Chapter 16 Bitters
Bitters
Jack
Douglas is calling me again.
I step out of the restaurant, squinting as my eyes adjust to the strong mid-morning sun. There aren’t any clouds to offer
relief. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Poppy or Chester aren’t following, I stride to the houseboat. I only answer
the call when I’m hunkered down on the deck, next to an old coil of rope.
“Douglas.”
“Jack. Thank you for picking up.”
“What do you want?” I tilt my head back, raising a hand to shade my eyes. My gut churns, but the anger I felt the last time
I heard his voice has faded. Somewhat. Enough to hold a conversation, at least.
“Is Poppy okay?”
My frustration returns immediately. “Why are you asking me? Call her.”
Douglas breathes out harshly. “She’s not answering my calls.”
I stay silent, scrubbing my hand over my beard. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that.
“I’ve never gone this long without talking to her, and I just—I wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s fine. Good.” I relish my next sentence, shoving down the small stab of concern that arose at Douglas’s confession.
“We’re aiming for a November first reopening.”
“Not selling?”
“Not yet.”
“Tight timeline,” he says mildly. “A lot could go wrong.”
“Check out the social media accounts Poppy set up for it. We’re calling it Fable.”
“Good name.”
I wipe the sweat away from my forehead, working hard to ignore Douglas’s compliment. “I need to get back. But consider this
an official invitation to opening night.”
“Jack, listen.”
“What?”
“I know what you’re doing.” Douglas barks out genuine laughter. “It’s smart, son. Show me what you can do with Fable, and
we’ll talk about Green Street.”
For a second, I think I misheard him. It’s what Poppy told me could happen, offered up without me having to beg. A shot to
go back to the New York fine dining scene. To run my own kitchen, and not in small-town Florida. The mere thought sends a
jolt of energy through me.
“Really?”
“Yes. But only if you do something else for me.”
The bubble of excitement deflates. “What’s that?”
“Keep an eye on Poppy.”
“I told you before, she’s an adult. And I’m not a babysitter.”
“I need you to understand something about my daughter.” I hear the pain in his voice across the line. Clearly, it’s killing
him not to be on speaking terms with her. “She tries and tries until she doesn’t. Until something gets in the way. Until something
new comes along.”
“So?”
“I’d like you to keep her safe. Take care of her. Keep her out of trouble. Indulge her, a little, even. And keep me updated.”
“Douglas.”
“I know. I know. I’m trying to give her space, but I need her to be okay.”
I look out at the inlet, the barrier island a long, green line ahead. Beyond that, the Atlantic, thousands of miles of it until another shoreline, painted every shade of blue. Poppy’s eyes remind me of the shallows at midday.
I hear the desperation in Douglas’s voice loud and clear. I feel it like a vine, twisting around my chest. Whatever’s going
on between them, this is genuine. What wouldn’t I have given, growing up, for someone to care about me as much as Douglas
cares about his daughter?
I rub my breastbone with my knuckles, thinking about the bandanna she tied around her hair. Subtly telling me off for that
stupid hairnet. She hasn’t broken. Hasn’t even bent, if I’m being honest.
She’s different than I thought she’d be, but that doesn’t change the fact we’re only working together by circumstance.
Green Street is all I’ve ever wanted, and I thought I had lost it forever. But now, for the first time since I left New York,
it’s so close, I can practically taste it. It’s like stone crab, ramps, squash blossoms. Perfect blackberries and barrel-aged
bourbon.
All good things are worth the wait.
“Please, Jack.” His voice cracks.
The future sharpens again. It takes on a shape. I breathe in the salty air and find my head a little clearer, the guilt fading.
Poppy doesn’t need to know that I’m keeping an eye on her for her father. She won’t know. Hell, she still might leave once we start working in earnest, although that possibility is fading by the day. She wielded
that knife for the second round of onions like she had a score to settle.
“Deal,” I scrape out, finally.
“Wow,” Chester says, whistling, as I finish sharing what the hell happened to bring me back to Diamond Bay. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” I take a swig of the soda I ordered instead of a beer. I glance sidelong at Chester, who drains the rest of his Modelo
and gestures for another. “Fucking stupid of me.”
We’re at Salty Joe’s, a few days after he stopped by the restaurant, sitting at the bar underneath a television playing the Marlins game.
In high school, Chester and I would sneak into this bar for drinks; it was the only place in town that didn’t care how fake your ID was, so long as you paid.
It’s a proper saloon, wood-paneled and decorated with old pictures of Diamond Bay that show off the train station, the long-gone pineapple plantations, the original downtown strip.
It’s quiet in here tonight. We’re the only patrons besides a group of guys playing pool and a few solitary drinkers at the bar.
I glance at the television in time to see one of the Marlins players whiff at a fastball.
“Well,” Chester says, an uncharacteristically careful note in his tone, “what happened with Sal was just—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Our relationship was always so rough-and-tumble, the gentleness is startling. Unwelcome.
When I texted him to meet up for a drink, I’d hoped—foolishly—for things to be the same as they were back in high school.
When we were reckless teenagers, looking for trouble around every corner.
He arches an eyebrow. “Jack.”
“Seriously.” I jiggle my legs; they’re restless against the bar stool. “I’ve spoken about it enough with Kiara. Douglas. Hell,
even Herman. I can’t go through it again.”
Chester’s quiet for a moment. He nods to himself, fingers drumming along the bar top. “All right. But if you ever do want
to talk about it, I’m here.”
I resist the urge to slide off the bar stool. “You don’t have to listen to that bullshit.”
“I know.” He grins, fingers loose on the neck of his beer bottle. “So, what’s going on with Poppy?”
I glare. “Nothing’s going on.”
I wonder where she is right now. I ruined things—like usual—earlier this week. She barely spoke to me after I ran my mouth
about her Instagram account.
My blood runs hot again at the memory of those comments. Those messages, nearly every one of them sexist or disgusting or
a horrible combination of the two. No wonder Douglas wants someone to keep an eye on her.
Chester snorts. “Sure, man.”
“We’re just working together.”
“Oh, come on. You look at her like a dog looks at a bone.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Keep fooling yourself.”
“She’s ridiculous.” Ridiculously charming. Ridiculously pretty. Ridiculously magnetic, from her halo of hair down to her delicate
ankles. Why I can picture her ankles perfectly, I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. I called Chester so I’d
put Poppy and what I promised her father out of my mind, not obsess over her. “Anyway, it’s not like you can talk. I can’t
believe all this time has passed and you haven’t made a move on Ki.”
“Who says I haven’t?”
Coke nearly goes up my nose. “Are you—no way. Ki would have mentioned if you were dating. Hell, you’d have led with it when
you came into the restaurant. Gotten matching T-shirts.”
Blush doesn’t show as easily on him, given his complexion, but by the way he hangs his head, I know he’s feeling it. I wonder
if he asked her out and she shot him down, or if he’s truly been content to moon from afar.
“We’re better off as friends,” he says.
“Sounds like a weak excuse to me. Have you even tried being more?”
He flips me the bird. “We’re talking about you, not me.”
“Hey, you don’t know that I don’t already have a girlfriend.”
“You don’t.” Chester laughs. “At least you better not, with the way you look at Blondie.”
Now it’s my turn to redden. “Remember when you tried to ask out that college girl?”
“Oh, the one with the huge ass catamaran.” Chester looks suitably embarrassed. He thought he had all the charisma in the world
at seventeen. “Yeah, that was a fucking mistake.”
“I had a thing with a girl whose dad owned a yacht. Trust me, it wasn’t worth it.”
“Yeah?”
“It was a disaster, actually.” I drag my hand down my face.
When I came back to Florida, I didn’t think about how I’d be reminded of Jessica.
Her family was from New York, same as Poppy, but I only ever knew her here.
I wonder if the boat is still docked down in Fort Lauderdale.
I could ask Owen. If he’d pick up the phone for me.
“Ever been with a woman and realize she was just using you to make someone else jealous?”
“Shit.”
“I was the chef on the yacht. Working for her dad.”
I hated that job. Hated cooking in a cramped kitchen that rocked with the waves. Hated the way Jessica would walk in like
she owned the place while I was in the middle of prepping for yet another dinner party, begging me to drop everything to make
her a green smoothie. Hated how I’d do it without fail, then make out with her against the refrigerator, licking the taste
of ginger and kale out of her mouth. I didn’t know it then, but all those pictures she took of us went straight to her ex.
“Was she blonde?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Extremely.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, yes.”
Jessica wasn’t blonde like Poppy, though. Poppy’s hair is like sunshine. Egg yolks. Lemon zest. Corn after it’s been roasted,
all sweet and summery. It holds hundreds of shades, same as her jeweled eyes. I bet it’s silky, like softened butter.
Chester hoots, loudly enough to draw stares. “Dude. What a fucking type to have.”
“I don’t have a type,” I mutter half-heartedly.
“I wonder what psychological issues go into having a thing for blondes with rich da—”
“Chesie, I’ve kicked your ass before, and I’ll do it again.”
Chester wipes his eyes, managing to quell his amusement. “Okay, okay. Damn.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once, twice, a third time. I pull it out, heart clenching when I see it’s a string of texts
from Douglas.
Douglas Winfield: Posted a few minutes ago.
Underneath, he sent screenshots of a few Instagram stories.
Ryan McCabe out at a club in Los Angeles, according to the geotag, cozying up to a brunette woman with legs for miles.
In one, he just has his arm around her, but in another, they’re making out.
Something about her is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Douglas Winfield: Is she with you right now? Has she seen these?
Douglas Winfield: Don’t let her do anything reckless.
I debate what to do for a moment. When I agreed to keep an eye on Poppy, I wasn’t thinking this kind of thing would be on
the agenda. But if she has seen these pictures, she’s probably devastated. My throat feels strangely tight.
“Sorry, Chester—I have to go.”