7

In the parking lot, Mrs. Billingsley has decided to let Groucho do his business near one of the flower planters. Dominic walks around the blue Jaguar, leaning over periodically to inspect it more closely. When Groucho is finished, he darts over to Dominic and puts his little cowboy paws up on Dominic’s leg. Mrs. Billingsley walks away from the poop pile, checking something on her phone.

I say, “Ma’am, you have to clean that up.”

Mrs. Billingsley either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to.

I say it louder. “Ma’am, you have to clean up after your dog.”

Mrs. Billingsley looks up as if in a phone-daze and says to me, “It’s small, he’s small. It’ll dry up and blow away in no time.” She opens her driver’s-side door. “Now, which way are we going?”

Dominic says to me, “I’ll ride with her to her rental.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll walk down and meet you there.”

Dominic starts to get in the Jag, but Mrs. Billingsley shakes her head. “Just give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

I’m wondering how this is all going to filter back to Mom . . . and I can’t believe I’m picking up the poop.

Dominic waits for me while I bag and toss the little lumps. While I’m griping about it, a car pulls into the parking lot from the direction of Circle Lane. It stops to let Slick out. I realize the man behind the wheel is Hubert Pivot. I haven’t seen him in person, but there is no mistaking him from his picture in the paper. He’s as bald as a volleyball, with ears that stick out like wings.

Slick lingers by the open passenger door. They don’t seem to notice us standing there. “It wasn’t that bad!” he says to his boss. “It said you struck haute cuisine gold.”

Hubert grumbles and tightens his grip on the steering wheel and says something about “seventy-one percent bookings.”

Slick says, “A lot of people still go to this joint.”

I distinctly hear Hubert say, “They won’t for long.”

Before Slick slams the door, he says, “Don’t forget the spring onions.”

Hubert peels out, and Dominic and I beat it to the rental to do my duty to Mrs. Billingsley, the words They won’t for long running over and over in my mind.

* * *

Billingsley tells Dominic to carry in her bags, then to watch Groucho, who really is a cute little dog. His owner forces me to walk around the house with her and record everything she notes is wrong, broken, or inadequate. Dominic and I don’t leave for another hour.

Once that hour’s up, I stop by Mom’s office to drop off Mrs. Billingsley’s list of complaints, and then Dominic and I head to Ms. Stillford’s, where the save pile is growing. I swear that she must have come out overnight and moved half of the sell items over to the save heap.

Dominic’s still trying to decide which cool piece of junk he wants. He’s leaning toward a View-Master slide viewer and a box of two hundred slides from National Geographic. Ella has claimed Ms. Stillford’s vampire costume, complete with fangs and a wig. Zoe wants her Marianne doll. And Ben wants the full thirty-three volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica 1994.

I’m going through a box of little salt and pepper shakers, all individually wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Ceramic pigs, lambs, snowmen, skaters . . . but I can’t focus. They won’t for long—it’s stoking my suspicions. I walk out of the carriage house and call Dad. He answers on the first ring.

“Hi, kiddo. Sup?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not so much. Midafternoon lag.”

“Is Slick there?”

“Willy? Nope. He was here for lunch but he’s gone.”

“Dad, I heard him talking about Gusty’s with Hubert, and he said”—I think hard about exactly what he said. I’ve learned that exaggeration does not help in these situations—“ ‘There are still people eating at Gusty’s,’ and Hubert said, ‘They won’t be for long.’ ”

“Where did you hear this?”

“In the Gusty’s parking lot. Hubert was dropping him off.”

“Right. Well, I’m not sure what to say other than that’s the way competition goes. Everyone would like to have the most customers.”

“But Dad, he said ‘not for long,’ like something was going to happen. Like he was going to make something happen.”

“Seriously, Quinnie, what can he do? Out-advertise us? Besides, Slick—as you call him—is eating here on a regular basis. Spending money here. I wouldn’t call that a problem.”

I don’t think Dad’s getting it. “You should ban him from Gusty’s. He’s trying to steal your recipes and who knows what else.”

There’s a pause on the other end. I can hear his mind going to that place where I’m an alarmist playing detective again. But he softens his tone. “Your point is so noted.”

“Okay, Dad. Think about it.”

I go back into the carriage house and announce, “We have to do a publicity campaign for Gusty’s. And we have to do it now.”

* * *

Over the next two days, I take note of the number of people eating at Gusty’s. I can’t exactly say how big the drop is, but for a time of year when summer homes are full and weekly rentals are always booked, the café’s definitely not as crowded as usual. At night, I hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen about gross receipts and net revenues.

My crew has made flyers that say Gusty’s Café—Family Owned Since 1918 and put them in all the local mailboxes, along with coupons for a cinnamon bun, a bowl of chowder, or a piece of blueberry pie. I needed Mom’s help to pressure Dad on the coupons. He repeated his argument: “I don’t see how giving away food makes any money, especially the food I always run out of.” But Mom urged him to try it. He agreed once we added, with purchase of a sandwich.

An Instagram account is probably still out of the question. And the friendly fancy food suggestions keep rolling in.

Ms. Stillford brings Dad a recipe for probiotic goat yogurt with pruneau puree. She says he could blow a flute over it. Dad smiles and shoves it in a drawer. Ben’s uncle, John Denby, hands Dad a scan of his mother’s handwritten recipe for Granny’s Bread Ball Soup. Ben whispers to me that Dad should throw it away, because it’s made with beef lard and will give our patrons heart attacks. Dad tells John, “I appreciate the thought.” Owen Loney tells Dad that his “ma” used to make “porridge with a butterfat lump in it.” Dad says, “You don’t say, Owen.” Then he whispers to me that people are confusing “old-timey with newfangled.”

On the morning after the butterfat lump incident, Dominic and I are sitting at our usual table, designing a new T-shirt that says Gusty’s Café—Best Blueberry Pie in Maine. Dominic is pressing us to add an infinity symbol when Slick comes in with another man who looks like he’s also from Restaurant Hubert.

Dominic points to their feet. “Those are Crocs. They’re the preferred footwear in a commercial kitchen.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“Ben and I saw them wearing those goon shoes before, and we looked it up,” he says.

“You guys don’t have enough to do.”

Dad walks over to Slick’s table with two mugs and a pot of coffee.

“Fill ’er up,” Slick says.

The other guy nods at his cup like he’ll take the same.

Slick opens the plastic-covered menu and points to various items, telling his buddy that he should try this or that or that one too. “It’s good stuff,” he says.

Dad hears this and puffs up a bit. “Glad to hear you like it.”

“You’ve got some interesting flavor medleys going on here,” says Slick.

Dad beams. Then he does the craziest thing he’s ever done. He says, “I bet I could even beat Hubert’s in a cook-off.”

Slick laughs.

Then Dad gets majorly feisty. “Really, you tell Hubert I challenge him to a cook-off.”

Slick uses the kind of voice my dad always uses when he’s telling me to simmer down. “Okay, okay, I’ll pass that along to the boss.” He looks at his buddy. “What do ya think, Carl? Fresh versus fried.”

As Dad walks back toward the kitchen, he underlines his point: “I’m not kidding.”

* * *

Later that evening, I’m sitting on our back porch watching the waves, and I get a text from Zoe.

Zoe: Want to meet on the beach?

Me: Sure. I’ll text Ella.

Zoe: Just us, maybe?

Me: K. Meet you halfway.

Little alarm bells go off in my head. What’s this about? Doesn’t she like Ella? What if Ella sees us walking without her? Will that hurt her feelings? Am I being stupid? Is this no big deal? Yeah. It’s probably no big deal.

I stick my head in the kitchen, where my parents are sitting at the table, assembling welcome packets for summer renters, and I hear Mom say, “You did what?”

Dad says, “I challenged him to a duel.”

“Not seriously?” says Mom.

I jump in. “I heard it, Mom. He challenged Hubert to a smackdown.”

“Smackdown, taste test, cook-off, a food competition. Call it whatever you want.” Dad is swaggering around the kitchen, waving a telephone emergency-contact list. “Bring it on.”

“Oh my gosh, Gus!” Mom says.

“I’m meeting Zoe for a walk on the beach,” I say. I don’t really want to get sucked into this conversation.

Mom and Dad both turn at the same time. “Be back before dark.”

As the door closes, I hear Mom say, “Did he agree?”

“I just mentioned it this afternoon.”

Cold, wet sand flicks at my ankles. It’s almost seven o’clock, and the tide won’t be in for a couple hours. Still, the surf hits the rocks hard, spraying the right side of my body with salt water. It feels strange to be walking past Zoe’s real house on the way to her rental house. When I look up to her old room, where Dominic currently lives, TV light is bouncing off the walls. He’s alone—he could have called me to do something. That hurts a little bit, since he only has three weeks left. Then he walks in front of the window, carrying a box. He’s packing. Pinch my heart. He’s really leaving. But I put this out of my mind.

A tall, thin figure jogs toward me, red hair bouncing wildly in the early evening light. For a second, I ask myself who it is before realizing it’s Zoe.

She flips my hood up over my head. I duck, then reach out and pull at her ruby locks.

“You hate the new look, don’t you?” she says.

“I do not. I don’t hate it.” I jam my hands into my pockets and look straight ahead to avoid looking at her massive head of hair.

“Well, you don’t love it.”

“I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. It surprised me. It looked different when I pictured it in my head.”

“It’s not like a Merida ’do or anything. It’s just hair.”

This gets me laughing.

She wags her head in my face, and I push it away, laughing harder. “It’s . . . so . . . red!”

“It’s a little weird, isn’t it?” Zoe says.

“What?”

“I don’t really feel like I live here anymore.”

Her voice is almost pitiful. I don’t know why, but it surprises me. I never expected her to not feel at home in Maiden Rock. “You will. Wait until you get back in your house. And I’m here, and Ella’s here.”

“Q, I don’t know Ella.” She kicks up some sand, runs in the surf, and yells, “I like her nail polish, though.”

I stomp in after her. “And she likes your red hair.”

Zoe fails to maintain her enthusiasm. “I miss Scotland already.”