Chapter 18
Forty-eight hours later, Richie and Cece are dining at an upscale spot called the Oyster Club in Mystic’s historic district.
There is cause for celebration. The expansion has been approved by the zoning commission, and even the threat of legal action from Lorraine isn’t enough to dampen Richie’s spirits.
He’s still riding high after the assault charges were dropped.
He’s convinced she won’t follow through with it, so for now, they drink to victory.
Late-summer tourists mingle around their two-top, jostling for a position at the bar and sliding into booths, voices booming upward to the white coffered ceiling.
With his Teva sandals and black jean shorts, Richie cuts a striking figure against the sea of khaki, linen button-downs, and pastel dresses.
“This really wasn’t necessary,” Cece shouts over the din.
“Are you kidding? You sold them, Cece. It was all you,” Richie says. “Plus, we’re this restaurant’s oyster supplier. Everything’s comped tonight. And the owner also owes me big-time. He crashed into my truck last summer after too many martinis. I didn’t call the cops.”
Magically, a bottle of white, along with bread and warm butter, appears, but Richie insists they touch none of it.
Not until the oysters have arrived, which they promptly do, a dozen gleaming bivalves on a bed of ice and seaweed.
The waiter expertly navigates the already-frosting tray onto a metal stand.
It reminds Cece of pizza places she’d go to as a kid, where the whole family would split a pie, elevated above paper plates and red plastic cups of soda.
Embarrassingly, Cece knows nothing about eating oysters, a fact Richie is intent on remedying.
“First,” Richie says, his finger lingering over an oyster, “we’re smelling.
They should smell like an ocean breeze. Second, we’re checking for plumpness or meatiness.
Third, we’re looking for them to have a glossiness to them, a sheen, like they’re swimming in a liquor of sorts.
Check all those boxes, you’ve got a good one.
You can tell these are ours because of the green shell, see? ”
Cece studies the half shells, glistening under the lights.
She thinks about the whine of the winch and the rush of water through the cage.
She thinks about Santiago, eyes inscrutable behind his sunglasses, a cigarette dangling on his smiling lips.
Pride wells up in her chest, and she hopes Richie can’t tell how hard she’s trying not to cry.
Everything’s making Cece cry these days, even the good stuff.
She’d spent the night in the same motel watching bad television and raiding the vending machine.
Luckily, the minibar had never been refilled, so there was no risk of drunkenly texting Morgan and making a fool of herself.
He’d been clear as day. He didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.
Cece doesn’t blame him. She’d foisted friendship on him, knowing, deep down, there was something more there.
She’d used him to make sense of her own screwed-up relationship with Jonathan.
She’d betrayed his kindness and his patience, and for that she is truly sorry.
“Finally,” Richie says, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, “the last thing we’re looking for has less to do with our oyster and more about the guy or gal shuckin’ them.
See, you want to keep the oyster intact, and you want to keep as much of its juices in the shell.
The last thing someone wants to eat is a cut-up oyster.
This one’s perfect; it looks like someone just opened it with a key.
And of course, a good shucker never breaks off parts of the outer edge.
There’s nothing worse than picking bits of shell out of your mouth while you’re trying to enjoy a taste of the ocean! ”
“When do we eat them?”
Richie gives his nod of approval. Wine is poured.
The first few oysters are eaten without any fixings: mignonette, cocktail sauce, horseradish, or even lemon.
To Cece’s surprise, she finds herself tasting all the things he’d told her to pay attention to.
They’re refreshing and clean, a metallic tang lingering on her tongue.
Once they’ve eaten a few without accoutrements, Richie relaxes his rules.
The owner, a tall, handsome guy with black hair, comes by the table and introduces himself, but the name is lost in the chatter of the dinner rush.
He thanks Richie for his impeccable product and melts into the muted light of the foyer, no doubt embarrassed about the aforementioned martini-induced car accident.
They order another dozen oysters, some local sourdough, mussels, and corn bread.
Richie checks the wine, pulling it from the chilling bucket, but doesn’t order more, which Cece finds slightly disappointing.
She was hoping for a license to get a little more than tipsy this evening.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Richie says, fingering his oyster-shell necklace.
“I’d like you to do more around here. Give you more responsibilities. ”
“I’d make a terrible secretary,” Cece says. “I promise you.”
“I’m talking about making you the supervisor for Mamacoke.”
All Cece can do is laugh. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll need another set of eyes on that operation.”
“What about Santiago?”
“He can’t be in two places at once.”
“But I don’t know anything about the business. Not really.”
“I could teach you. Unless there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”
No, Cece thinks, there’s nothing, nothing in the world she’d rather do.
The prospect of partnering with Richie and helping grow Rayburn Oyster fills Cece with a nervous, vibrating energy.
It wouldn’t just be a job; it would be a life, something that required tending and attention.
“It would be an honor,” she says, the words catching in her throat.
“Those are good tears, right?” Richie says.
Regaining her composer, Cece dabs her eyes with the heavy cloth napkin. “Absolutely.”
“That’s just grand. Just grand.”
“Does this mean I get a say in who we hire?”
“Sure does,” Richie says. “Have anyone in mind?”
“I’d like to hire from the shipyard near where I was staying this summer. A few guys got laid off there, and I know they’d appreciate the work.”
“Let’s bring them in for an interview this week.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. We’ve gotta get things moving now that the expansion’s been approved,” Richie says. “Stay as long as you’d like at the motel until you find a decent place to live. I catered the manager’s second wedding on the cheap, so he owes me a favor.”
“I’ll start looking for a new place first thing tomorrow.”
“I still can’t believe you were living on that lady’s property this whole time…What did you say her name was?”
“Lorraine.”
“And you’re saying she organized the whole protest?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I appreciate you sticking it out with us, even after she kicked you to the curb.”
Cece thinks about the cozy pool house with its low-slung ceiling and miniature windows. She thinks back to the beginning of summer, when she used to sit on the front porch with Bernard and wait to hear Morgan’s truck rumbling up the hill, Mr. Shipyard. “It was time to move out anyway,” she says.
Outside the hangar, the shipyard is desolate.
Under the baking sun, pickup trucks tinkle, heat rippling off their hoods.
Morgan’s truck is parked in the shade under the only tree at the far end of the lot, which means he got there first. Cece’s only has thirty minutes before she needs to head back to Santiago in Noank, so she parks and hustles across the gravel lot, dust coating her rubber boots.
Morgan will be in the trailer, but that’s not where Cece is going.
She’s looking for information on the men who were fired.
The hangar is cool and subterranean. Cece half expects stalactites to be hanging from the towering ceiling.
At the far end, welders are at work, sparks dancing in the dark.
A few men are congregated around a piece of plywood on sawhorses, pencils in their hands, eyes trained on a blueprint.
They pay Cece no mind. If anyone recognizes her, they don’t say anything.
Cece decides to try her luck with a pockmarked kid eating an egg salad sandwich.
He’s sitting on a cooler with an energy drink between his boots.
“Any idea where I can find Mickey and Wesley?” Cece says.
“Black Wesley or White Wesley?” the kid says.
“Not sure. All I know is he repaired my engine. They repaired a boat engine for me.”
The kid takes a bite of his sandwich and chews it methodically. “That’s Black Wesley, but I’m pretty sure those two got laid off a few weeks back. You’d have to go talk to the supervisor.” He jerks his head toward the trailer.
“That’s not really an option.”
The kid shrugs. “Try Bob. He’s Mickey’s uncle or somethin’. He should be somewhere out in the yard painting boats.”
Cece thanks the kid and leaves him to his sandwich.
It doesn’t take her long to spot Bob. An enormous human with a beer gut the size of a Sub-Zero fridge, he greets Cece with an enthusiastic handshake that leaves paint between her fingers.
He pushes his Oakley sunglasses up on his sunburned forehead and asks what he can do for her.
“Hell of a thing for you to do,” Bob says after Cece explains why she’s looking for Mickey and Wesley. “Hell of a thing. Those boys would sure be appreciative of a steady gig.”
With Mickey and Wesley’s contact information in hand, Cece thanks him and takes her leave as quicky as possible. She has the distinct feeling that if she’d stayed for a moment longer, Bob would have offered her a beer from his secret cooler he has hidden somewhere.