I feel a pang of disappointment. I am so eager to jump into this new life.
Pete points out the unclaimed bed in a front room. A framed photograph and a hairbrush sit on the bureau; a large mustard-colored suitcase fills the space at the foot of the other bed. My roommate must be a minimalist.
“I’ll let you get settled,” Pete says. “Come on, Stella, it’s bedtime. We’ll see you tomorrow, Nola.”
Stella turns and waves to me, curling each finger down one at a time.
“There’s a staff meeting right after breakfast,” Pete shouts from the bottom of the stairs, and then he is gone.
I’m left standing in the dim room. The mattress on my cot is musty and stained, the feather pillow looks as if it went flat somewhere around the sixties. I throw on a sweatshirt and spread out my sleeping bag, but I don’t unpack my duffel, though two open drawers have clearly been reserved for me.
I flop down on the bed and stare up at the faded graffiti on the ceiling. Barb loves Tom. Nancy will never forget Don. The girls’ names are so old-fashioned, I suddenly feel surrounded by ghosts. And where do the guys come from? Waiters? Maintenance? Guests, maybe.
Then it happens, as it often does at this time of day. My best buddies, Fear and Doubt, locked arm in arm, close in. I’m suddenly so afraid of my decision. So afraid of my own selfishness.
How I wish I were back in my living room cajoling Song to eat something.
I pull out my phone to call home.
No answer.
Chapter 4
Hey, Song—
Sorry I missed ya when I called this morning. How was your appointment? I was going to e-mail but found this periwinkle on the beach and wanted to send it. Remember Gotts Island? You found the tiniest periwinkle any of us had ever seen. This one may not be tiny, but it still reminds me of you. (I hope it didn’t get crushed in the envelope!)
After a quick run on Rocky Cove’s dirt roads, I checked out the shore. Eggemoggin Reach is gorgeous! Fog made the pine trees and islands look so painterly. The water was gray silk.
Enough about the scenery. I know you want the skinny. There are five other waitresses. Four of them are also from out of state and have worked here other summers; my roommate is a local girl who went home for the weekend, so I haven’t met her yet. I’m guessing, from a picture on her bureau, that she has a boyfriend. The alpha girls are Lucy (head waitress and hostess) and Brita. Lucy is that perfect combination of smart and pretty. (Don’t ask me how I can tell she’s smart—maybe she ate her French toast in an extremely intelligent way.) Brita has eyes that are almost black, long dark curly hair, and should be in a French film. The other two are Annie and Mariah, and they seem nice enough. I thought there might be more girls—chambermaids, maybe—but Pete hires women from town to do the housekeeping.
Will, unbelievably hot maintenance guy, has a thing for Lucy. (Too bad.) As far as I can tell, there are only five guys: two other maintenance guys (waaay immature); Kevin, who is kitchen help; and Nigel, the “rec director,” who takes his job very seriously. Cute but … (that’s “but” with one “t”).
I should go. We’re about to begin a first-aid course (in case guests in the dining room choke on a bone or, worse, have a heart attack). After that, I’m taking Pete’s daughter, Stella, swimming. Her mother, Susanna, is running around like a maniac trying to prepare for opening day, so I offered.
Here’s your haiku (see, I kept my promise):
Dreaded decisions
Are thoroughly confused by
Magical thinking
Love ya lots,
Nola
I try not to feel like a tagalong as I follow the other girls to the staff meeting. They’re talking in code, the way old friends do when entering familiar territory. It won’t be long before you know the inside stuff too, I pep talk myself.
Soon after the meeting starts (this part should be titled “Pete’s List of Don’ts”: Don’t swim on the guest beach or even consider jumping into the ocean from the ledges; Don’t linger in the main office; Don’t take food from the kitchen; Don’t for one moment think that any of the equipment, recreational opportunities, or luxuries offered here are for YOU), my roommate arrives and sits as close to the door as possible. She appears to be studying her thumbnail, the knotty pine walls, the pattern on her Crocs. What she doesn’t do is make eye contact with anyone in the room.
The instructor tells us to find a first-aid partner. I watch the easy, automatic pairing of the other waitresses and then walk over and introduce myself to my roommate, whose name turns out to be Bridget, and help her tie a tourniquet around my arm. She keeps her head down—her hair over her eyes—trying to listen to the directions. Every now and then I point or mumble something (“This way, I think”) to redirect her, and as she fumbles with the strip of bedsheet, I realize that maybe she isn’t so tough, maybe she’s just shy. She relaxes a little and gives me a nod just as the class is ending. So I feel bad when bikini-clad Stella calls me from the porch, a green pail and shovel in one hand and pink sunglasses in the other.
“I promised I’d take her swimming,” I explain, and then wish, as the two of us walk up the road, along a dirt path past Robin Hood Camp for Boys and down to a sandy beach, that I’d thought to ask Bridget if she’d like to come too. It’s been so long since I’ve just hung out with friends, I guess I’ve forgotten how to act.
Stella gives me a brief tour of a little hut containing fishing gear, life jackets, beach chairs, and sand toys. She points out the rowboats, a canoe, and kayaks lining the tree line.
“Hi, Harrison,” she yells when she reaches the water’s edge.
I come nearer to see who she is talking to. A dog? An imaginary lake creature?
She points to some docks to the right of the beach. A bare-chested guy with longish, sandy brown hair walks up to shore, easily lifts a small sailboat, and carries it down to the water. He maneuvers the boat alongside the dock and then crouches to tie it in place.
Up he goes for the next boat. “Hey, Stella!” he calls, without breaking his rhythm.
Ah, so maybe it’s to Robin Hood that the others travel at night.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
Stella looks up at me. “Har-ri-son.”
I add the duh in my mind and surprise her by being the first to run and dive into the icy lake water. It takes my breath away, and I come up with a whoop.
Stella laughs and then, with surprising courage, does the same.
Knowing that we’re being watched prevents me from racing back to shore as quickly as I can. I swim in a circle, keeping my eye on Stella until I get used to the water temperature. Then I stand and encourage her to dog-paddle toward me. The sandy bottom feels soft but clear of muck. After swinging Stella motorboat-fashion until my shoulders ache, then having a few underwater tea parties, I look to see if Harrison is still tying knots.
He’s nowhere in sight.
Chapter 5
At the barn I find Bridget stretched out on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She’s been crying.
“You okay?” I ask.
She sniffs.
I look around the room for something to offer her—a tissue, a glass of water—but can find nothing. “Would you like me to go down to the inn, get you a soda from the machine?”
“Better not,” she mutters.
“There’s diet, I think. There might even be water.”
“All right,” she says.
“Which?”
She just looks at me.
“What do you want?”
“To get the hell out of here!” she says, bursting into tears again.
I sit down on the end of her creaky cot and wait. It’s something I’ve seen nurses do with Song. They seem to know that the best way to encourage someone to spill is to simply show up. Be here. So that’s what I do … and Bridget begins to talk.
There is Sam—a guy her parents hate. Not only is Sam three years older than she is, but he’s gone from job to job in his
years since high school. Her parents made her apply to Rocky Cove in an attempt to separate them. “But I’m not going to let them do that,” Bridget cries. “Sam came and got me Friday, and we spent the weekend at his family’s camp.”
“Sounds as if he really wants to be with you,” I say.
“Don’t know if he’ll feel that way six months from now.” She pauses.
I wait.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
Yikes. “Does Sam know?” I whisper.
She shakes her head.
“Your parents?”
“God, no! They’d disown me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I haven’t decided.” Bridget sniffs.
I scoot into the tiny bathroom and pull some toilet paper off the roll. “Can Sam help you?” I ask, handing Bridget the TP. The room across from ours is empty, but giggles bounce off the walls in Lucy’s room.
“You see,” says Bridget, wiping her nose, “there’s another girl in town pregnant with Sam’s baby too.”
Staff training that afternoon is a relief. We all have to learn housekeeping techniques in case the chambermaids need help during peak season. I can figure out what to do with the corners of the stiff, bleached sheets, but what to do about Bridget?
It’s not that I’m incapable of sympathizing. I suppose, if I were leading another life, I could imagine myself getting caught up in the moment and ending up pregnant. Will she need my care?
And the fact that there is another girl in town pregnant by Sam—well, that part seems a little sketchy.
And really lousy, I admit.
“The blankets should be so tight,” the housekeeper is saying, “so tight that you can throw a nickel on the surface and the coin will bounce.”
She throws the nickel. It doesn’t bounce—it just sits there. She shrugs. “Tight enough,” she says, getting a laugh from all of us.
“Nola!” says Susanna as I come down the inn stairs, having learned the proper way to shine a bathroom faucet, make a sailboat out of a hand towel, and get beach sand out of the area rugs. “I was wondering if you might be available for babysitting tonight?”
Ah. She can read my sign: DULL LIFE, BUT GOOD WITH KIDS.
“Pete and I are hoping to go into Ellsworth and see a play at the Grand. Stella specifically asked for you.”
Well, what are my options? My mind searches for an excuse. I could say I’m hoping to spend some time getting to know the other waitresses, but we both know I have all summer to do that.
“I promise we won’t impose on you after this,” she says. “Stella’s regular babysitter arrives in a couple days.”
“Sure,” I say. “What time should I come over?”
“Well,” Susanna says rather sheepishly. “Stella’s having an early dinner in the kitchen. How about now?”
As I pick at the ignored french fries on her plate, I wonder if I’m being paid extra for this. I should have said, Sure, I charge ten dollars an hour. That would have been professional. Or, Will you just add the hours to my paycheck? For some reason, Carly, the girl on the bus, pops into my head. She would have known how to handle it. Immediately, I’m defending Susanna to the likes of Carly Whitehouse—explaining that she did seem to get that it was imposing.
When Stella is in bed, I walk around the Lovells’ apartment on the third floor of the inn. It’s old—the floors are more beat up than in the guest rooms, and the braided rugs have obviously been in the family for a long time. I pull away the lace curtains on one window, but it’s too dark to see anything. I wonder if the other waitresses are hanging in the barn or if they’ve gone out again. Wonder if anyone is seeing Har-ri-son. I close my eyes and imagine myself flying out the window and into the night.
Chapter 6
Still half asleep, I hear Bridget stagger back to bed. “You okay?”
“I’m so sick of puking, or feeling like I have to.”
“What time is it?”
“I think six. I’m really sorry.”
I push down my irritation. “Don’t be sorry,” I say. “I always get up early. Besides, we have to be at breakfast soon.”
“Ugh. There is no way I can do breakfast.” She turns over, faces the wall.
“I know, you need saltines!” What Song eats whenever she’s nauseous. “I’ll bring some back for you.”
Bridget sits up, looks at me. “Sorry I’m such a drag. I used to be fun once upon a time.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Likely story.”
She almost laughs.
I’m too early for breakfast. The chef is singing in the kitchen, so I poke my head in. He and one of the kitchen helpers are slicing up veggies for omelets. “Don’t even think about it,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Hanging around here between meals.”
I flush. “Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t figured—”
“You’re Nola,” he says.
I step forward, hoping he’s only gruff on the outside.
“And I’m Cheffie. Consider yourself introduced.”
No. He is gruff—and into giving the new girl a hard time.
I’m about to leave when Kevin, maybe a year or two older than me, with bed head and morning stubble, signals me into the dishwashing area. The entire space is stainless steel: silver dishwashing machine, silver counters, silver sinks, silver spray hose. The guy is sitting up on a stool eating a crepe.
“Want a bite?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s always like this first thing in the morning. So you’re Nola?”
I nod. How does he know my name?
“Trust me, it won’t take you long to figure things out. My third summer.”
“You must like it—here, I mean—if you’re back for a third time.”
He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Meet the world’s next great chef,” he says. “I get lots of experience in this kitchen.” He lowers his voice. “Though they still won’t let me cover on his”—he nods to the wall—“day off.”
“Have you washed those pots yet, Kevin?” Cheffie calls out.
Kevin smirks. He doesn’t seem worried about Cheffie’s snap, but it scares me. Like some little kid.
Still needing to kill time, I go into the reception area and poke around. There’s a table with gifts for sale: postcards of Eggemoggin Reach, pillows stuffed with sweet-smelling pine needles, lobster trap Christmas ornaments, and blueberry jam. Mom loves jam. Maybe I’ll send her some.
On another wall, behind the desk, I see a copy machine and, above it, wooden mailboxes. Do I have one? Sure enough, there’s a box with my name on it (cool) and inside is a number and a phone message … from Carly Whitehouse!
I choose one of the rockers on the porch—as far from the doors and other ears as possible—and call her. Mariah and Annie are walking down the hill to breakfast, and for a moment I think of joining them, but I have already dialed Carly’s number and can’t wait to hear her voice. It isn’t till I hear the ring tone that I think of the time. Ack. I have the social IQ of a gnat.
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry. Did I wake you up?” I ask when I hear Carly’s groggy voice on the other end of the line.
“Nola,” she says, coming to. “How’s the high life?”
“Ha!” I sputter. “If you call hanging with Stella the high life, then just fine.”
“Ah. Stella Bella. What about the other waitresses? They around yet? Are they nice?”
“They’re here, but I haven’t really had a chance … I have a roommate, but she’s, well, depressed.”
“Depressed?”
“She’s in love and pregnant.”
There’s a pause. “Does Pete know?”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. How are you, foster sister? You staying in Bangor for a while?” If Carly says yes, I will definitely figure out some way to meet her on my day off.
From: Nola
To: Song
S
ubject: From the servant’s quarters
Song,
I’ve sent you a letter but wanted to shoot you an e-mail as well. Here’s what I learned this morning:
1) The perfect table setting includes three plates, two glasses, and six types of silverware.
2) Stains on white tablecloths are covered by white linen napkins called “nappies.”
3) Orders are never written down until the waitress reaches the kitchen.
4) Uniforms are baby blue with navy, frilly aprons. (Stop laughing.)
There’s the glamour you imagined. Guests start arriving the day after tomorrow. Hope I’m ready.
Two new waitresses
Add four more who know their stuff
Trays bound to collide
Nola
I don’t tell Song that the other waitresses spent most of the dining room training reminiscing about past years. Their stories were funny, but I was drowning. Which side of the person do you serve on? Do I remove the salad plate and the bread plate after the first course? How am I going to figure everything out in two days?
I tried to talk to Mariah when Lucy went to get the xylophone we use to call the guests to dinner (we all have to play the same traditional tune when it’s our turn to sound the chimes). “So do you find it hard? Keeping all of this in your head, I mean?” She just shrugged.
Nor do I tell Song that after talking briefly with Pete, I find myself alone in the barn, having no idea where the others are—Bridget included. So I do what I’ve always done when I’m edgy or aggravated. I put on my trainers and run.
Instead of exploring more of the Rocky Cove paths, I take the town road away from the inn and its complicated history. It’s really beat up—a narrow winding strip of cracked pavement and potholes. Beyond the driveway that leads to the lake beach and the camp, there is mostly field and forest and, scattered here and there, a few houses (presumably with lake or ocean views, depending on which side of the road you’re on). My chest is tight, my rhythm off—not my usual form. I can’t help it. I feel so … what? So thinly present, nothing more than a wisp of substance—like the fog that clings to the early Maine daylight. I push harder against the sea breeze.