Chapter 2 #2
Dad looks like the salt-of-the-earth gardener he is.
His hair is thinning, his red-brown beard is thick, and he usually wears fraying polos over cargo shorts and work boots.
His nails are always dirty and his neck is always sunburned in the summer, but he also loves the woo-woo stuff, crystals and meditations—and he casts runes every morning.
“That’s not all they’re telling me,” he continued. “There’s a good chance you’ll find your gift, so you don’t have to worry about—”
“I’m not worried!”
He scratched his beard. “Uh-huh.”
“You need to rune better, Dad. I don’t care about gifts, and I wouldn’t marry Leo if he were the last faerie-kin on earth. Besides…” I snapped a withered bean off the vine and tossed it in the compost. “He’s not good enough for me.”
I helped Dad in the garden until my hands were caked in dirt, my stomach was stuffed with sugar snaps, and my soul was warm with home. Then I headed inside, where I found my mother in the kitchen, making pasta with blue cheese, ground beef, and way too many cans of tomato soup.
“What happened to the curry?” I asked, pouring myself a glass of water.
Mom wiped sweat from her brow and got soup in her Marilyn Monroe hair. She went platinum blonde after her hair turned white and it suits her when it isn’t streaked with tomato.
“I didn’t think it would pair well with the gorgonzola,” she said.
“You got that right.” I eyed the gorgeous strawberry-rhubarb pies cooling on the windowsill. “So what did Leora ask you to bring?”
“Oh, you know…”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Everyone loves lasagna,” Mom told me, way too defensively.
I checked the fridge and found more pies: key lime and chocolate cream. “You’re just supposed to bring the pies that Sheila baked, aren’t you?”
My mother’s gift is for some undefinable thing that falls between decorating and comfort and hospitality.
You wouldn’t know she has a gift for decor to look at her, because she dresses like she stole someone’s laundry from the clothesline, but she has impeccable taste for serene reading nooks, welcoming porches, and comfy bedrooms. Before she married Dad, she’d planned on becoming a set designer, but she decided that being an innkeeper was like creating a mini-movie set for every new guest. The Inn had seen better days, but Mom’s gift made every worn wooden stair, patch of stained wallpaper, and leaky faucet seem like a charming feature instead of a failure of home maintenance.
However, if you build an inn, people want food—and neither of my parents are capable of serving anything normal. Mom randomly substitutes cinnamon for oregano, and despite his love of vegetables, Dad only knows how to make toast. It’s good toast, but guests expect something more.
Sheila’s been the chef at the Inn since she found her gift at seventeen.
Most of the year she works at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Boston, but she prefers the freedom of Beane in the summertime.
She doesn’t have to hide her magic at the Inn: she never touches a measuring spoon or scale or timer, she strips entire bunches of thyme in a single swoop, and I swear to our Dame foremothers she can crack eggs with a look.
Everyone’s tried to convince Sheila to move here year-round, hoping to drive business to the island in the off-season, but she claims she needs the money from her other job.
Mr. Kim, however, is still trying to persuade her to prepare special Christmas and New Year’s feasts.
Sheila’s food is definitely worth a ferry crossing in twelve-degree weather.
Naturally, her pies smell divine, and no one makes a better contribution to the potluck.
Except for Leora, who takes pride in organizing and hosting and is beloved by the faerie-kin community, despite her lack of magic.
Of course, Leonard hadn’t left her when her gift failed to appear, because he is a better man than his son.
And because he knows she doesn’t need a gift to be a complete, wonderful person.
I gagged as my mother added Chinese five spice to her gorgonzola soup. That was even worse than usual, so I called Sheila. She was the only one who could stop this unfolding disaster.
“Babes, are you on the island?” she answered. “Are we going to crack lobsters together?”
“Hey, Sheila,” I said, emphasizing her name. “Yeah, I’m at the Inn.”
My mother dropped her ladle into the pan when she realized who I’d called. Sheila is tiny and gentle, but she has my mother (who once yelled at a police officer for tailgating her) running scared.
“Why did you call Sheila!?” Mom whisper-screamed at me.
I pretended I didn’t hear. “I just called to ask if there’s anything we should bring along with your pies? Because my mother is cooking something.”
“She’s what?” The smile dropped from Sheila’s voice. “Let me talk to her.”
I held out my phone. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Tell her I’m not here! Tell her I’m already next door!”
“One second, Sheila,” I said.
“I’m busy cleaning!” Mom grabbed the messy ladle. “I’m too busy cleaning!”
I sometimes wonder if Mom is afraid of Sheila because she feels guilty that she had Leonard design the kitchen for charm instead of utility.
He made exquisite blue-painted cabinets with butcher-block countertops and open shelves to display Mom’s copper pots and Delft pottery.
However, the counters are too shallow and the plugs are all in the wrong places, causing Sheila to jerry-rig extension cords across the floor, which sets off the circuit breaker whenever she uses the blender and the mixer at the same time.
The only modern thing is the state-of-the-art induction range, which Sheila bought herself the second summer she worked here.
“You tell your mother I can’t wait to see her,” Sheila said. “With my pies and nothing else.”
“Why are you like this?” Mom asked, after I ended the call.
“Because I want you to have a good time and not”—I swallowed the words give everyone food poisoning—“work too hard.”
“Oh. You do love me.”
“You know I love you, Mom.”
“Good! So tell me all about you and Gabe. Pandora! Where are you going? I just wanted to ask how he’s doing since his grandfather died!”
I fled upstairs to escape my mother and change into something sexy-yet-practical for the party.
A fine line on Beane Isle. I pulled a black cotton dress with puffy sleeves from my suitcase and dug out my silver Birkenstocks.
Checked myself in the mirror and discovered that a black fly had bitten my forehead while I’d worked in the garden.
Sneaky little bastard. I looked like a third eye had burst through my forehead.
My hair is a short mess of dirty blonde waves, so I dragged one lock over the golfball-sized bump, which only made it look like I’d attempted to hide it. Oh, well. I applied bright berry lipstick, a lot of blush, and absolutely no eye makeup, hoping no one would notice.
Despite the disfigurement, I was looking forward to the lobster bake.
Though I hadn’t mentioned it specifically in my list of Magical Moments, it fit one, or maybe two, of the categories.
And thank the Dames that Leo wouldn’t be there, flaunting his smug, successful self all over the place.
If this was my last lobster bake, I wanted to enjoy it.