by Beth Merlin
Todd tossed me a bright orange life jacket from underneath his seat. He turned to pull on the black nylon cord to start the engine, which sputtered a few times before coming to life. Once it was at a full roar, he grabbed hold of the steering stick and guided us away from the dock and into the sound.
It was a perfect summer day. An early morning passing storm broke the last traces of the recent heat wave, bringing the temperatures down to a very comfortable eighty-four degrees. Lots of other fishermen seemed to be taking advantage of the low tide and perfect temperatures and heading out alongside us for the day’s catch.
“Stump Sound’s on the western side of the barrier island formed by Topsail Beach, so if we keep following the current around this part of the shoreline, we should land pretty much exactly where Daniel said the very best oysters are this summer,” Todd told me.
He reached into a small cooler tucked under his seat, pulled out two bottles of beer, and popped the two tops off. He took a long swig of one as he passed me the other.
“I’m not much of a beer lover, but this is good, very refreshing,” I said, taking a small sip.
“They come from a local brewery that focuses on craft beers.”
“You seem to know all the best spots on Topsail.”
“I’ve come to really like it here. The island’s a good change of pace.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Change of pace?”
“I trained under Thomas Keller for a few years, and then Dan Barber before opening up my own restaurant in LA.”
“I’m from California—well, Newport Beach—but my sister lives in LA now, so I’m there quite a bit these days. What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“It was called Ma Belle Ferme.”
“You owned Ma Belle Ferme?” I asked, my voice barely disguising my surprise.
A couple of years ago, Ma Belle Ferme, or My Beautiful Farm, was the hottest restaurant in the LA scene. Known as an epicenter hot spot for A-list celebrities, models, and wealthy jetsetters, it was nearly impossible to get a reservation unless you were seriously well connected. I was there once, the year Merritt’s show, Urban Healers, won Best Drama Series at the Emmys. Merritt brought me as her date to the award show, and later, to the after party, which had been held at Ma Belle Ferme.
Ma Belle Ferme was located on Melrose Place in the heart of West Hollywood. I remember it was a very unique space, the steel-frame façade was meant to evoke the feeling of an old French farm. The restaurant featured walls made from exposed recycled timber, cobblestone flooring on the ground floor, and more timber on the mezzanine dining levels. The interiors combined old and new dark wood furniture, plump upholstered seating, modern fabrics, muted wall coverings, and raw finishes.
One of my favorite touches was the roof over the terrace, covered with reclaimed chicken wire and green-tinted glass sourced from a farmhouse in the French countryside. It was a beautiful space that took you right out of LA and into the heart of Provence.
The food, though, was even more impressive than the atmosphere. Even all these years later, I could still taste the unexpected ingredients and flavor combinations. There was even a rumor that Ma Belle Ferme was the first restaurant to usher in the kale craze that eventually swept the nation.
“Those were the best and worst few years of my life,” he said.
“How so?”
“I partied way too hard and took my success for granted. LA’s a town that’s all about the next big thing. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that staying in power is about hard work and humility. Back in my Ma Belle Ferme days, I abandoned both of those things in favor of a good time and seeing my face in a few magazines.”
“And that’s how you landed on Topsail Island?”
“There were a couple of detours along the way, but yeah, I guess you could say I was looking for a different lifestyle. What about you?”
“I told you, I came to Topsail for the Boot Camp.”
“Sorry, I meant what do you do out in the real world? I’m gonna take a guess and say it’s not related to oyster harvesting?”
“What gave me away?” I teased. “Actually, I work as a casting agent, mostly for Broadway shows.”
He shook his head. “That’s got to be an interesting job, no?”
“Definitely.”
He leaned forward, turning the boat away from the wake of a large sailboat passing by. “Not your passion, though?”
“It’s a pretty rare thing to combine your day job with your passion, no?”
“Not for me. Cooking’s my passion and my day job.”
“You’re a lucky guy, then.”
He winked at me. “I really am.”
Todd steered the boat from the inlet toward the sound, a murky, seven-mile puddle stretching from Sneads Ferry to North Topsail Beach that looked more like a lagoon than a bay. All along the waterway, the other oyster hunters dropped their anchors into silt and hopped down into the brackish water. When we got to an empty clearing, Todd turned off the motor, letting the boat drift into the high, bending reeds.
“This is our stop,” he said, passing me a pair of yellow rubber overalls.
I slipped the pants over my shoes and stood up to fasten the straps over my shoulders. I threw my hands on my hips and said, “How do I look?”
“Like the guy on the Gorton’s Fish Sticks box.”
I scrunched my nose. “Not quite what I was going for.”
He laughed and handed me a large wooden stick with a claw-like attachment at the end of it. “You can either harvest the oysters by hand or plunge these pick-up tongs into the water—like you’re trying to pick up a giant salad,” Todd said, wrangling his grabber out of a pile of nets and baskets.
“I’ll give the salad tongs a try first,” I answered.
“Good call. I can’t tell you the number of fishermen I’ve seen at the farmers market whose hands were absolutely shredded after a day of oyster harvesting.”
Todd tucked a sturdy hammer into his overall pocket, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and threw his legs over the side of the boat and into the water. After he got his footing, he reached out his hands to help me do the same. “Low tide goes back out in about an hour from now, and we want to be back on that boat when it does, or we’ll be stuck out here until high tide this evening.”
I followed Todd to the shoreline. The murky water was up to our knees, making it difficult to see down to the ocean floor.
“How do we know where the oyster beds are?” I asked.
He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and taking hold of the rod. His breath hit the back of my neck, sending goosebumps down my arms and legs.
“Run the pole down into the mud a couple of inches and pull it sideways, until you feel the rough side of the oyster. Then, use the grabber to pull it up. You want to make sure shells are at least one inch thick. Leave the smaller ones in the bed to mature,” he said, stepping away.
I plunged my grabber into the water and dragged it sideways like Todd explained, but after several thrusts, I still came up empty. Todd was applying the same method, only, instead of the grabber, he was using his hand to comb the floor for oysters. On the third try, he pulled up a handful of algae-covered rough brown shells.
After that, we both seemed to get the hang of things, and within the hour had collected several bushels of oysters. We used the nets to drag them back to the boat and heaved the heavy bundles over the side and back into the hull. The tide was coming back in, and the water was starting to inch up past our knees.
“What do you say we get back into the boat and take our haul to that spot right over there for a picnic?” Todd asked, pointing to a deserted section of beach across the sound.
I nodded and climbed back into the motorboat. Todd revved up the engine, and we shot across the waves and over to the small island across the way.
Todd dumped some of the oysters onto a towel he laid out on the sand, at least ten or twelve dozen worth.
“What do y
ou think the chances are one of those oysters has a pearl inside the shell?”
“Not all oysters make pearls, and the ones that do make them very infrequently. The odds for the production of a natural pearl are about one in 10,000 oysters, at best. That’s why they are so amazing," Todd said.
"I didn't realize a pearl was so rare."
“When sand injures the oyster, the oyster responds by becoming a strong, resilient, beautiful pearl. It’s a pretty great metaphor, isn't it?” Todd said the lid of the cooler. He passed me a lemon wedge from inside along with an opened shell.
“I’m not the biggest fan. The couple of times I’ve had them, I typically coat just them in cocktail sauce—masks the taste.”
“Oh, you’ve been missing out, kid. Just a few drops of lemon can boost the brightness of an oyster without overwhelming it. I promise, these are worth giving oysters another try.”
There it was again, that word, kid. Yet somehow, the pet name sounded different coming out of Todd’s mouth than Sam’s. With Sam, the nickname always felt like a reminder that he was the more grown-up, stable, and settled one. I was the lowly freshman girl, the kid he’d plucked from obscurity and brought into the big league. With Todd, the phrase felt more like a term of endearment, his way of being playful and flirty with me. “Okay, okay. I’ll try it your way,” I conceded.
He stood up and came around behind me. He knelt and reached his arms over my shoulders, squeezing the lemon onto my plate of oysters.
“Everyone thinks you’re supposed to slurp down the oyster like a shot of tequila. Don’t,” he breathed into my ear. “All the oyster’s sweetness is in the body, so if you rush through it, you’ll miss half the experience.”
I picked up the half shell and let the meat slide into my mouth, savoring its salty richness.
“Mmmm, you were right, that’s amazing.”
“I told you. And now for the pièce de résistance, a beautiful Chablis,” he said, pouring two glasses of the French white wine. “Chablis is considered a classic pairing for oysters because of the ancient marine fossils and oyster shells found in the region’s limestone soil. I don’t know about all that, but I do happen to think it tastes pretty freakin’ phenomenal with fresh seafood.”
I took a small sip. “And now, so do I.”
Todd leaned back on his elbows, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
“So, now that I’ve told you my sordid tale, what’s yours?” he asked.
I set my glass down in the sand. “What do you mean?”
He arched his right eyebrow. “A breakup so devastating you had to escape to a Boot Camp for two weeks?”
“I get it, a breakup Boot Camp sounded completely insane to me too.”
He extended his arms. “And yet, here you are.”
“My fiancé was cheating on me. We were supposed to get married at the end of the summer.”
Todd’s eyes widened as he took another sip of the wine.
“He was my first love. Really, Sam was my first everything. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I kind of fell apart after our relationship ended. I am glad I decided to come to the Boot Camp, but the thing I’m starting to realize is that, even with all the therapy in the world, when a heart is as broken as mine, the pieces might never quite fit the way they did before.”
“And is that a bad thing?”
“You know, I’m not really sure.”
Todd pushed a stray hair behind my ear and topped off our glasses of wine.
“We should get going. I need to get the oysters on ice. Today was fun, though.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Bottoms up,” he said, clinking his glass into mine.
He threw back the rest of the Chablis and packed up our small picnic. We boarded the boat with our haul, no pearls but dozens of perfect Stump Sound oysters.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I got back from the oyster hunt, Zosia was waiting for me by the Retreat House Spa reception desk, reading a magazine. I called her name, and she looked up from her US Weekly.
“Can you believe the paparazzi managed to snap a picture of Emmy at surf school? Where do you think they’re hiding out, the sand dunes?” Zosia pushed her glasses down the bridge of her nose. “Is that you behind her?”
She passed me the magazine. Emmy was the cover story. Underneath the headline, Relationship Rehab, Emmy J’s Journey to Heal Her Broken Heart, was a picture of her surfing on Topsail Beach.
“No, that’s not me,” I said, passing it back to her.
Zosia shook her head. “Emmy’s going to be crushed when she sees this. She’s really been enjoying her anonymity. I guess we all have.”
With one week of Boot Camp just about over and only one week left, she was right, I was starting to get used to our device and stress-free existence. Retreat House was a safe space, a cocoon from the rest of the world, and it was disarming to know one flash of a paparazzi camera could take all that away.
Zosia tucked the magazine back into her tote and pulled out her schedule of activities. “Do you know what treatment we’re signed up for?”
I checked my Retreat House daily schedule. “Something called a V-Steam? Emmy recommended it. Have you ever heard of that before?”
“I think so? Yes, a Vietnamese steam. It’s supposed to clear out your pores, remove the toxins, that sort of thing,” Zosia said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, that sounds great, actually.”
“I know, the Southeast Asian countries are light years ahead of us in terms of their therapies,” she said.
A technician from the spa stepped into the waiting area and clapped her hands together. “Ms. Kitt, Ms. Barry, I have you both booked for a 2:00 V-Steam. Please come this way.”
We followed her past the reception desk and down a long hallway that led to a series of doors. The technician handed us plush white terrycloth robes and directed each of us to a room.
“Get changed into these, and I’ll be back in a few minutes to start the treatment,” she said.
I stepped into my room and closed the door behind me. I was expecting a massage table, or one of those reclining chairs spas use for facials, but the room was pretty sparse. I changed out of my clothes and into the white robe and waited for the next set of instructions.
A few minutes later the technician came back with a large white porcelain bowl filled with steaming water. She placed it on the counter and started mixing in different aromatic herbs and serums. Hints of lavender, rosemary, and peppermint permeated the air. She ripped up herbs and leaves and sprinkled them into the basin.
I rose to my tiptoes and peeked over the technician’s shoulder. “What’s all that?”
“Oregano, mugwort, wormwood, and basil.”
“Is this a beauty treatment or magic potion?” I teased.
“Actually, many of our clients have commented this treatment’s been a magic bullet for their love life. Okay, I’m just about done,” she said, turning to me. “By the way, how’s your core?”
“My core?”
“How long do you think you can comfortably squat?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“We can administer the treatment one of two ways. You can use this open seated stool,” she said, pointing to a contraption that resembled a port-a-potty. “Or we can insert the steam pack directly.”
“I think I might be confused. Insert the steam pack where? I’m booked for the V-Steam, right? The Vietnamese facial?
The technician snorted. “V-Steam stands for Vaginal Steam.”
“Vaginal Steam? Like a sauna for your vagina?”
“Exactly like that,” she said.
My cheeks flushed crimson.
“Don’t be embarrassed, the V-Steam is about reinvigorating your sexual energy and rejuvenating the vagina. It’s the latest rage. In fact, Gwyneth Paltrow just wrote a whole story about it for Goop.”
“But my vagina hasn’t been that many places. I’m not really sure it needs re
juvenating?”
“Sweetheart, it’s not about where your vagina’s been, it’s about where she’s going.”
I was almost positive I’d seen a T-shirt in the Retreat House gift shop with that exact slogan on it. I pointed to the steaming bowl. “And she’s going in there?”
“Not in there. You’ll squat with the support of the stool and let the steam waft in. We’ve been told it’s as equally effective as the other method.”
“No, no, I’ll squat. I’d prefer the squat method.”
She nodded and set the bowl under the stool. “Take as much time as you need. Some women feel revitalized after twenty minutes of steam, others need the full forty-five. Use the session to meditate, gather your thoughts, do affirmations—whatever feels right to you. Become one with your body and the power that is womanhood. The most important thing to remember is that it’s your journey. Oh, before I forget, if you enjoy the treatment, we have a DIY kit you can purchase at the front desk for home use. I’ll leave you to finish getting undressed,” the technician said as she closed the door softly behind her.
I tightened the belt tie and leaned down to more closely examine the steamy water. I couldn’t help but picture those Green Giant veggie steamer bags I liked to buy from the supermarket as a side dish for chicken. Three minutes on high in the microwave and out came a piping-hot plate of broccoli. I could only wonder what forty-five minutes would do to my . . . Well, I supposed there was no time like the present to find out.
I shimmied out of the robe and squatted down over the stool. After a few minutes in a crouching position, I understood the question about my core strength, which apparently, even after months of Benji’s Boot Camp, wasn’t good enough for the V-Steam. But as the water cooled, I did start to feel myself open to the process and allow the heat to do its thing. I felt less tense, more relaxed, and surprisingly in touch with my femininity.
Merritt would be so proud of me. So far this week, I’d taken a dominatrix class, surfed for the first time, went oyster harvesting, and now I could add the V-Steam to my list of post-Sam adventures. Maybe that was the real purpose of the Boot Camp, to take you so far outside your comfort zone there wasn’t the room or the time to grieve the loss of your relationship. For example, right now, all I could think about was the fact I was stark naked, hunched over a steaming bowl of aromatic water. Sam didn’t factor into the equation at all.
