11 Birdie
BIRDIE
I glance around the crowded dining table.
Phoebe must have activated some kind of emergency island phone tree.
Almost from the moment we sat down, our plans for a quiet dinner quickly spiraled into a ten-person, family-style feast in the back room of the Fig Leaf.
Each time I think we’ve reached capacity, someone new arrives to cheers and pulls up another chair.
Everyone dotes on Phoebe. She’s equal parts sister, daughter, and friend to all.
I know her mom was just a teen when she had her, so I’m not surprised the whole island takes credit for raising her.
But I get the feeling Phoebe doesn’t visit the island much anymore; too busy with grad school and her thriving social life.
It’s clear they all miss her. There were more than a few sad faces when she announced her departure to Germany for the summer.
She’s doing her best to make a show of welcoming me in her place.
It’s all a bit overwhelming. So much food, so many new faces. And the wine hasn’t stopped flowing.
“Wait, so you’re all from the island?” I say, glancing around again.
Next to me, Kimiko holds up her hand. “We’re not! We only bought the restaurant four years ago.”
“And has that been difficult? I’ve heard island life can be a bit isolating.”
Kimiko hums, sipping her wine. “Maybe it was at first. But running the restaurant keeps us so busy, you know? I think that’s the key to settling in any new place. Stay busy!”
Across the table, her brother Saito is deep in conversation with a lady named Ruby Dent, who owns a farm here on the island.
They’ve been haggling over the price of produce all night.
Both of them have already offered to take me mushroom hunting this weekend.
Oh, and Ruby wants to teach me all about the island’s vast array of edible weeds.
“Never know when you might feel peckish,” she said, offering me a plate of stuffed grape leaves. She’s been the mother hen of the table all night, making sure every plate gets passed.
Her cousin sits to her left and the two women couldn’t be more different. Ruby is maybe mid-sixties, with a pale, freckled face and frizzy blonde hair. She’s wearing these cute jean overalls and little radishes for earrings. Very farmer chic.
Meanwhile, Mercy Bartlett looks like a rich Italian widow.
Her dark hair is cut in a stylish bob, and she has a silk kerchief tied around her neck.
She’s prim and calm, putting me in mind of a wise, watching owl.
“We Burr Islanders like to stick close to home,” she says, answering my earlier question.
I don’t miss the tone of pride in her voice as she adds, “Most of us can trace our ancestry back to the island’s founding. ”
I smile, sipping my glass of wine. “That’s really cool.”
“Birdie is a historian,” Phoebe chimes from my right. “When she’s not at Salt & Sage, she’ll be working over at the historical society this summer.”
Mercy arches a finely penciled brow. “I see. And what will you be doing there?”
“I’m not really sure,” I reply. “I imagine I’ll be assisting Ezra Howe with the dig up at Beale Pointe.”
At mention of Howe, a few smiles fall.
I glance around, confused. “Have any of you been up to see it yet?”
“No,” Mercy replies, her tone clipped. “We haven’t had that privilege.”
Shit, did I just step in something here? I try to recover, scooping another dab of hummus onto my plate. “Well, I suppose they’ve only just begun the excavations. There might not be much to see.”
“I should think not,” says Hazel Greenwood. She co-owns the island’s only grocery store and was the last new arrival to take a seat. She’s still wearing a Greenwood’s polo shirt, like she just stepped away from the bagging line.
Sitting forward a little in my chair, I glance around again. “I understand Howe thinks it might be some kind of Puritan-era witch colony. Is that a big part of island lore? Witchcraft?”
Mercy deflects my gaze by passing the plate of goat cheese and fennel salad down the table.
Next to her, Ruby chuckles, offering me the basket of pita. “If you research the history of the Burr Island families, you know what you’ll find, Birdie? A bunch of fishermen and farmers.”
I take the basket. “I’m sure you must be right.” In the quiet that follows, I add, “But Jasper did say there’s a long history of Wicca practiced on the island. I guess I just assumed maybe the two were connected.”
“Jasper said that?”
I look to the woman sitting at the end of the table.
She came in just before Hazel. She’s one of the youngest people here, save me and Phoebe.
She’s tall and broad—even taller than Phoebe—and built like a rugby player.
Her light brown hair is buzzed in a close fade on the sides, kept long on top.
Her skin is pale, eyes dark, and she’s very direct in her stare.
I offer her a smile. “He did. I think it was his way of vetting me.”
She crosses her thick arms over her chest. “Vetting you?”
“Yeah, you know, making sure I wouldn’t be scared off by a casual threat of death and dismemberment. Who knew selling crystals could be such a risky business?”
Phoebe and a few others laugh. She nudges my elbow.
“Oh, you have no idea. You don’t know fear until you’ve survived the first rush of tourists during the annual Founder’s Day Festival.
Jasper marks half the store down fifty percent and you’re lucky if you leave with all your fingers from the way the greedy mainlanders fight over those candles. ”
The woman sits forward in her chair, eyes still on me. “So, you’re not Wiccan?”
Mercy places a manicured hand on her shoulder. “Frankie, dear, the dinner table is no place for politics or religion.”
Frankie. That’s her name. She ignores Mercy, still looking only at me. “Are you?”
I get the feeling I’m going to be asked this question a lot on this island.
Best to make a firm impression now. “I’m not really anything these days.
I was raised Christian . . . if you can call scaring a child into submission with frequent threats of an afterlife burning in hell Christianity.
I worked most of my ex-vangelical anger out in high school.
Drugs and alcohol helped. And sex. Lots of inappropriate sex in inappropriate places.
College was reserved for staunch atheism. ”
Silence stretches down the table. The tall giant arches a scarred brow. “And now?”
I shrug, sipping my wine. “Now? I guess you could say my motto is live and let live. Like I told Phoebe and Jasper, I’m just happy to be here, happy to have a job. People on this island are welcome to practice whatever faith they want. The way I see it, it’s really none of my damn business.”
“Hear, hear,” says Saito, offering me a reassuring smile.
Reaching across the table, Ruby pats my hand. “We’re happy to have you too, dear.”
“Phoebe clearly adores you, and that’s good enough for me,” says Hazel, raising her glass.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Reaching under the table, Phoebe squeezes my thigh. Chatter resumes down both ends of the table and she leans in, lowering her voice. “Don’t worry about Frankie. She’s just a bit overprotective of Jasper.”
I tense. “Oh. Are they, like . . . together?” I glance surreptitiously down the table at the scary-looking woman, now in conversation with Kimiko.
Phoebe snorts. “Frankie and Jasper? Goddess, no. They’re practically brother and sister. Besides, she’s a lesbian. And way out of his league.”
I fight back a smile. “But I’m not, right? You still want me riding his train by summer’s end?”
She grins, refilling my glass of wine. “I just want you to follow your own philosophy.”
“And what’s my philosophy?”
Picking up her own glass, she clinks it against mine. “I want you to live, Birdie. If living means you doing the nasty with my uncle, who am I to say boo—”
“Okay.” I reach over her, taking the wine bottle. “You’re officially cut off.”
She laughs, trying to grab the bottle. “No! The party’s only just getting started!”
“Go drunk, Phoebe. You’re home.”
She keeps laughing. “Saito, we need more wine!”
The handsome chef reaches for one of the other bottles, shifting it our way.
Phoebe cheers as I groan. “Pheebs, much more wine and I’ll be asleep in the theater before the movie even starts.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep prodding you awake.” As if to prove her point, she pokes me hard in the ribs.
Now I’m laughing, resigned to my fate as I let her wrestle the wine bottle from my hands.
Saito inches the other bottle closer and I know I’m not leaving this table without a buzz.
As we both settle down, Hazel looks to us, her fingers steepled under her chin, elbows on the table. “So, how did you two meet?”
I glance to Phoebe. “You wanna tell the story?”
Wine glass still in hand, she easily takes command of the table, flashing them all a big smile. “If there’s one thing to know about my dear friend Birdie, it’s that the quickest way to her heart is with a plate of good cheese.”
Directly across from me, Saito smirks. “A woman worth knowing then.”
Fighting my blush, I look down at my plate. Saito may be sweet and charming, but the poor man is barking up the wrong tree. Sitting here, I can’t help but feel a prickle at the base of my skull, remembering what it felt like to have my hair gripped tight in Phoebe’s uncle’s broody fist.
What can I say? I guess I just like my romances with a hefty side of hopeless.