Clammed Up (7 page)

I worked at my desk well into the evening to make sure everything was set for the clambake the next day. The sounds of Mom banging around in the kitchen traveled up the back stairs.

“Come down and eat,” she called.

“Eat what?” I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice. I realized I hadn’t eaten since my early breakfast at Gus’s.

“Leftover mac and cheese.”

Thank goodness.
Not something my mother had concocted. I felt terrible that I hated my own mother’s cooking, but there it was. I knew it wasn’t her fault. Goodness knows, she had tried.

Her mother died when she was young and Mom grew up in an all male household that included her father and a distant cousin. My grandfather didn’t cook at all. When he had visited our house, he never crossed the kitchen threshold, expecting to be served his meals—even the bowl of cold cereal he always ate for breakfast—in the dining room. As far as I could tell, there’d been no beloved, long-term housekeeper/mother substitute in Mom’s life, just a string of Gerta-Colleen-Consuela-Brigittes who were rarely mentioned and who had left, at best, erratic marks on my mother’s culinary skills.

Mom had tried to teach herself to cook. Alone in her kitchen, she attempted to reconstruct half-remembered meals prepared by the Gerta-Colleen-Consuela-Brigitte contingent. Her desire to be the supportive helpmate she imagined Dad expected matched his desire to provide the material comforts he thought she needed. But she never did get the hang of it. It didn’t help that our little grocery store in those days had such limited stock, especially in the winter. My mother had no compunctions about substituting tomato soup or catsup for salsa, or mayonnaise for hollandaise. The results were dreadful.

It was one of the great ironies of our lives that in summer, fed by the clambake and by Gabrielle’s sumptuous cooking, we ate like kings. And then we suffered all winter long.

For years, led by my father’s dutiful example, we ate, or at least pushed the food around on our plates, and didn’t complain too much—until Livvie rebelled, as she did in all things. But in this case, her rebellion was constructive. She spent time in our neighbors’ kitchens, learning their best dishes. She spent hours with Gabrielle. And we were saved from starvation.

I finished up my work and went down to join my mother at the kitchen table.

“The clambake’s running tomorrow,” I said brightly when she’d put the food in front of us. Too brightly? All spring, Sonny and I had been careful about what we said to Mom. Of course, she knew I was home to help with the clambake because it was in financial difficulty. But we’d never given her the details, never told her how close to the edge we were. And she never asked. We didn’t want her to worry and I thought she really preferred not to know.

“First day of the season,” I continued. “Why don’t you come?” My mother, who’d spent the first fifty summers of her life on Morrow Island, had not set foot on it since the day my Dad’s cancer was diagnosed. I knew she loved the island, and I thought it would help her to go there and face whatever it was that kept her away. “C’mon,” I urged. “I’m sure Gabrielle would love to see you.”

It was a mild play on my mother’s feelings of obligation, though I didn’t push it and say, “I’m sure Gabrielle would love to see you because she’s been traumatized by the murder on the island.” I had no wish to remind Mom about the murder, though I doubted it was far from her mind.

She and Gabrielle were as close as my mother’s WASPy reserve and Gabrielle’s natural shyness allowed. Their husbands had been best friends and Jean-Jacques, Livvie, and I were all close in age. I know Mom cherished having another woman, another mother, living with us on the island when we were young.

But then life got complicated. Jean-Jacques disappeared and less than a year later my father died. Gabrielle reacted to her tragedy by spending as much time on the island as possible. My mother reacted by never setting foot on Morrow Island again. Grief drove them to separate corners.

I thought it would do my mother good to see her friend again. Especially now that her best friend, my father, was gone. I wanted Mom to be happy. To heal. To go to the island. But I knew she wouldn’t.

“Maybe later in the summer,” she said. “Give Gabrielle my love.”

We ate the rest of the meal in silence. Though my mother couldn’t cook, she’d nurtured Livvie and me in so many other ways. My parents’ marriage was a great love story, but it wasn’t the kind of relationship that crowded everyone else out. Livvie and I always had my mother’s complete attention and support. And though she could seem standoffish with others, within the family she was warm and loving, the stable support that balanced my father’s work-hard, play-hard personality. My dad was the builder; my mother the quiet foundation on which all was built. Even five years after his death, she still seemed lost.

We cleaned the few dishes like the practiced team we were. My mother went off to the little sitting room off her bedroom to watch television and I returned to my office.

As I entered the room, my eye fell on the
Times
dropped off by Quentin Tupper for reasons I didn’t understand.

I pulled out the Sunday Styles section, my favorite part of the paper. “The single woman’s sports pages,” Carrie Bradshaw had called it. I opened it, ready to savor the Vows and Modern Love columns. I noticed the corner of one of the pages was dog-eared. Turning to the page, I saw a photo of Michaela and Tony, their perfect eyebrows aimed directly at the camera. The article beneath the photo said:

Reading the wedding notice submitted to the paper weeks before made me sad. Sad about Michaela and Tony’s ruined wedding day. Sad that whenever someone typed
Morrow Island
and
wedding
into a search engine, they’d get dozens of news articles about the murder before they’d get to this happy announcement.

I wondered about Quentin Tupper, the stranger who’d gone out of his way to leave me the newspaper. Had he turned down the corner on the page so I wouldn’t miss the wedding announcement? There was no other explanation. It seemed a little mean. Why would someone I’d never met before want to taunt me?

By the next morning, as I walked to the town dock, I was feeling pretty good about the world. A full night’s sleep will do that for you. Yes, a horrendous thing had happened on Morrow Island, but the police had let us open the clambake. Reservations were strong and the weather was perfect. It was Opening Day.

Just before I arrived at our ticket booth, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the pocket of my sweatshirt and stared at the display.
Damn.
It was Robert Forman Ditzy, our banker.
Ugh.
I’d been hoping to avoid him. I hit the
TALK
button. “Hello.”

“Julia. Bob Ditzy.”

“Hi Bob. How are you?”

“Actually, I’m calling to see how you are. I heard you had a tragedy there at the clambake.”

I rushed to reassure him. “Yes. But the police have cleared us to open and we’re full for both lunch and dinner.”

“Good. Good. Because I don’t think I need to remind you, Julia, it’s going to take every cent you can earn to dig out of the hole you’re in. As you know, the business plan you gave us when we renegotiated your loan the last time allowed for only five closed days during the season. Every day you’re shut down makes it that much harder. At some point we approach mathematical impossibility that you’ll be current on your loan by the end of the summer.”

A warm flush rose from the base of my neck. Nobody knew those figures better than I did. What was he talking about, anyway? It was only the second day of the season and Tony and Michaela’s wedding reception had never been included in the figures I’d given the bank.

“We’ve been closed exactly one day. You can’t blame us for what happened.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I could hear the slight vibrato that meant I wasn’t being entirely successful.

“It’s not a question of blame, Julia. It’s not your fault when there’s a nor’easter and you lose three days to stormy weather. And it’s not your fault when lobster hits six dollars a pound wholesale. And I’m sure this . . . this . . . death . . . is not your fault, either.”

“It’s just that, as you know, you have a razor thin margin of error. Of course, if it were up to me . . .” he continued, secure in the knowledge it absolutely was not.

My father had dealt with First Busman’s Bank from the day he’d set up the business. They’d supplied the initial loan, and in our family we were brought up to be loyal to First Bus. But in the past decade they’d been bought by a regional bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank still, like so many fish. A European financial conglomerate now owned First Bus. I was sure no one at corporate headquarters in Madrid could find Busman’s Harbor on a map if they had a gun to their head. Something I admit, I’d occasionally fantasized about. Whenever we talked, Bob made it clear he had to answer to his corporate masters on the loan committee and their problems around the globe meant they could care less about the loss of fifty seasonal jobs in coastal Maine.

“I get it, Bob,” I said, and I did. “Thanks for your concern.”

I ended the call before it could go any further, my buoyant mood shot to pieces. As I’d reassured Bob, I knew the numbers—how much we had to clear every day and every week until Columbus Day—as well as I knew my own name. I also knew the consequences of failing. The Snowden Family Clambake would shut down. We’d lose the
Jacquie II
. Fifty people including Sonny and Livvie, Etienne and Gabrielle would lose their livelihoods. Most likely, they’d have to move out of town to get work. I’d put the money I’d saved from my years in venture capital into the business when we’d renegotiated the loan. So I was all in, too.

Worst of all, if the loan was called, my mother would lose her house in town with all its memories, the place where’d she’d lived her entire married life and raised her family. And we’d lose Morrow Island. Though Mom hadn’t been on the island since Dad died, I thought, somehow, losing it would kill her, or at least change her profoundly and not for the better. I had the same compulsion my father did when he founded the clambake—to keep Morrow Island for my mother. It was a part of her and she was a part of it. The two could not be separated.

By the time I finished the phone call and the black thoughts that came from it, I’d reached our little ticket booth. Livvie was already hard at work, selling seats for the dinner cruise and handing out will-call tickets to the Internet purchasers for lunch. I stood for a moment, absorbing the bustle of the town dock, the heat of the sun on my face, and the excited chatter of our passengers. My mood began to shift back. It was the first day of clambake season!

I stood on the quay, collecting tickets as the passengers climbed the gangplank. The sun cast everything in the flat, bright light that brought so many artists to Maine. The crowd seemed like the usual mix of sunblock-slathered tourists, with a tilt heavier to retirees than families because many schools in the northeast were still in session. Most passengers had heeded the warning on our Web site to bring layers of warm clothing. No matter how toasty it felt in the harbor, once we motored out of its protective arms into the North Atlantic, the weather would turn cool and breezy. In every crowd, there was at least one family who dressed not like they were traveling on a wild ocean to get to a rustic island, but like they were going on a Disney ride with the same theme. We kept blankets aboard the
Jacquie II
for the midriff-baring teens and sun-suited babies.

The news of Ray Wilson’s murder had been all over the Maine media—the television news, Sunday papers, and the radio. But tourists often traveled in a magic news-blackout bubble, especially if, as was common in the harbor, they were staying at B&Bs that don’t offer in-room TVs or Internet service. As I came aboard the
Jacquie II
, I had high hopes it would be a normal day with a normal group of customers.

But the moment my foot hit the deck, Sonny stepped beside me and hissed, “Three in the bow.”

I looked toward the front of the boat where a trio of college-age boys was seated on the bench along the bulkhead. They laughed loudly and shoved each other so boisterously the woman sitting next to them moved her little boy protectively to her lap.

Sonny nodded toward the boys. “They already tried to buy beer. I asked for IDs and they backed off.”

Clambake customers were usually self-selecting. Spending four hours on a boat and an island doesn’t attract a rough crowd. But once in a while there are problem people, and we can usually spot them before we leave the dock. When you work with the public, and in particular, when you sell alcohol, you develop a sixth sense. As Sonny and I watched, the middle boy in the group pantomimed looping a noose around his neck, then reached above his head, pulling the imaginary rope tight. His head lolled to one side and his tongue stuck out while the other boys hooted and hollered.

“That’s
it
,” I said under my breath and marched over to the boys. I’m tiny, but they were seated so I stood over them. “Get off.” I kept my tone conversational, but I didn’t say please.

“Why?”

“We were just foolin’ around.”

“You can’t kick us off. We paid!”

I walked calmly to the bar, opened the till and extracted a wad of twenties from under the money tray. I returned to the boys, peeled off three for each of them, slightly more than they’d paid, and repeated, “Get off. Now.”

The middle boy looked like he wanted to argue, but then shrugged and slunk off, followed by his friends. “Bitch,” he said once he was safely on the gangplank.

There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Sonny gave me a nod that said he approved of my actions, despite his pronouncement yesterday about taking every dollar we could, even from the ghouls.

George, our captain, started the
Jacquie II
’s engines and I released the last of the lines holding us to the dock. I stood, paying close attention to set a good example, while Captain George went through the safety speech. And we were off.

We toured the inner harbor as far as the footbridge while Captain George pointed out the sights—the hotels, restaurants, and the biggest of the yachts. Across from The Lobster Deck, he tooted our horn and they echoed back with their giant ship’s bell. “If you don’t get enough lobster at the clambake,” Captain George intoned into the mike that carried his voice throughout the ship, “The Lobster Deck has it any way you could want it, bisque, fried, salad, sandwich, baked and stuffed, and over pasta. You name it. They also have a full menu including clams, mussels, oysters, and Maine rock shrimp!”

The harbor businesses supported one another. The more tourists who came to the area and had a great experience, the more business there was for all of us. The Lobster Deck displayed our brochure prominently where the long lines of customers formed to place their orders.

The
Jacquie II
swung around to the back harbor, past Gus’s restaurant and the shipyard. Most of the boats were out, either fishing or hauling lobster traps, but enough were still moored to give our customers a feel for the working side of Busman’s Harbor. The crowd on the
Jacquie II
was happy—drinking, chatting, and taking photos of the harbor and each other. It was a beautiful day and almost all the passengers were crowded onto the open top deck. We headed out to the big bowl of the outer harbor.

Busman’s Harbor had six islands, three with structures on them. Chipmunk was the largest by far. It housed a summer colony, complete with its own ferry. The hundred houses there were passed from family member to family member or were snapped up by neighbors. They almost never came on the market.

From Chipmunk, we sailed toward Bellows, a towering piece of rock with a deserted stone monastery on top. Our guests oohed and ahhed at the harbor seals. The tide was low, so most of the seals were hauled out, sunning themselves on the rock ledges. The many pups were still small and especially adorable. They would grow quickly on their mother’s rich milk and in another month most of our visitors wouldn’t be able to tell the babies from the others. Captain George steered around Bellows twice to make sure everyone got a good look. He cut the engine so we could hear the social animals on the island barking at one another, even as the social animals on our boat did the same. “Get in the shot!” “Get out of the shot!” “Stand next to your brother!” “Stop hitting your brother!” The happy, familiar sounds of summer at the bake.

The final island before the mouth of the harbor was Dinkums Light. As it came into view, the “lighthouse people” rushed to the bow, snapping photos and chattering as excitedly as if they were birders adding to their life lists. Dinkums was worth the excitement. Though not tall, the light was picturesque, with its stone keeper’s house, boathouse, and fuel house still intact.

From Dinkums, we passed through the mouth of the harbor into the Atlantic. Morrow wasn’t far, two miles southeast along the coast. We never lost sight of land, but the wind came up and the passengers pulled on their hoodies or windbreakers. Then, just when they were ready for the trip to be over, it was. The dock on the Atlantic side of Morrow Island came into view, and the guests could see the bonfire where their food would be cooked. The crowd buzzed with excitement.