I should go in—the scent reminding me of the soft honey wheat bread Sister Mary Agnes used to bake for communion. If nothing else, I could buy some bread.
I walked up the front steps and pushed open the door. Hearing the bell tinkle, a man—who looked to be in his thirties—wearing an old Red Sox cap, came out from the back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Good morning,” he said with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you?”
I looked at the glass display case full of bread and muffins and then looked back at him and cleared my throat. “I-I’m inquiring about the job . . . the sign in the window,” I stammered, motioning behind me.
He looked me up and down and smiled. Back then, I was lucky if I weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet—and I really wasn’t dressed for a job interview. I was wearing shorts and a faded maroon T-shirt that said Boston College, and my chestnut brown hair—streaked blond from the sun—was pulled back into a loose ponytail.
“Are you a baker?” he asked.
Immediately, a quick slideshow of all the Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker cupcakes Lizzy and I had made through the years played through my mind. “Yes,” I said, nodding.
“Do you know how to run a register?”
I nodded again—even though I wasn’t interested in being a cashier, I suddenly had a strong feeling about this job.
“When can you start?”
“Now,” I blurted.
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Well, at least you have enthusiasm.”
I smiled.
“What’s your name?”
I hesitated. I was still using Drew’s last name—it was my legal name and seemed like it always would be, but whenever I said it, it felt like an anchor hanging around my neck. “Sally . . . Sally McIntyre,” I said.
“Well, Sally . . . Sally McIntyre, why don’t you plan on coming in tomorrow morning at . . . say, six?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, remembering to breathe again. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m Abe Jamison.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jamison.” I said, shaking it.
He smiled. “Please call me Abe—Mr. Jamison makes me think of my dad—not that that’s a bad thing.” He paused. “How about a blueberry muffin to hold you over? They’re fresh from the oven.”
I hesitated. “O-okay,” I stammered. He disappeared into the kitchen, and a moment later reappeared with a wax-paper bag. I could feel the warm muffin inside and I smiled.
“You look like you could use a few extra treats,” he said. “There’s coffee too,” he added, nodding to a row of coffeepots lined up on a wooden counter behind me.
“No . . . no, thanks,” I said. “I’m not really a coffee drinker.”
He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, thank you. See you tomorrow,” I replied, and as I walked out, I felt as if I were walking on cloud nine. Everything was falling into place—I had a safe place to live, a new job, and I was living in paradise. I reached into the bag, broke off a piece of muffin, popped it in my mouth, and the warm, juicy blueberries squirted all over the top of my mouth.
The next morning, I was up and showered before dawn. I put the kettle on for a cup of tea, and while I waited for it to heat, I pictured my dad having breakfast too. I looked at the clock—he was usually up by now, and I could see him, at that very moment, standing in the kitchen smoothing honey onto his toast.
“What would you like, Sal,” he’d always called out, “honey or marm?”
“Marm,” I’d answer.
All of a sudden, I wondered if, in the time I’d been gone, he’d ever accidently called to see what I wanted on my toast before remembering I wasn’t there. The thought made me sad. I hoped he was managing and didn’t miss me too much, but as the kettle started to sing, tears filled my eyes. The truth was, I missed him. I brushed back my tears and poured hot water over my Earl Grey tea bag and then put a piece of bread in the toaster. When it popped up, I buttered it and opened a new jar of honey. “I’m having honey, Dad,” I said softly.
Before I left, I made sure the house was as tidy as Mrs. Cohen had left it. Ever since I’d moved into her house, I’d felt as if I had to leave everything in its proper place, just in case she showed up to give a pop inspection. I didn’t think her house would ever truly feel like home, though. After all, it was filled with her belongings, but it didn’t matter—it worked for now and I was grateful beyond words to have such a lovely place to stay, not to mention that there were enough books on the shelves to keep me reading for years . . . if I was lucky enough to live there that long.
I locked the door behind me and lifted the bicycle off the front porch—Simon had said there was a bike in the shed, and the evening before, I’d pulled it out to make sure it was ride-worthy. Both tires had been flat, but I’d found a pump, and after I pumped them up, they seemed to hold air. I climbed on and pushed off, and as I rode into town in the early morning light, I felt as if I had the whole world to myself—in fact, I passed only one delivery truck; the rest of the island was sound asleep.
It was five forty-five when I leaned the bike against the back of the bakery and pulled open the door. When Abe heard me, he looked up, smiled, and immediately stopped what he was doing and put me right to work making muffins—from scratch! As I measured flour and sugar and broke eggs, he put on three pots of coffee, set out a pitcher of half-and-half, and freshened the sugar bowl. A half hour later, he unlocked the front door. I didn’t expect there to be much activity because the shop was so far off the beaten path, so I was more than a little surprised by the steady stream of customers who came in to buy freshly baked bread and muffi
ns and a cup of coffee. Abe showed me the price list for the baked goods and gave me a quick lesson on the register. As the morning flew by, I found myself spending more time ringing up purchases than I did baking, but I didn’t mind. Everyone who came in was friendly and welcoming, and I immediately felt at home.
The days quickly turned into weeks, and before I knew it, it was the end of July. I asked Abe if he thought he would need me in the wintertime and he assured me he would. I was relieved because I didn’t know what else I’d do. The bakery was a convenient short ride on my bike, and within walking distance in bad weather. It was also a wonderful source of food—Abe was constantly sending me home with bread and muffins, and I also started drinking coffee—something that would definitely surprise my dad when I saw him again!
As promised, Lizzy and Simon came out for a long weekend in August. They were both working at Mass General, and although it would’ve made sense financially for them to share an apartment, Lizzy’s mom wouldn’t hear of it. There was no way her daughter was going to live with a boy—never mind a Jewish boy! Needless to say, even though Lizzy admitted they were—for all intents and purposes—living together, she and Simon continued to keep separate apartments.
I watched the ferry pull in that Thursday afternoon and felt my heart pounding—I couldn’t believe they were finally here! I scanned the crowd of people lining up to disembark and saw them waving from the deck. It seemed to take them forever to make their way down the ramp and through the crowd, but when they did, Lizzy and I flew into each other’s arms.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I said, holding her close.
“I’ve missed you too,” she said, smiling. Then she held out her left hand. “My mom doesn’t know yet,” she said with a grin. “I had to tell my best friend first.”
“Oh, my goodness!” I cried, admiring the gorgeous diamond sparkling in the sunlight. I pulled her into another hug. “Congratulations!” I turned to Simon—who was grinning like a kid on his birthday—and hugged him too. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, and began babbling on about how perfect they were for each other. They stood there, grinning and holding hands. “We have to go celebrate,” I finally concluded. “My treat. Where shall we go?”
“You don’t have to treat,” Simon said. “We want to take you out.”
“Don’t be silly! I’m a working girl, too . . . and, thanks to you, my living expenses are next to nothing.”
“Okay,” Lizzy said graciously, knowing how stubborn I could be. “Why don’t we go to the place we went to the first night we were here?”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to go back.” I looked at my watch. “Do you want to go now, or would you rather stop at the house and get settled first?”
“I’m starving—so I could definitely eat now,” Lizzy said, “but I think I’d like to change, and maybe even shower, first.”
Since their bags were light, I suggested we walk—it was only a little more than a mile and I hadn’t taken a cab since that first night. Now that I knew my way around, I always rode my bike or walked. We started up the cobblestone walk and Lizzy looked over and smiled.
“What?” I asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
“You look great,” she said. “You’re so tan and you look like you’ve put on a little weight—which you needed. Your cheeks aren’t hollow anymore, and your hair is so blond!”
“That’s island life,” I said with a laugh, “and eating lots of freshly baked bread and blueberry muffins.”
“That’s right!” Lizzy said, remembering my new job. “You have to show us where you work.”
I started to answer, but Simon interrupted. “Lizzy told me you’re working at a bakery—are you working at Abe’s?”
“I am,” I said in surprise. “Do you know him?”
Simon smiled. “Everyone knows Abe.”
I laughed. “I’m not surprised—I think everyone on the island gets their bread from him.”
“Everyone who knows about him does,” Simon said. “Does he still send bread to the Cape?”
I looked up in surprise. “Yes . . . for the needy.”
“He’s done that for as long as I can remember,” Simon said. “Everyone loves Abe—he’s a legend on the island.”
“I can see why,” I said.
We turned into the driveway of the cottage and Simon stopped to look at the gardens. “Wow, Sal, the gardens look great!”
“Thanks,” I said, standing next to him. “I’ve been reading a book about gardening that I found on your grandmother’s shelf and I’ve learned quite a bit. I think she must’ve created her gardens from a plan in the book because they are very similar.”
“It looks like you’ve been doing more than reading about it.”
I nodded, but I didn’t tell him how many hours I’d spent weeding and pruning to get ready for their visit.
“My grandmother loved these gardens. She’d be out here every morning, filling her bushel with weeds, and when I was here, putting me to work, too, so I know how much work goes into it.” He smiled. “Thank you for taking such good care of it—it will make her very happy.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “It’s the least I can do—she’s letting me live here for free.”
Chapter 12
“Should we order wine?” Simon asked as the hostess seated us at the same table we’d sat at the first time.
Lizzy picked up her menu. “Of course,” she said, as if it was a silly question. “You pick.”
Simon looked at me and I nodded in agreement.
“Soo, Sal,” Lizzy asked as she perused her menu, “are you having drunken scallops?”
“You better believe it,” I said with a grin.
Our waitress came over to take our drink order and Simon chose a bottle of wine, and after she returned and opened it, Simon swirled, sniffed, sipped, and nodded.
“You’re such a professional,” Lizzy teased.
“I am a professional,” Simon said with a grin, squeezing her leg. “Don’t you know?”
I unfolded my napkin and laughed—I loved the way they teased each other. They truly were perfect for each other—Lizzy’s loud and often opinionated temperament complemented Simon’s easygoing, thoughtful nature, and they were of the same mind politically and philosophically. That’s why I was so surprised when I saw Simon’s reaction to two men who came in and sat down at the bar. The older man had wispy gray hair and his weathered face was very tan. He looked like he spent a lot of time on the water, which made me wonder if he was a fisherman. The younger one was muscular and he wore his hair cropped short. I couldn’t see his face, but I couldn’t help but see Simon’s.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, frowning.
He shrugged and didn’t answer, but his jaw was locked as he looked down at his menu. I glanced over my shoulder to see what had upset him, but the men’s backs were to us, and the only other thing I could see was a tattoo on the younger man’s arm: SEMPER FI.
When I looked back at Simon, he was glaring at his menu, so I gave Lizzy a puzzled look and she leaned forward and whispered, “He looks like he’s been to Nam.”
“So?”
“Simon isn’t a fan of the war. He doesn’t think we should be there, and neither do I.”
“I still don’t get why you’d hold that against him? You don’t even know him.” I frowned. “Besides that, he was probably drafted.”
“Maybe,” Lizzy agreed, “but the protests have been growing. . . in fact, there’s a concert in Woodstock, New York, this weekend. They’re calling it ‘Three days of peace, love, and rock and roll,’ and it’s a protest against the war.”
“I know all about the protests,” I interrupted, feeling stung that my friends would think I wasn’t aware of current events, “and I heard about the concert.”
“Well, things are getting worse. Soldiers are coming home and people don’t want anything to do with them.”
“That’s not right,” I whispered. “Most of
the boys who are being sent to Vietnam don’t have a choice.”
Simon suddenly looked up. “They should refuse to go,” he said angrily.
His sharp reaction was so unexpected and unlike him that I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, Sal,” he continued, “but everything about this war is wrong.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get drafted, Simon. If you weren’t in school, you probably would’ve been, and if you refused, you’d be in jail.”
Simon was silent, and thankfully, a moment later, our waitress appeared to take our order. After she left, however, the same cheerless mood hung over our table, so I tried to change the subject. “So, how do you guys like working at the hospital?”
Lizzy smiled. “I love it! I’m in the neonatal unit and the babies are so unbelievably tiny, but they’ve got all their parts—ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes—and even though their immune systems aren’t up to speed, they respond to human touch and it makes all the difference in the world.” She looked over at Simon—who still looked angry. “And how ’bout you, grouchy? Do you like the ER?”
Just as she asked him, the two men at the bar stood up, paid their bill, and moved toward the door, but since my back was to them, I couldn’t see their faces. But I could see Simon’s, and as the door closed behind them, Lizzy turned to him. “You know, Si, Sally’s right—he was probably drafted. He probably didn’t have a choice, and you have no idea what demons he has to deal with now. It’s wrong to treat these boys like the war is their fault.”
Simon shrugged and just stared out the window and Lizzy shook her head in frustration. She took a sip of her wine and looked back at me. “How do you like being a baker?”
I smiled. “I love it. I’ve learned so much about bread, and the cakes and muffins Abe makes are so much better than Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines. I don’t mind working the register either—it’s not like working at the grocery store. Everyone is so friendly.”
Lizzy smiled. “I’m sure people who live on Nantucket are less moody than people who live in Medford.”
