Frankie
I slam the door to my car. I can see the silhouette of Daisy sitting on the back of the couch in my living room window. I
left the house lights on for her, but from the way she’s watching my front door, she doesn’t seem to appreciate it. All she
can think about is how much she longs to get away.
I can relate.
Especially when I hear the PUTT PUTT PUTT of Ash’s stupid truck—the truck my brother admires so much—coming down the night-darkened road toward my house.
Ash has followed me home from the party.
And okay, he lives here, too, so maybe “followed” me home from the party isn’t the most accurate way to put it. But he didn’t
have to leave the party at the exact same time I did.
It’s not that I think he’s stalking me. I’m not conceited enough to think that’s why he was at the party in the first place—or
that that’s why he’s followed me home after I left (contrary to the text Angie just sent me, I did not “storm out”).
I left for an entirely different reason . . . although I do think Ash Merit is jerking me—and all of West Harbor—around, and I definitely don’t appreciate it.
Oh, I heard what he said when he rushed over to me out on the deck back at the Brewport.
“Hey.” He was smiling—but in that uneasy way people smile when they know they’ve screwed up and are wondering how mad you
are. “You look great. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have given you a lift. We could have carpooled.”
He didn’t look too bad himself. He’d exchanged the flannel shirt and hiking boots for a button-down, dark jeans, and wool
sports coat. He looked like a newscaster or the host of a competitive baking show. It was not at all a bad look for him.
But I refused to let that distract me.
“What are you doing here?” I’d asked. I was conscious that a lot of eyes were on us—he seemed to have been conversing with
my entire family (except Cat, who once again was MIA from a function she’d at least hinted she might attend). All of them
were watching our interaction with differing levels of engagement, varying between highly interested—Mark, Angie, Dina, my
mother—and not so interested—Troy, Jessica, Derrick, Mr. Hong.
That’s right. My mother was standing there with Mr. Hong at her side. My mother was watching.
“Oh, hey, Frankie,” Mark said. “We’ve just formally met your new neighbor.”
“I didn’t know he and Derrick were related,” Mom cried. “Francesca, you’ll never guess. He loves my salsicce all’uva!”
“I didn’t know that either,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Ash. “That’s so interesting. And just how are you and Derrick related?”
“We’re cousins,” Ash said at the same time as Angie said, “Derrick’s his uncle,” in a smug tone that told me exactly how much
she was relishing this entire situation.
“Half-uncle,” Ash corrected her with a nervous laugh. “It’s easier just to say we’re cousins. Families can get so complicated,
you know?”
I looked from Ash to Derrick. I could see no family resemblance whatsoever. Ash is dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark-complected,
whereas Derrick is blond, blue-eyed, and pale as a Viking warrior. Derrick towers over Ash—and most everyone else.
“I see,” I said, even though I did not—and still do not. I fear I’m going to need a genogram of Ash’s family if I’m ever going
to be able to understand him. To Ash, I said, “So your father—”
“My mother is Ash’s grandmother,” Derrick said shortly. “Oh, look, Jessica. The food is here.”
It was true. Servers were walking around with trays of appetizers that included sliders, mini cups of chowder, and little
cardboard bowls filled with nachos.
That worked to distract most of my family. Mark said, “Ooh, chowder, my favorite,” and grabbed a cup, while my mom and Mr.
Hong laughed giddily over their beef sliders.
But I wasn’t interested in the food. I was still processing what I’d just been told. Derrick’s mother is Ash’s grandmother? How was such a thing even physically possible?
“I’m serious,” Ash said to me. Everyone else had disappeared in pursuit of nachos. “I didn’t think you were going to be here.
I overheard you on the phone yesterday with your sister—you two were talking about this party—and you said you weren’t going
to come.”
So he’d been listening during my call with Angie.
“Yes,” I said. “I changed my mind. Could you tell me how it’s physically possible for a woman to have a son and grandson who
are about the same age?”
“It’s a long story, and you don’t even have a drink. Can I get you one?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Is she your biological grandmother, or were you adopted?”
“No. Like I said, it’s complicated—”
I might have gotten a satisfying answer then and there, but I will never know, because one of the servers came up to us and
said, “Would you like some nachos?”
I turned to say No, thank you when I realized I knew this particular server. I knew her all too well. “Debi.”
“Devorah,” Debi corrected me in her sad, inflectionless voice. “How are you doing, Frankie? Sorry, I almost didn’t recognize
you in that dress. You look amazing.”
I couldn’t say the same for Debi. She should have looked amazing, since she’d just returned from a sun-filled cruise with my ex.
But instead she looked pale and glum and way too thin in her new Brewport polo shirt and khaki shorts, and I remembered that
the cruise had ended in a violent struggle between Richard and some rocks. Man versus nature, and man lost.
“Thanks,” I said, aware that Ash was still standing there beside me, watching my interaction with my ex’s girlfriend—though
he could have no idea that’s who she was. To him, Debi was simply a member of the restaurant staff. “So . . . you’re working
here now?”
“Yeah,” Debi said, in the same sad little voice. “You probably heard what happened, right? This crazy storm just came out of nowhere. Like, it wasn’t even on the radar. We went to bed and then the next thing I knew, there was water everywhere. Richard says we’re lucky we didn’t drown.”
When Debi said the word Richard, I saw Ash’s eyebrows go up, but he still didn’t say anything. He didn’t go away, either, even though it should have been
pretty clear that Debi and I were having a private—if unwanted, on my side—conversation.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Debi said. She’d actually put her tray down to rest on the deck railing because it was too exhausting
for her to stand there and hold up the five tiny paper bowls of rapidly cooling nachos that were sitting on it. “My life coach
says I’m suffering some pretty severe post-traumatic stress. That’s why I flew home without Richard. I really need some stability,
you know? I was hoping to get my old job back at the Yoga Sanctuary, but they said the busy season is over and they don’t
need any more instructors. Fortunately this place was hiring, or I don’t know what I would have done.” She gave me a tentative
smile. “I’m super happy that I ran into you, though, Frankie, because my life coach says I’m going to need some intensive
therapy to get over the trauma of what happened out there on the water, and I know you’ve helped a lot of—”
“She can’t help you,” Ash interrupted. I looked over at him, surprised. “Dr. Giovanni helps patients deal with their emotional
and financial well-being.”
“Er, yes,” I said. “That’s true, Debi. But also, the American Counseling Association frowns on dual relationships—that’s when a counselor has a prior personal connection with a potential patient.
They worry it can impair professional judgment, and possibly even cause the patient harm.
I’d be happy to refer you to someone, but I—”
“There’s no one else in town taking new patients!” Debi cried. “And I do need help with my financial well-being. I had to spend all my money on a plane ticket back here, and now I don’t have enough
for a down payment on my own place. My parents say I can move back in with them in Bridgeport, but they turned my old room
into a home gym. There’s still room for a futon, but it’s pretty squished by the Pilates reformer—”
“You know what?” Ash lifted the tray of nachos and passed it back to Debi. Then, laying a hand in the center of her shoulder
blades, he began to gently guide her back toward the doors to the restaurant. “I appreciate that you’re in a jam, but don’t
you think it’s kind of wrong for you to be asking Dr. Giovanni for help? Not only is she a guest at this party where you’re
supposed to be working, but her husband was the one you were screwing behind her back.”
I felt something akin to an electric shock at his words. Had he really just said what I think he said?
Evidently he had, since Debi looked as shocked at his words as I felt. “What?”
“You heard me.” The next thing I knew, Ash was physically steering Debi away from me while she held on to her tray and sputtered
in protest up at him.
“But,” she’d cried. “But Richard was the one who was married, not me.”
“And I’m sure you were a helpless pawn in his Machiavellian game of seduction,” I overheard Ash saying as the two of them
disappeared into the crowd of party guests.
I was completely stunned by the entire incident—not only that the woman my ex had cheated on me with had come up and asked if I’d help her professionally with her trauma, but that Ash Merit—Ash Merit—had told her off, then gotten rid of her for me.
It was unprofessional of me to let him do that. Debi might not be my favorite person in the world, but she’s still a human
being.
Still, I couldn’t help be the tiniest bit relieved. Obviously I don’t need a man to chase off annoying wannabe patients for me, but it was awfully nice of Ash to do so. So nice, in fact, that I was
still standing there with my mouth open in shock when he returned to my side a minute later.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Now, where were we? Oh, right, my grandmother. It really is a long story, but if you want to
hear it, I’m happy to—”
“No.” I’d shaken my head, feeling—I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. “Thanks for that. But I gotta go.”