Chapter 2
two
PATRICK
“ What the fuck are fiddleheads ?”
“ They’re furled up baby ferns. Really nutritious and cheap because we can forage for them in the park. They’re perfect as garnishes,” Booth says, like I should know exactly what they are. I’m too busy staring at the screen of my laptop and reading over his final menu proposal to catch his expression, but I know he’s rolling his eyes.
I open the search engine and warily type in fiddleheads. When the results come up, it’s not as bad as I thought, but I still recoil in disgust as I scroll through the images.
“ Booth . They look like dead caterpillars. We’re trying to encourage people to eat here, not have them call pest control on our asses. Can’t we stick to cilantro like other restaurants? I don’t want Martin Willis to claim we’re probing his backyard for herbs again.”
Booth snaps his head up from his laptop. “ That dude has it out for me and you know it.” A smile curves his lips. “ Did you just say probing his backyard?”
“ Shut up, man. I know he’s a bit of a nuisance, but he gives us a great deal on vegetables, and we can’t afford to lose that— plus, he owns a lot of the buildings on Robin Road . Let’s keep next season’s dishes more home comfort than fine dining , okay?”
“ This town wouldn’t know fine dining if it smacked them across the face,” he whines.
While sulking over his weird insect plants—and begrudgingly deleting fiddleheads from the menu— I look over last week’s sales report that Graham has sent over. I scroll through the figures and when the red numbers continue their depressing pattern throughout the spreadsheet, my hand slams the laptop shut. Red for under profit. And for failure.
We’re sitting at one of the two large oak tables in the restaurant today. The white, wooden chairs we’re sitting on match the smaller tables dotted around the restaurant floor. Exposed brick covers the wall behind the bar, while the other walls are paneled and painted with a whitewash effect. If you didn’t know Our Place was a seafood restaurant at first, you would when you walk in. Decades old fishing gear adorns almost every surface—buoys, fishing nets, and lobster traps decorate the space, along with pictures of the restaurant and the town over the years. In total, we can seat up to forty covers when it’s a full house; though, I can’t remember the last time we were at capacity.
My favorite part of the restaurant is the bar. Being along the coast, Dad and George wanted to give a nod to our town’s location and history. Together they crafted a driftwood bar from random pieces of wood they collected over the years, right here in Sutton Bay . It took three weeks, one trip to the emergency room, and a lot of dollars in the swear jar. My dad always told me it was worth it and swore he could smell the Atlantic every time he walked in here. That , paired with the array of fresh seafood dishes, made this place a fisherman’s wet dream.
Looking around, the wave of emotions and memories I’m hit with seems extra intense today. Something feels off, although I can’t put my finger on it. Stepping in here is like walking through a time warp back to my childhood. There have been a few small changes over the years, but for the most part, it’s exactly as it was the day it opened almost twenty-eight years ago.
In a way, this place is like a memorial for my dad and Valerie . It’s hard not be reminded of their memory whenever you’re here. The interior might appear a little dated, yet if there’s one thing my siblings and I can agree on, it’s that we don’t want to change anything about the decor—keeping Our Place forever frozen in time and holding onto whatever memories of our dad we can. He was the one to hang the black-and-white photos of fishermen on the walls. He was the one to beg our mom to pick a shade of white paint, even though he was adamant they were all the same. Even the tables with their wobbly legs hold memories: doing homework, eating lobster rolls, or jigsaw puzzles on rainy days.
A lot of other memories rise to the surface when I look around. They’re not all happy ones, and I tend to tuck those away in the corner of my brain where they can be forgotten.
My dad and George were the official owners back when it opened, but their wives were very involved and had a big say in the direction of the restaurant. Mom and George are now the co-owners, however, have taken a backseat over the years and left a lot of the decision-making to Booth and me. Graham helps out as the restaurant’s accountant, but he also has a long list of demanding clients to keep in check, so he isn’t as involved. Florence , while she loves this place, is too busy jetting off around the world, and I think she prefers it like that. When responsibility was first handed to us, I recall pride swelling in my chest, so determined to prove to them and myself that I was cut out to run the restaurant. Only now, the pressure of those responsibilities has me snowed under with worry.
I wonder if they regret their decision.
I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t notice my phone vibrating on the table at first. I look down to see Graham’s name light up the screen and answer it before it rings out.
“ What’s up?” I ask.
“ You won’t believe who I just saw in town,” he gruffs, his voice serious and deep as usual. Graham is the polar opposite of Booth . Night and day. Where Booth is smiles and jokes, Graham is brooding stares and grunts.
“ Well hello to you too, sweetheart. How’s your morning going?” Graham isn’t one for salutations, so I decide to taunt him a little.
“ Hello , hi. Did you hear what I said? I saw?—”
A knock on the front door has me pulling the phone away from my ear, cutting off what he’s saying. I look to the front of the restaurant and see my mom and George standing outside. I wave at them and point at the phone, but Booth is already walking over to unlock the door and let them inside.
“ Listen , I’ve got to go; Mom and George are here. We’ll catch up later.”
“ Patri —”
I end the call and cut off whatever he was about to say. He knows how to send a text.
A flurry of fresh snow follows behind Mom and George before Booth can shut the door. They shake off the snow from their hair and coats, dusting the floors in white specks that melt immediately from the warmth inside the restaurant. Their pink cheeks and noses are a reminder of how cold it is today.
“ Hello , darling,” my mom says as she unwraps herself from a knitted scarf that looks double her height. She’s a petite woman, with dark blonde hair like mine, only hers is now streaked with gray and cut short, sitting just below her jawline. It’s difficult not to feel anything but love and kindness when you look at her, although I wouldn’t let that fool you—she’s as honest as they come and won’t hold back if she thinks you need putting in your place.
“ Hey , Mom .” I bend down to kiss her on the cheek, my six-foot-one frame towering over her. My brothers and I are all above six feet, and we constantly tease her about it, usually earning us a pinch to the back of our arms.
The swinging door to the kitchen opens, revealing Booth with cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk—he must have snuck to the back when I wasn’t looking—a bread roll in one hand and a plate in his other. He was recently promoted to head chef after his long-serving predecessor, Gloria , retired after twenty-seven years. She was the first employee the restaurant hired when they first opened their doors and was famous for her signature clambake, and blueberry pie.
Having my brother by my side has been such a blessing, especially as I tried to navigate life as a single parent and work full-time at the restaurant as bar manager. More recently, I’ve been balancing the role of both bar and restaurant manager, after the last one resigned in the summer. We’ve had lots of restaurant managers walk through the doors, but they’ve never lasted. My standards aren’t high, I just have certain expectations, and most didn’t make the cut.
We’re not a huge restaurant but trying to juggle everything has been challenging and tiring. I admitted defeat two months ago and finally gave in to my mom and Booth’s pestering to put an ad out for a restaurant manager.
So far we have had a whopping zero applicants.
I look at Booth , who is still stuffing his mouth. “ Do you ever stop eating?”
Gulping down the bread roll almost whole, he shakes his head. “ No , and that’s why I’m taller than you.”
“ By one inch.” I give him a blunt look.
“ Every inch coun?—”
“ Booth Sadler !” my mom shouts, voice raised, but there’s zero vehemence behind her words. Booth is an absolute Mommy’s boy, something even he doesn’t deny.
“ Sorry , Mom ,” Booth says as he settles back in his chair and places a plate of whoopie pies on the table.
“ Can I get anyone a tea or coffee before we start?” asks George from behind the bar. George is a mountain of a man, and like my mom, his outward appearance is extremely misleading. Despite being built like an ox, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s been like a father figure to me over the years, helped out so much with Lottie , and has been an amazing friend to my mom since Dad passed away.
We put in our orders, and Booth and I clear the table of papers and menus to make space for the drinks. We chat among ourselves about nothing in particular, until George places our drinks down on the table, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the room.
Once we’re all settled around the table, I open my laptop and clear my throat. My mom and Booth sit opposite George , while I sit at the end, with my back to the door. “ Shall we get started?”
“ Well …” George hesitates and checks his watch. “ Sure . Why don’t you boys go over your proposal for the spring menu and then we can move on to other topics.”
His tone and vagueness have me pausing for a second, but I ignore it, letting Booth talk over the changes he wants to make to the menu—something he’s been pushing since he became head chef, with little success.
When he’s finished, he looks up with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. My brother has worked extremely hard over the years, and to be in his position at only twenty-seven is a great accomplishment. He’s always itching to try new and exciting dishes, but a lot of the people around town are quite happy with keeping the menu as it is, not wanting to move away from the classics we currently serve.
“ So what do you think?” he asks eagerly.
From the look my mom’s face, it’s going to be the same response they’ve been giving him for months. She places a hand on top of his before answering. “ It sounds fantastic and very modern. Although I’m not sure the town will be on board with this idea.” Sympathy is laced through her words, and I know she hates seeing disappointment cloud his features.
My brother’s shoulders practically drop to the floor with that response. His culinary skills and ideas are way beyond his years, yet when a lot of your regular customers are fishermen or people who have lived in Maine their entire lives, they’d rather see clam chowder on the table than foie gras and anything that sounds remotely French . No offense to the French .
“ I get people don’t like changes around here, but we’ve had the same menu for over twenty years, it needs to be spruced up a little bit,” I say, trying to convince them to give this a shot.
“ I’m not sure right now is the time for such a drastic change,” George adds, which isn’t the usual excuse they give Booth for denying his proposals.
“ What else did you want to talk about?” I ask hesitantly, hoping this is the end of the meeting and they’re not about to tell me the news I’ve been fearing for the past eight months.
“ I noticed we haven’t had any applications for the restaurant manager position,” George replies with caution, which makes me shift in my seat. He looks to my mom and back to me before continuing. “ You’ve done a great job at spinning all these plates recently, but we’ve found someone who has some great experience and will be a perfect fit.”
“ Okay …so who is it?” I ask. Why are they being so cryptic? The air in the room feels like it’s shifting right before an angry storm rolls in without warning.
“ Well , that’s what we wanted to talk to you about first,” my mom says, but before she can continue, the sound of the front door opening draws everyone’s attention behind me. Booth must not have locked it and now I’m going to have to politely turn a customer away. Before I turn around, I notice the strange looks around the table: my mom looks apologetic, George looks relieved, and Booth looks like he’s seen a ghost.
The moment a timid, yet familiar voice carries across the room, my head spins, and my heart plummets to my feet. “ Sorry I’m a little early.”
It seems one of those memories I’ve tried my best to forget has just walked in.
I collect myself, school my face, and hope that no one can hear my thundering heart. I take a deep breath and turn in my seat toward the owner of the voice.
Honey -golden hair spills down her back. Deep , navy-blue eyes so dark they could hold a galaxy. Flushed pink cheeks to match her full pink mouth. A mouth I have no business knowing is as soft as it looks. And a constellation of freckles across her nose and round cheeks. They’ve been dulled by the lack of sun, however, I know they’ll be back come summer.
It’s strange that something so beautiful can cause such melancholy.
“ You’re fine, sweetie. We haven’t gotten to the important stuff yet. Come in and get settled first,” my mom says, and stands to greet her. It’s not just anyone. No . Because standing in front of me is my childhood best friend.
The only woman I’ve ever given my heart to.
And the same woman who walked away and never returned it.