Chapter 8
8
D ining out on Anderson Island meant one of two things.
A person could either go to the pub, a rustic, musty tavern that smelled like fried fish and stale beer, or they could go to the more upscale restaurant at the small beach resort called Deer Harbor. Flora assumed they were going to the pub, everyone always went to the pub, so when Ethan turned toward the resort, taking a left instead of right on the main road into town, she got a shimmery feeling, excitement mixed with a delicious expectation she only ever got when reading her fantasy books. It felt, to her, like he might be excited too, and that only made her more eager. She had been to the resort only once, with her friends, for graduation, and had wanted to order the scallops, but had been afraid that everyone would notice and think she was rude for getting something expensive.
Deer Harbor, boutique and high-end, was a Cape Cod-style building huddled neatly on the edge of a rocky, windswept beach. There were a few white outbuildings nestled among the dunes, that served as cabins. The buildings looked merry and welcoming in the otherwise gloomy night, with twinkling strings of light sweeping over the grand circular driveway.
There might have been a valet once, or plans for one, but now a person would drive through the driveway and park their own car, just as Ethan did, easing the key out of the ignition and quieting his rumbling sports car like he was hushing an animal.
The world seemed still. The tourist season was over, so there were no other people on the terrace or decks of the resort. The only sound was the breaking waves and whipping wind on the shore. Flora had to pull her old sweater tight around her, as though that made her any warmer, as they strolled from the parking lot to the entrance of the restaurant. Ethan seemed unbothered by the chill and the wind, only taking a deep, satisfied breath right before he swung the heavy wooden door open for Flora.
“Can I help you?” A host stood blinking in the candlelit dark, gazing at them from behind a wood hosting stand.
“Dinner for two?” Ethan said, a question, because the purpose of their visit must seem quite obvious.
The host looked at his watch. “We’ve already finished with dinner service,” he said, brows furrowing.
“That can’t possibly be true,” Ethan said. “It’s seven fifteen, you close at eight. It says so on your door.”
“Yes, uh, eh,” the host stammered and looked around. “We served all of our guests and didn’t think… Hold on, let me go ask the chef.”
“Yes.” Ethan’s voice was firm and confident. The look he gave the host was steady, intense. “Please do that.”
The host looked up at him, and his watery eyes softened, unfocused, and his face slackened. It seemed like he was looking at Ethan, really looking at him, for the first time, and having the same experience she’d had. He was a gorgeous man, and had an inviting, luminous quality that Flora had been so drawn to. It seemed, suddenly, that the host was drawn to it, too.
“I’m sure we can make something work,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse, like it was caught in his throat.
Four minutes later, Flora was sitting across from Ethan, whose face was bathed in glowing candlelight, next to a vast window that looked out into only darkness. Normally, Flora knew, they would have a spectacular view of the beach, with its towering rocks and dramatic breaking swells, but not even the moon was out, so the window framed an endless, yawning blackness.
The dining room was low-lit and there was no music playing, though a piano sat lifeless in a corner. The effect of the looming black window, the single candle between them, and the silence made it seem, to Flora, like they were the only two people in the world. Even the server, a middle-aged man with colorless hair and a mumbling voice, seemed unreal and ephemeral.
“We have two dishes tonight, the filet mignon and the fish,” he said, and before he could even describe them, Ethan interrupted to say they would have them both, steak rare.
“And to drink?”
“Water is fine,” Flora said, looking down at the incomprehensible wine menu. She did not know a fumé blanc from a pinot noir.
“The lady will have a glass of the chenin blanc,” Ethan said. Then, looking at Flora, “You’ll like it.”
She felt a warmth creeping over her skin. “That sounds wonderful,” she murmured, looking into his hypnotic eyes.
It wasn’t until the waiter brought a basket of steaming, pillow-soft bread that Flora realized how very hungry she was. She smeared creamy, pale butter across a thick slice and the smell of the bread, yeasty and sweet, was incredible. Ethan watched her as she took her first bite, his mouth twitching at the corner.
“You should try this,” Flora said, pushing over the basket of bread. “It’s the best I’ve ever had in my life.”
His mouth curled into a full smile, and he closed his eyes, breathing in. “It smells great, but I’m not hungry.”
“I’m starving,” Flora admitted.
“Then you must eat,” he said, pushing the basket back.
Flora shrugged and spread a thick pat of butter on a second slice of the soft bread.
When her wine came, the server waited for her to have a taste. She lifted it to her lips and breathed in the jasmine and pear scent, then tasted the honeyed nectar, crisp and complex. Ethan closed his eyes and breathed with her, as though enjoying it as well.
“It’s perfect,” she said, looking at Ethan instead of the server.
Two dinner plates arrived, placed silently by the unobtrusive server, and Ethan pushed them both into the center of the table, as though they were sharing, eating family style. Flora had an extra plate in front of her and took small bites at first, of flaky white fish in a lemony cream sauce, and the tender filet, cooked so that it was a fleshy pink with a bloody red ribbon running through the center, nestled in a dark reduction of red wine and butter. Flora had never eaten so well, and as she brought bite after bite to her ever-hungry mouth, Ethan watched her, delighting in her pleasure. It was, she thought, as though she were eating for both of them.
“You’re really not hungry?” she asked, slicing another thin, perfect morsel of the steak and swirling it in the rich sauce.
“Really,” Ethan said, “I would eat if I could.”
It occurred to Flora that he might have some condition that prevented him from eating. That would explain, perhaps, why he seemed to sleep for much of the day. He smiled at her, his arms crossed and resting on the table, and she felt awash in his attention.
“How long are you planning to live on the island?” Ethan asked. “A girl like you should be in college, shouldn’t you? Or pursuing some kind of… life… somewhere?”
“I couldn’t afford college,” Flora admitted. “And the only time I’ve ever been happy was at Lavender—I mean Rainshadow. I want to just… keep working for you. If that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Ethan said. “I love that you’ve come to us. I hope Sylvia treats you well. And if she doesn’t you can tell me, and I’ll have a talk with her.”
“She doesn’t seem to take orders from anyone,” Flora said, and Ethan raised an eyebrow.
“Sylvia will do what she must to keep her lifestyle. If she and I were to part, she could not afford the horses, the farm. We are not legally married, and it’s all really mine.”
Flora opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself. It was a sort of startling admission.
“You wonder why I am with an older woman who sometimes treats me cruelly?” he asked, tilting his head.
“No,” Flora lied, “I didn’t say that.”
Ethan chuckled. “Sylvia understands me and takes care of me the way no other woman could. I am sure of that. I simply cannot live without her.”
Flora nodded and returned to her food, not wanting to betray any other inappropriate questions or emotions.
After they had declined dessert, the server did not hurry them out, but neither did he attend to them. He did go through the dining room, blowing out the candles on the other dozen or so tables, making the room, and the darkness beyond the window, seem to grow, as if, apart from their little, candlelit table, there was nothing, no one, but a chasm that expanded into infinity.
“Thank you,” Flora said, feeling dreamy and satisfied after such a lovely glass of wine and fortifying meal.
“Of course. I just wish we weren’t being rushed out.” For a moment he glanced over at the server, and Flora couldn’t tell if it was anger or candlelight flashing in his eyes. Then he smiled. “I guess we’ll just have to do it again,” he said, gazing into her eyes.
After he dropped her off at home, Flora reflected that on the ride back they hadn’t seen a single other car. There had only been the headlights of Ethan’s sports car, eerie yellow on the asphalt. They hadn’t spoken much, and it didn’t occur to Flora until later that he had never needed directions to her house. That wasn’t so unusual. Everyone knew where everyone else lived on the island. He and Sylvia had almost certainly asked around about her when she was asking (begging) for her job.
Flora’s mother was asleep on their futon couch, her face pressed into a pillow, wearing a faded pink housecoat and a slinky, tattered satin dress, her blond hair, graying at the nape and temples, in disarray. Flora felt a strange urge of resentment at having to look at her mother, cheap and disheveled. It sent a ripple of disgust and anger through her.
Her mother had been asking about her first paycheck, already hinting that their money problems might require her handing over every last dollar. Flora got into bed, not caring if she gave her mother every penny she made working at Rainshadow. At least she got to be there, spending her days among the horses and the lavender. At least she had met Ethan, the only person who seemed to appreciate her. She fell asleep imagining she was a girl in one of her books, a girl who had only needed to be noticed by a prince, one person who finally really saw her, and then all of her dreams could come true.