32. Greta
Greta
She’s here!” Linus swept into the kitchen like he was on fire. And he didn’t need to say anything more. Greta knew.
“Are you sure?”
“I recognize her. I’ve stalked her on socials all week. She landed in Hyannis last night.” He was breathless. “It’s Dahlia.”
Dahlia Fisk from the Boston Globe. Restaurant critic.
Who could put you on the map or wipe you off it.
The critic who’d likened the last bowl of seafood bisque she’d reviewed to toilet water.
Before it’s flushed. Dahlia was here—now—while Greta was buzzed from two glasses of wine, with no warning, and a mish-mash menu that featured nervous-breakdown Swedish comfort food in a Cape Cod town on a hot summer night.
This was going to be the end for all of them.
Holly flew in on Linus’s heels, her face the color of the latest tomato Greta had plucked from the garden. The two burst into a stream of words.
“What can we do?”
“See if she drops her napkin. Or fork.”
“They always drop a fork.”
“It’s a test. Pick it up.”
“But don’t hover.”
“And don’t talk to her.”
“But don’t not talk to her!”
Greta held out her hand like a kindergarten crossing guard. “Stop!”
Linus and Holly shut up in unison.
“What can we do to help?” Holly whispered.
“Let me work. In peace.” Greta turned to Paul, who’d been listening. “You ready for this? Station’s prepped?”
“Yes, Chef.”
Heart pounding in her chest, she turned to Holly and Linus. “Give Dahlia space. Don’t be overly solicitous. And whatever you do, don’t tell me which dish she orders.”
“Are you crazy?” Linus cried.
“I’m serious. If I do my best with each dish, like I try to every night, I will stay calm. Yes?” She willed her voice not to wobble.
Both nodded.
“Okay then. Go do your thing, and we’ll do ours.”
“Yes, Chef.”
When the kitchen door swung shut, Greta feared she might puke. Paul clapped her roughly on the back. She swiped her long braid over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Harvest was full, and the orders came in fast. The kitchen hummed as they tried to keep up.
Greta seared steak tips and sautéed balls of cod. She pan-fried halibut and broiled lobster. She simmered chowder and tossed greens. She drizzled and spooned and garnished and plated and sent them out, plate after plate, prayer after prayer.
Only once did Holly come in and hand her a tall glass of iced lemon water. Then Linus, with another one of his special homemade sprays, this time a cooling cucumber mist. When he held it near her face, Greta glared. Linus vanished. Finally came Oliver, who appeared at the side door.
“I heard,” he said, looking between Greta and Paul and the steaming pots and smoking pans. He set down a basket of heirloom tomatoes, and another filled with fresh herbs. “Good luck.”
All night Paul remained at her side, handing her implements before she asked, clearing her workspace, passing her pans.
It was the hottest night of the summer, and even with the fans on and the door thrown ajar and the windows open, Greta felt the heat.
She felt it under her armpits and across her forehead, right down to her feet swelling from all the dashing about.
At nine o’clock Linus appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “She just left.”
Greta stepped away from her stove. When her head began to rush, she bent over the island.
She thought of her culinary school teacher who’d taught her so much and taken advantage.
She thought of her mother, who’d put her first wooden spoon in her hand.
Most of all, she thought of herself, of the steady heart pounding in her chest, reminding her she was very much alive and had done it, whatever may come.
“Want to know what she ordered?”
Holly had joined them. Oliver, too.
“Let me guess,” Greta said. She’d wondered all night, and now it dawned on her. “The cod kottbullar.”
Linus’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know?”
“Gut feeling.” What she was really dying to know, she was too afraid to ask. There was no point anyway. Critics gave nothing away.
“She dined alone,” Holly told her. “She ate half of everything. No comments, no questions. Impossible to tell.”
“Okay.” Greta tossed her towel on the island. “Now we wait.”
At the end of the night, Oliver found her wiping down the stove. The dining room was empty, the servers had gone home. Paul was out back, taking out the last of the trash. Her back ached and her feet, too.
“I know it’s been a big night,” he said, “but I didn’t want to do this without you.”
“Do what?”
“I’m releasing the opossum.”
“Tonight? Already?” It didn’t seem possible, and yet she was not surprised. The summer was nearly half over. Days and nights were slipping by, as meals were made and opossums grew.
“He’s ready, and it’s best to do it at night. I’d like you to come say goodbye. That is, if you still want to.”
There seemed to be a lot of talk about goodbyes lately, but she followed him outside.
Oliver had placed the opossum in a cardboard box, and she waited by the garden as he carried it to the corner of the shed and tipped it gently on its side, lifting the lid.
Then he backed away and joined her to watch.
Even in the shadows, they could see the outline of a little pink nose poke out and sniff the air.
A moment later the opossum emerged in full, looking around. He stood very still as they watched.
Despite the space between them, Greta felt the bulk of Oliver as he crouched beside her in the grass.
In the stillness, she felt the rise and fall of her own chest matching his breath.
How it hurt to be so close when the distance between them was so great.
Oliver shifted position, his shoulder brushing up against her.
Against her will, she found herself leaning into its warmth.
Across the yard, the opossum took a tentative step, then another. She held her breath.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked, suddenly anxious.
There was so much to worry about that summer: The review Dahlia Fisk would write.
The inn and its uncertain future. The man kneeling beside her, whom she did not need, and was no longer sure she wanted, though she could not deny the reassuring press of his shoulder against hers.
“We did our best,” he whispered. “All we can do now is watch and wait.”
Once again, he’d read her mind.