A Side of Sabotage Page 3

Once Ella and I cross the road, my instinct is to reach for the doorknob and walk in. After all, the Buttermans are like family. But—it’s not actually the Buttermans’ house, and it’s been one year and eight months since I saw any of them, and frankly, the situation intimidates me a teeny bit.

  I knock.

  Nothing.

  I knock again—a couple times.

  Someone stirs inside. A slow, plodding movement follows—Dominic would call it a zombie walk.

  Mrs. Butterman opens the door slowly, standing in her robe with her hand above her eyes, squinting into the morning light. She doesn’t say anything at first; she just backs up and lets us in. Then she hugs me tight and waves hello at Ella and points upstairs. “First door on the right.”

  I realize that I’ve never been in this house before. An obstacle course of crates, boxes, and suitcases fills the hallway, and the stairs aren’t where I expect them to be. Still, I take the steps two at a time, beckoning Ella to follow me. At the first door on the right, I don’t even knock. I burst in. I’m sure Zoe’s as awake as I am and as eager to see me as I am her.

  Inside the dim room, there’s a lump under the covers and a head with coppery red hair on the pillow. She’d mentioned a different color, but whoa.

  The body under the covers stirs.

  I say, “Zoe?”

  She rolls over and opens one eye. “Q!” she says in a sleepy voice, then throws back the covers.

  It’s her, all right. No mistaking those blue eyes. But her face is longer and thinner, and for sure she has a hair revolution going on. I want to scream and hug her, but it’s a different her. So I hesitate.

  “Oh my gosh, you haven’t changed a bit,” she says, stepping over her open suitcases to hug me.

  I don’t know what to say. She looks so different—so much taller. Do I look this changed? I guess not.

  I lean back, and all that comes out of my mouth is, “You weren’t kidding about your hair.”

  She fluffs it and says, “Yeah, what do you think?”

  I hesitate. It’s involuntary.

  Her face falls. “You don’t like it.”

  “No, I’m just surprised, that’s all. It’s nice. It’s cute.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Quinnie Boyd, you’re a terrific faker.” Then she sees Ella. “Hi, Ella.”

  “Hey,” Ella says back with a small wave of her hand. She’s wearing her favorite eye shadow, Precious Pale Penuche, with a matching eyeliner.

  Compared to the two of them, I look like a pilgrim.

  Zoe starts picking through her exploded suitcases and pulling out souvenirs and telling us about them. She’s brought home rocks, plaids scarves, books, statues, flags, bags of candy, sheepskin pelts, and more. Ella drifts to the window, which overlooks Gusty’s front door.

  “Ms. Stillford and Owen Loney are leaving the café,” she says, pointing down at the parking lot.

  I almost forgot my promise to Ms. Stillford. “Zoe, come on, get dressed! We’re cleaning out Ms. Stillford’s carriage house.”

  As Zoe scrounges around for something to wear, I join Ella at the window. The café’s parking lot is about two-thirds full. That’s light for the peak of breakfast time. Even though the road is busy, not many cars are turning into the lot. A minivan, topped with luggage, is obviously just arriving in town. Then there’s the Miller family’s car, headed out of town. And at least two unfamiliar vehicles slow down, then drive past Gusty’s in the direction of Restaurant Hubert.

  5

  Zoe bops down the stairs and out the door of her temporary house, and I’m struck by how tall she really is out here in the daylight. It seems like she’s grown three inches. I’m five feet, and she has to be at least five-five. She walks between me and Ella, taking our arms and leading us up the road toward Ms. Stillford’s.

  “I’ve missed this place,” she says, “with its fishy seaweed smells and salty air. So much better than sheep manure.”

  “I miss the garbage smells and exhaust fumes of Manhattan,” Ella replies, “but this does have its charm.”

  I try to think of what I like about Maiden Rock, but at that moment, I can’t come up with anything. I’m too fascinated by Zoe and Ella walking arm in arm, neither of them looking completely comfortable.

  When we reach Ms. Stillford’s, the guys are carrying boxes out onto the lawn. Zoe sees Ben and waves in a big arc. “Hey, cousin.”

  Ben stops, stares, leans forward, and stares some more. “Wow! Look at you, Rubylocks.”

  As Zoe runs to give Ben a hug, Dominic walks out of the carriage house, bouncing a large box on his hip. “Welcome to Ali Baba’s treasure chest.”

  Zoe says, “You must be Dominic.”

  “That’s me,” he says. “And you are Zoe.”

  “Zoe!” Ms. Stillford calls out as she hurries toward us. “Welcome home!”

  Zoe spins around, catches sight of Ms. Stillford, and takes off running again. They give each other such a big bear hug that Ms. Stillford’s feet come off the ground. The two of them fall into a conversation about the trip home, the sheep farm, and how much has happened while Zoe’s been gone.

  “Come on, Zoe, you’ve got to pick your prize for helping me out with the sale,” Ms. Stillford says, leading us into the carriage house. A moment later, she reaches into an open box and pulls out what look like magnifying glasses attached to a fold-out stand. “I should probably keep these.”

  Ben and Dominic exchange glances that say, Not again!

  This goes on all morning. We take something down, and Ms. Stillford almost always puts it in the stay pile, giving us a story about each item. The stories are fun to hear, and she’s sweet as she tells them, but sometimes my mind drifts to the Gusty’s parking lot. I wonder how the breakfast business turned out.

  By one o’clock, our stomachs are grumbling, and I tell Ms. Stillford that we’re going to Gusty’s. We walk by way of the old lobster pound—I mean, Restaurant Hubert. It looks like there’s quite a lunch rush inside. I sense that I’m glaring at the building when a figure walks from the kitchen door out onto the road. It’s the guy who wanted the salad dressing recipe. I’ve decided to call him Slick. Moving several strides ahead of our group, he doesn’t seem to notice us, and we fall silent and start to walk slowly. Even Zoe seems to understand that there’s something off about this guy.

  He passes the yacht club; we pass the yacht club. He turns and walks down Mile Stretch Road; we turn and walk down Mile Stretch Road. He walks into Gusty’s. We all look at each other with surprise.

  Slick takes a seat at the counter, while I pull the group toward a table behind him. It’s not our regular table, but my intuition tells me I should keep an eye on him.

  Dominic leans close and says, “I can see the headline now: Restaurant Hubert Employee Eats at Gusty’s.”

  Clooney hands Slick a menu. “What’ll it be today? Still no kale, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I’ll have the Gusty burger and fries,” he says.

  “Lobster fries?”

  He leans back. “Lobster fries?”

  “Fries with the same kind of dip you get with a lobster.”

  “Hmm. Sure. I’ll try it.”

  “You’ll want the blueberry pie too.”

  I have to give it to Clooney, she knows how to make Gusty’s a complete dining experience.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “And coffee. It’s wicked good.”

  “And coffee. Since it’s wicked good.”

  When Clooney brings the Gusty burger and lobster fries, it happens—just like it always does. The juice runs down the man’s arm after he takes his first bite of the burger with mustard and onions on a toasted English muffin. He rolls his eyes and sighs. There’s always a sigh after the first bite. Then come the lobster fries. He lifts the little paper dipping cup and smells the orange-colored melted butter and lemon. Next comes the pinky finger in the butter. A questioning look crosses Slick’s face. Then, with fry after fry, he delivers the butter to hi
s mouth.

  Before the man’s plate is clean, he’s trying to weasel the ingredients out of Clooney. What spices are in the burger? In the butter? How does Gusty’s achieve the crispiness of the fry?

  This time Clooney is on to him. “Nope. Nada. Nein. Ain’t telling. Mind ya own business.”

  Dad appears at the counter and shocks me with his friendliness toward Slick. “Hello, Willy. How’s it going today?”

  “Just great, Gus. Be even better if your waitress would tell me your secrets,” Slick says.

  Dad laughs. “No big secrets here. What you see is what you get. Beef, bread, mustard, onion, potatoes, butter, lemon.”

  “Okay, be that way. It’s good. Very good. But you could take it up a notch with wagyu beef, maybe organic Maris Pipers, Vichy onion aspic bites . . . you get the picture.” Slick wipes his mouth after scraping up the last bite of blueberry pie.

  “Perfectly,” says Dad.

  Once Slick pays and leaves, Dad comes over to our table. “Do you believe that guy?”

  “What are Vichy onion aspic bites?” I ask him.

  “The best way to describe it is onion Jell-O.”

  “Gross,” we all say at once.

  “You called him Willy. Willy who?” I ask.

  “Willy Lovelace. Lead line cook at Restaurant Hubert.”

  “I think he’s trying to steal your recipes, Dad.”

  Dad shakes his head. “If he is, he isn’t going to get them. But really, there’s room enough for both of us in Maiden Rock. What’s most important is not the type of food you serve, it’s your passion for the food. Hubert Pivot has one kind of passion. I have another.”

  I look at Dad and think, Poor Dad, you are so naive, but—because he has such a sweet smile on his face—I can’t bring myself to say it.

  6

  Back at the carriage house, Zoe starts to get to know Dominic, who can talk to anyone and be super funny on the spot. Ben plays strongman, lifting chairs and old dressers. Ella gets caught up in an old leather-bound copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Halfway through it she says, “I’m not going to let her get rid of this.” I find a box with handmade dolls wrapped carefully in muslin. In an instant, Zoe and I are seven again, sitting in Ms. Stillford’s dining room, cutting swatches of fabric and making small dresses for our prize possessions. Mine is Eleanor; hers is Marianne.

  And now they’re in an old box, dresses not entirely finished. Why? I guess because we moved on to something else. I wonder if Eleanor should be the one thing I take from the carriage house.

  That night, we scatter. Dominic has to go somewhere with his parents. Ella and her dad have some company passing though from New York. Ben goes running. Zoe has to unpack. I sit in her room and watch her, but I’m too preoccupied to actually help. I have the café and Hubert Pivot’s line cook on my mind.

  “That Slick guy is trying hard to suss out my dad’s recipes.”

  “What would he do with them? Restaurant Hubert wouldn’t use them, would it?”

  “Maybe he wants them for his own restaurant someday.”

  “That’s a compliment, Q.”

  “That’s stealing.”

  * * *

  Willy Lovelace’s creepy behavior is still on my mind when I wake up the next day. I decide Mom should know about it.

  When I walk downstairs, she’s sitting at her desk, wearing her sheriff’s uniform, browsing the news online. She’s on the edge of her chair, leaning on her elbows, chewing on her thumbnail.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  “Morning, Quinnie,” she mumbles.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Reviews of Restaurant Hubert.”

  I sit on the arm of her chair and try to read over her shoulder. “What does this one say?”

  “ ‘Hubert Pivot has struck haute cuisine gold with his new Restaurant Hubert, in the faraway ocean-side hamlet of Maiden Rock, Maine. With only fourteen tables, this farm- and sea-to-table establishment provides an intimate dining experience. The menu selections exhibit thorough knowledge of and dedication to multisensory cooking, validating the hefty prices, though the officious flair with which rock-star chef Pivot approaches his dishes—wafting smoke across the surface of the restaurant’s marbled tea eggs in a seaweed nest or finishing the lobster quenelle with a beam of sunlight—is somewhat comical. Nonetheless, Hubert is accomplishing what he has set out to do, making Restaurant Hubert a destination for connoisseurs of culinary ingenuity.’ ”

  “Is that a good review?” I ask.

  Mom scrunches her face up. “I think it means that the food is excellent, if that’s the kind of food you want and you can afford it.”

  “Have you seen the guy with the slick hair that works there?”

  “Yep. Willy something? Dad mentioned him.”

  “Did he tell you Willy is trying to get Gusty’s recipes?”

  “Dad told me the guy asked, but of course your father’s not giving them to him.” She swivels in her chair, forcing me to stand up. “Hold on—this better not be what I think it is. Quinnie, Gusty’s recipes are safe. Don’t make a mystery out of this.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird? The snooping?”

  “I think it’s annoying as all get out, but the guy’s not getting them. And you can’t stop him from trying to guess the ingredients.” Mom shuts off her computer. “Besides, they’re useless to a fancy restaurant like Hubert’s.”

  I start to walk out of the room, and she calls me back. “We’ve got a check-in this morning that I need you to do.”

  “Which house?”

  “Rankin’s.”

  “Isn’t that one of the big ugly ones?”

  Mom laughs. “Stop it. It’s not ugly . . . It’s . . . garish.”

  She’s not kidding. There are a few houses on our small beach that have been turned into an out-of-stater’s idea of Maine, not the real thing. The owners almost never live in them, just rent them out. For huge amounts. Usually, they hire Mom to coordinate things. Mom calls it “throwaway money.”

  “Who’s renting it?” I cringe thinking about some of the annoying people who’ve summered in these houses.

  “Her name is Billingsley.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “No, just emailed with her.” Mom pulls out a welcome packet and sets it on her desk, along with the key. “I’ll leave this at the café. When she shows up, give her the packet and show her to the house, and make me proud of you. Okay?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to go to Rook River for a course on this new body camera. I’ll be back by dinnertime.” She points at her collar and points at me. Unlike last year, when Mom got a body cam the size of a deck of cards, this one is tiny.

  “I know, I know,” I say, “you’re watching me.”

  * * *

  “Gus,” says Sister Rosie, “look at this one. Farm greens with shallots over millet cake, with fennel salad and tomatoes.”

  “Yep, yep. I see that,” says Dad.

  I catch his eye, and he winks at me.

  Sisters Rosie and Ethel are camped out at their table, finishing cinnamon buns and espressos. Sister Rosie has a pile of photocopied recipes in front of her, and Dad is leaning over to look at them, nodding his head. It’s ten o’clock, and the café is about half full. That’s pretty good for midmorning.

  “And this one.” Sister Rosie pulls out another sheet. “Aged cashew cheese and black sesame-seed paste on rice crispins, with tarragon and apple compote.”

  “Yep, yep. I see that.”

  My crew is gathered at the café—with the exception of Zoe, who I guess is still readjusting to Eastern Standard Time. Ben and Dominic are chowing down on Gusty’s famous blueberry muffins, served cracked open and oozing with melted butter.

  “Your dad is a good sport,” Dominic says.

  “He should try some of those recipes just so he can compete with Hubert’s,” says Ella.

  “He doesn’t think so,” I say. Dad’s liste
ning to all of Sister Rosie’s ideas, but I know he’ll take those recipes and file them away where they’ll never reach a Gusty’s plate.

  “Whoa!” Ben leans over to check out a car that has just pulled into Gusty’s parking lot. It looks like someone’s ride in an old movie. Big bulbous front fenders and googly-eyed headlights.

  “Jaguar XJR,” Dominic says.

  “Love the metallic marine blue,” Ella says. “I’d like to have that in a nail color.”

  We all turn to look at the owner of the blue Jag as she comes through Gusty’s door. She’s a tall woman wearing white pants, a black sweater, numerous strands of beads, and a faux tiger-skin scarf-hat over one ear. She carries a large vinyl leopard-skin-patterned handbag. Rhinestones adorn her sunglasses; her gloves look like accessories for an old-timey tea party; and then there is her dog. The small white pup is wearing a one-piece outfit that’s supposed to look like cowboy attire: blue jeans, a yellow checked shirt, and a cow-skin patterned vest. And a brown hat that looks like it belongs to a mini cattle driver.

  Our whole table groans quietly. She has to be Mrs. Billingsley, today’s check-in.

  Clooney walks up to her and says, “No dogs allowed.”

  The woman replies, “Ridiculous. Groucho is a certified companion dog. He goes everywhere with me.”

  “Certified by who?” Clooney asks.

  “He’s a companion dog, and that’s all you’re allowed to ask. Now, where am I?” It’s unclear whether she means the building, the town, or the state.

  Dominic shocks me by getting up and walking over to her and saying, “Gusty’s Café, Maiden Rock, Maine.”

  “I need to check in to my beach house.”

  I speak up. “I’ll get your welcome packet.”

  Dad comes out of the kitchen with a plate of blueberry muffins, just in time. “Welcome to Maiden Rock. My daughter, Quinnie, will show you the way to your rental.” He gives me a look that reminds me Mom tells him everything.

  The woman checks me out as if I’m suffering from an appalling lack of patent leather. “Well, let’s go.” Her big handbag catches in the door as she walks out.

  “I’ll go with you,” Dominic says to me.