8
“‘Sup, Dev,” David Anders grunted from a weight bench in the middle of his living room where his coffee table used to be. His trainer, Johnny, was spotting him as he bench-pressed a ridiculous amount of weight. “One more set, Dev. Sorry ‘bout this,” he murmured in his Southern drawl. I walked past them and into the kitchen, where I silently started unloading the cooler bags on the counter.
“Okay,” he said, sitting up and wiping the sweat from his forehead with a towel that Johnny handed him. “I’m good, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Johnny waved goodbye to me and left the condo, leaving us alone.
“What’s going on?” I asked, sitting on the leather chair next to the weight bench. “Since when are you working out here instead of the gym downstairs?” David didn’t like going anywhere he didn’t have to, and it worried me that he might be leaving his condo even less now.
He shook his head, taking a gulp of Gatorade. “Since some punk-ass down there told me that my game sucks and the Celts should trade me. I don’t need that shit. But the thing is, then I start thinking maybe he’s right. And it’s stuck in my head. I’ve been playing like crap, and I can’t seem to snap out of it.”
“You scored eight points last night,” I said, handing him a cookie. “That’s not horrible.”
“That was the most I’ve scored so far this season. I need to break into double digits again.”
“Dude,” I said, shaking my head. “The preseason literally just started last week. I can’t believe it’s October already. But you have plenty of time. And you’re home now for a few games. That’ll be good.”
“Oh yeah, my mom’s going to call you. I’ve got a game in LA at the beginning of December that she can’t go to—some medical conference. She wants you to go.”
“Oh,” I said with a nod, trying to keep a smile on my face. I had done this a few times during my tenure working for David and his mother, but I used to have more control over my schedule. I didn’t want to give him anything else to stress about, considering his uncertain state of mind. “Sounds good. Just tell her to give me a call.”
“Cool,” he said, giving me a high-five. “So, how’s it going? How’s fall up there in the north woods?”
I laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that. If there’s a Whole Foods nearby, I consider it a place that is at least suburban. But yeah, the leaves are changing, and there are a ton of confused tourists going through St. George’s trying to find Wentworth by the Sea in New Castle. Wrong island! They get confused because there’s a dorm with the same name. Anyway, I’m figuring out the job and starting to win over the kids, so that’s good.” I left out Kyle, The Underground Stallion , Adrienne Preston, Ashlyn Lark, and a host of other things. Details, details. I tried to clear them from my head.
“What’s the key to winning over people? I feel like I should take notes or something. I’m on the struggle bus with this,” he said, shaking his head. According to David’s mother, his shyness had always been an issue. Even now, he sometimes found himself in hot water for not talking to the press the way his contract stipulated he needed to. It wasn’t malicious or anything; the guy was just hesitant and introverted. But he could rip it up on the basketball court.
“Cookies, David. That’s all I got. I make them these cookies,” I said, pointing at the plate I had brought over to the living room with me. “They call me the Cookie Lady now. I used to be Boston’s private chef to the rich and famous. Now I’m the Cookie Lady.”
“You’ve still got me, Dev. And they’re damn good cookies. Did you bring any enchiladas?”
...
“Hey, what are you up to?” I asked Andrea as I got out of my car outside of Wentworth House. She was sitting on a bench eating an ice cream cone. Raspberry. It looked delicious. My stomach rumbled.
“Georgy Porgy’s closes this weekend,” she said. “I hear you’re an ice cream fan. Better get some while you still can.”
“Ugh,” I groaned. “When do they open up again?” I had gotten so accustomed to my Vanilla Toffee fix over the past month that I hadn’t thought about what I would do during a fall and winter hiatus.
“Usually May first,” she said. “Coming back from Boston, I assume? How’s David Anders?”
“Good,” I said, not wanting to give Andrea any information that could be spread to others at the local watering holes or elsewhere. “It’s always nice to see him.”
“So, I need some help,” she began, and I tried to relax. I quickly learned that leading the dining services involved a lot more than feeding three meals a day to the students and any staff and their families that showed up. There were a million little extra events and needs and things to keep track of. “Did you notice the scaffolding and tarps at the entrance to campus?”
“Yeah, you can’t miss them,” I said. I had meant to ask the maintenance staff what was going on, but something else always came up, and I was distracted. “What’s going on?”
“There is a local artist—actually, he’s an alum—named Ward Connelly who is creating an art installation for us. It’s his gift to the school, and he’s world-renowned, so it’s a big deal. It’ll be the first thing people see when they drive through the gates of Rockwood. Everyone is very excited about it.”
“Cool. So, they’re working on this installation under these drapes and stuff until it’s ready to be revealed, I’m guessing?” I had worked with a few artists and their families in Boston, plus hosted numerous dinners and receptions for them at restaurants I had worked at, so this wasn’t anything new.
“Exactly. And he wants to unveil everything at an event next Friday, weather permitting. Even if there’s a bit of rain, we can likely still pull it off with tents. I’d love for you to meet with him to come up with a catering menu. The Board of Trustees will all be in attendance, so we want it to be nice. There will be champagne for adults, so we need to be careful about student access, but I can give you the name of a bartender we’ve worked with before who will be fine given the circumstances.”
“Okay, sounds good,” I said. “Email me the details, and I’ll figure it out.” It was short notice, but it didn’t sound like a ton of work.
“I’ll tell Ward that you’ll meet him at The Barnacle at 9 PM tomorrow then,” she said, throwing her napkin and the paper cone wrapper in the trash barrel next to the bench. “So nice this isn’t overflowing with cardboard boxes anymore,” she mused.
“Um, where’s The Barnacle?” I didn’t know all the Portsmouth bars and restaurants yet, and this one sounded nautical and interesting. I imagined portholes for windows and lots of life preservers and anchors. Maybe a big whale hanging from the shiplap-covered wall.
“It’s right underneath where you work every day,” she said with a wink. “Ask Kyle. He’ll tell you all about it.”
...
The line at Georgy Porgy’s stretched around the side of the little house and past the picnic tables, but I was ready to patiently wait my turn. Besides, I needed to process this new information. I wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by taking a meeting with Ward Connelly, the artist, or the prospect of throwing together this event for the most important people in the Rockwood community. No, none of that. What was bothering me was the fact that there was apparently a speakeasy of all things underneath where I had worked and cooked for over a month. I felt stupid and na?ve. I didn’t even know where the damn stairs were to reach a lower floor. Or floors. For all I knew, there was a whole underground village at Rockwood.
Kyle and who I presumed to be his daughter Annie, based on the pictures he had shown me, were standing in the halfway point of the line, and he motioned for me to join them. The little boy behind them yelled, “Hey, she’s cutting!” and Kyle fished a dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Add another scoop, kid. Get espresso chip and stay up all night.” The boy and his mother stared at Kyle with their mouths open. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s my dad,” Annie said, shaking her head. “He does this stuff all the time.”
“Hi,” I said, giving Annie a small wave, not knowing what else to do. “I’m Devon. I went to school with your dad a long time ago.”
“I know who you are,” she said, pointing her chin up knowingly. “You made the French toast I had for breakfast.”
“I wish I had,” I said. “But my team did. I was making food to bring to a very hungry basketball player. Do you ever watch the Celtics?”
“When I stay with my dad,” she said. “We watch all the sports.”
“Well, I cook for David Anders. He’s super tall and loves cookies.”
“Cool,” she said. “Dad, I want to try the Puddin’ Pie ice cream tonight.”
“They’re really playing up the Georgy Porgy theme this year, huh?” Kyle said. “Not sure if they’re going nursery rhyme or Toto cult classic song, though.”
“Toto sang a song about Georgy Porgy?” I asked. Kyle was an endless font of weird knowledge.
“You bet. You would never know it was the same band that sang ‘Africa.’” Kyle looked up at the menu board. “Vanilla Toffee, I assume?” he asked me. “My treat.”
I shook my head. “You don’t need to,” I said. “Especially since I need to get some information from you. I hate to occupy your time with Annie here, but I need a little intel.”
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll go around back to the water where the ducks swim with our ice cream. And yes, I owe you. The food is infinitely better in the dining hall since you took over. Marnie’s food really sucked.”
I felt bad that everyone was ripping on Marnie left and right, but there wasn’t much I could do about it other than change the subject when it happened. She didn’t say much to me but did her job well and got along with everyone. I hoped Tam’s evergreen quote that “people have short memories” rang true, and eventually, everyone stopped referencing the brief era of terrible boxed meals.
We walked to the water’s edge, and Annie meandered down the shore a bit. I pictured her as a toddler, ambling along with her ice cream, babbling to the ducks. She had grown up in St. George’s. Now, at ten, she was a mature only child who had already navigated so much in her decade of life. Although my parents hadn’t gotten divorced, I could see myself in her in many ways. She seemed like a person I’d like to know better.
“She’s fantastic,” I said. “You must be proud.”
“I can’t take much credit,” Kyle said, taking a big bite of cookies and cream. “She’s so much like Cora. All her poise, all her smarts. I hope she stays that way.”
“Come on, you know about the assassination attempts on all the presidents,” I said, trying to keep things light.
“True,” he said. “Remind me to tell you more about Warren Harding sometime. So much scandal.”
“Deal. So, here’s a question for you. Can you please tell me about The Barnacle? Because I didn’t know until about thirty minutes ago that I’ve been cooking above a speakeasy.”
“Oh Jesus, I didn’t realize I hadn’t told you about it yet. Too busy babbling to you last week about Teddy Roosevelt getting shot and still making a speech.”
“That was a good story.”
“Right? There are so many. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it. It’s kinda dumb, at least in my opinion, which doesn’t mean a whole lot around here. But it was established early in the school’s history by the second Head of School, whose family owned a huge shipbuilding company. I’ve only been there twice.”
“Is it like a normal bar? Do people go there regularly? Is it open every night? How does it all work?” I couldn’t help firing questions at him. It was such a strange concept to wrap my head around. A bar in a boarding school full of underage teenagers?
“It’s more like a private club for people of legal drinking age who are associated with Rockwood. So, faculty and staff are welcome, but not many use it. You might see a couple of them if you go down there. It tends to be people on the Board and local alumni who like that sort of thing. You have to know it’s there, and it’s not obvious, which you’ve already gathered, or else you would’ve noticed it. You actually can’t enter through the dining hall.”
“That makes me feel slightly better, then, that I wasn’t staring at some staircase for five weeks or something.”
“Totally. You go through the back door of the chapel. Hang a left down the hallway. You’ll come up to a closed door with a keypad. Type in the code 4-3-2-1.”
“Isn’t that kind of ridiculous? Everyone must have it figured out.”
“Some of the people who come to the club are like ninety. They try to keep it easy. There is an elevator just past the door, or you can walk down the stairs.”
“And the students don’t know about it?”
“Oh, they know,” he said. “It’s all locked up at eleven each night, with codes that are presumably tougher to ascertain than 4-3-2-1. You might encounter a couple of them in the chapel, though. Just warning you.”
“Why are students in the chapel at night?” I asked, finishing my ice cream cone. “You mean they go there to…” My voice drifted off.
“Sometimes. There are other spots. I once caught kids in the copy room on a Sunday. That seemed really stupid. Teachers are always working on weekends, unfortunately.”
“Anyway, why’d you even go to The Barnacle if you think it’s dumb?”
Kyle rolled his eyes and polished off the rest of his cone. “Al Holton was on campus, and they paired me up with him as his faculty ambassador, or some bullshit like that. Back when they used to trust me to do things.”
“Al Holton?”
“Exactly. They made some big deal about him, but no one knew who he was.”
“Who is he? Or was he?”
“He was a senator from Kentucky at the time. His sister was an alum. The dude thought he was hot shit and knew about The Barnacle and wanted to go because it seemed exclusive—you know the type. So, we went. He then lost his re-election to a pro-choice Democrat. In Kentucky. He wasn’t very popular.”
Kyle’s stories were always so much fun. I imagined him in these scenarios and laughed to myself. “And the second time you went?”
He grimaced. “I was lured there by Ryland Dennis.”
“When you thought he was having an affair with Cora? That sounds like something out of a movie.” I couldn’t think of exactly which one. Tam would know.
“Yup, I thought he was going to confess something to me. I was all geared up to, I don’t know, do something. I’m not sure what, but something. Instead, we ordered drinks—these two enormous Manhattans with Woodford Reserve—and just shot the breeze. He pretended to talk about soccer, and I attempted to talk about fine literature. Both were out of our element and super awkward, but we were both trying. Then, some guy walked in with a Rockwood security officer and handed me a big envelope. The divorce papers were inside.” Kyle shook his head and threw his balled-up napkin into a nearby trash can.
How awful. My body hurt for him, sensing that ache you feel when someone you care about is in pain—or was in pain. I couldn’t tell how much it bothered him still, but I imagined it was an incident you couldn’t easily brush off. I wanted to reach over and hug him, but it would’ve been super weird with Annie just down the shore and tons of students nearby. Instead, I stood there awkwardly and tried to look sympathetic. “So, Ryland helped set up the whole thing?”
“Yeah, which is why I sit as far across the room from him as I can at all faculty meetings and events. Among other reasons.”
“Plus, that, um, paperwork you told me about that requires you to do that.”
“That, too. Almost forgot about that,” he said with a sly smile. He glanced over at Annie, who was in a one-sided conversation with a duck. “I like being friends with you, just so you know,” he said quietly.
My mind flashed back to 2007, to lying on that cramped twin dorm bed with Kyle, listening to Oasis, his hands in my hair, him telling me about a soccer game he wanted to see when he was in England; even that night he had told me many, many stories. Usually, these kinds of thoughts distracted me, but now, I felt myself smile. “Me, too.”