Chapter 12 #3
“You had to have seen the place before to appreciate the neatness,” Cece says after she sees the bewildered expression on Jonathan’s face. Of course, what she might see as a well-organized symbol of all she’s accomplished this summer, Jonathan might just see a dank room filled with things.
Not to be deterred, Cece shows him the oyster-sorting equipment next and explains how the process works.
Jonathan lets out a low whistle and runs his hand along the grader.
Cece explains how they move the bags from the boat to here, where they go through the process of tumbling, sorting, and washing.
Encouraged by his enthusiasm, she points out what makes this unit special: the adjustable spray bar, the self-aligning conveyor belt, and the sliding chute doors.
Cece almost starts regaling Jonathan with the story of her heroic repair job but stops herself, worried he’ll find it boring.
“Looks like a serious operation,” he says. “I wonder what the overhead costs are on this whole setup.”
They make their way down to the water, and while they don’t have time to go out on the boat, Cece hands Jonathan a set of binoculars and points to a spot in the near distance where oyster bags float like thousands of mermaid purses on the calm blue-green water.
She tells him how the oysters are first spawned and fertilized at their hatchery, then moved to one of their outdoor nurseries in the surrounding bays and coves.
Once they’ve matured, that’s when they bring them out to open water for their final growth phase where she and Santiago clear seaweed off the bags and flip them when necessary.
“This is even more involved than I was imagining, Cece,” Jonathan says, binoculars still pressed to his eye sockets.
“Let me guess,” Cece says, something close to satisfaction swelling in her throat. “You thought it was some little rinky-dink outfit.”
Visibly flustered, Jonathan protests. “I didn’t have anything to go on. I mean, you didn’t tell me it was so big. You…”
“Relax. I’m just giving you a hard time. Wanna see the cove where Richie wants to expand?”
“I’d love that,” Jonathan says.
They drive back to the pool house and down toward the water, past the boatyard, to a dead end where a worn trail leads through rebellious forsythia bushes.
Cece is aware of taking a specific route so as to avoid Morgan’s house—a fact she only half recognizes as they drive.
If Lorraine hadn’t shown Cece how to access the cove on foot, she might never have known about this path—a favorite of local nature enthusiasts and hikers.
Through the trees, glimpses of cedar-shake waterfront homes and still water.
The trail is meticulously maintained, the underbrush conveniently cut back to combat the ticks.
Darkness gathers, and then they’re free of the tree line, low marshland ahead, and then the cove, a lush blue-gray paint spill, surrounded by low-lying grasses, towering oaks, and the occasional home, placed a polite distance from its neighbor.
Cece can see Lorraine’s point; she understands how Richie’s oyster bags might disturb the natural beauty of this place, but soon enough they’ll feel like they’ve always been here, like these sun-faded homes.
And in truth, Cece wonders just how many times a year the residents of these houses look out and admire the pristine beauty before them.
To Cece’s surprise, Jonathan has all sorts of questions about the intended expansion.
They walk to the water’s edge, or at least to where the grass turns to marsh, the ground wet and squishy.
Jonathan wants to know where the bags will be situated and how many.
He wants to know how the oysters will be transferred once they get large enough.
Questions about output, logistics, margins, and profits flow from him like he’s a seed investor of a promising startup.
While Cece does her best to answer all his questions, he slips an arm around her waist as they look out over the water.
There’s an unencumbered giddiness to him, and Cece finds herself letting go and easing against the crook of his arm, while she details Richie’s vision for the company and its expansion.
Jonathan turns to look at Cece and puts his hands on her shoulders. “I want to invest.”
Cece can only laugh. The words don’t make sense. “This isn’t the stock market, Jonathan.”
“It’s investing all the same, and if Rayburn is expanding, you’ll need an infusion of capital. There are all sorts of costs to consider: permitting, more equipment, more boats, more employees.”
The idea is so ridiculously audacious Cece is dumbstruck.
It seems silly, paranoid even, in hindsight, to have thought Jonathan would have reservations about her new job.
Sure, working on an oyster farm is a stark change from her old actuary job, but she should never have doubted his support.
Isn’t this what Cece’s been waiting for?
His encouragement and devotion? And if it is, Cece thinks, then why does something nag at her, like a run in her stocking, threatening to split wide open?
Why is she resisting? What is she afraid of?
“I don’t even know if the farm is profitable,” Cece says, unsure of what she’s trying to protect.
“Then we’ll make it profitable,” Jonathan says excitedly.
“I see how happy you are here, Cece, and if you’re this passionate about the business, then I want to be a part of it.
And once the project gets approved, you and Richie will need all the help you can get.
Who knows—maybe we buy Richie out eventually and run it ourselves?
You could take care of the aquaculture stuff, and I’ll handle the money side.
Maybe we settle down around here. There’s no reason I can’t work from home, and it’s closer to my parents. ”
Is it Jonathan’s spontaneity or his obsession with turning Rayburn into another asset Cece finds disconcerting? “You’d really do all that?”
“Is this the thing you were born to do? Is this the thing that makes you feel most alive?”
Cece looks out at the serene water, Jonathan’s body warm against her. “It’s the closest.”
“Then let’s make it happen. I’m good with money, Cece. Let me do the one thing I’m good at. Let me invest in Rayburn and help you build something.”
Jonathan’s gesture—his absolute support, his unrepentant enthusiasm, his belief—is proof alone of his unconditional love. Is it not?
Cece recognizes the familiar sound, the feeling in her gut, before it registers who’s driving by when she and Jonathan emerge from the thicket into the cul-de-sac.
Morgan does a circle around the cul-de-sac before slowing down, and Cece finds herself infinitely thankful they left Jonathan’s sports car in Stamford.
And even though she hasn’t done anything wrong, or at least anything terribly wrong—a few small lies here and there—Cece is filled with palpable anxiety, ears hot, fingertips swelling, the air suddenly thick.
With Jonathan behind her, Cece waves at Morgan—a wave, she hopes, that indicates there’s no need to stop or have idle chitchat, but of course he does, a broad smile on his face.
Quiet follows after Morgan’s cut the engine, putting an end to the possibility that Cece can escape this unpleasant predicament.
“Coming from the cove?” he says, his hand tan and paint-flecked against the turquoise truck door.
Cece is aware of Jonathan’s nearness. A shadow of recognition flickers over Morgan’s face, darkening his features, brows bent, jaw set in a hard line. Jonathan says nothing, waiting for an introduction, it seems, the way Bernard waits by his food bowl before dinner.
“This is Morgan,” Cece says, toes cramping in her sandals. “He’s my neighbor.”
“Jonathan. Pleasure to meet you. I’m…” Jonathan steals a glance at Cece and chuckles. They have yet to discuss the formal title of their current situation, a point of ambiguity Cece had embraced until now. “We’re still figuring that out, but let’s go with friend.”
Cece tries to suppress what must look like relief flooding her face, that is until Jonathan puts an arm around her and pulls her close.
Morgan peers questioningly at Cece, his unruly eyebrows raised in what? Alarm? Jealousy? Pity? Then the look is gone, wiped from his face, like it was never there at all. “Not really neighbors. I live a few houses down.”
“Some truck,” Jonathan says, oblivious to Cece’s nervous canter from one leg to the other.
“It’s a truck,” Morgan says.
Cece doesn’t think Morgan’s going to put her on the spot—he’s not malicious—but she’s not taking any chances, imploring him with a subtle look: Please don’t say anything; please don’t ruin this for me.
Morgan puts a hand through his beard, his gaze probing Jonathan’s countenance for something. “I better get going. I’ll leave you two to it.”
Before Cece and Jonathan can reply, the truck growls to life, and then its out of sight, only a low rumble and heady hint of exhaust lingering in the air remain.
“Weird guy,” Jonathan says.
Now it’s Cece’s turn to look for something—what, exactly, she has no idea. But Jonathan’s already forgotten the moment, walking to her car.
The street is suddenly quiet, save for the chatter of songbirds, and Cece is filled with gratitude for her luck and Jonathan’s blissful easiness with which he moves about the world.