9

The town is abuzz at breakfast the next morning over the Rook River Valley Advertiser’s splashy announcement. Starting tomorrow, the Secret Diner will begin stealth visits to Gusty’s and Restaurant Hubert. I ask Ms. Stillford if she will mind if we pause the carriage house cleanup to spend a couple days helping Gusty’s get ready, and she seems almost relieved.

“I’ll tuck it all back behind the doors, and we’ll get around to it as soon as all this hoopla is over,” she says with a definite twinkle in her eye. “This is the most excitement we’ve had around here since the vampires came to town.”

All day, we bust our butts washing windows, pulling weeds from the cracks in the parking lot asphalt, patching dings on the walls—I even learn what spackle is. And Dominic has polished the Italian espresso machine so the shine hurts your eyes to look at it.

Six or eight more cars of vacationers arrive throughout the afternoon and stop in at Gusty’s. They’re one-weekers and two-weekers. And Mrs. Billingsley makes an appearance with Groucho.

“Uh-oh, she’s hee-ere,” I whisper to Ella.

Mrs. Billingsley hustles in, takes over a table for four—which immediately annoys Clooney—and picks up a menu by one corner, like the rest might have jam on it. She’s probably right, but Mom is planning to solve that problem by tomorrow.

“Is your chowder creamy or red?” Mrs. Billingsley asks Dad.

Dad looks at her like he’d like to escort her out, but he says, “We serve New England clam chowder with milk and cream. The red stuff is from Manhattan. We also serve a fish head soup. Which would you like?”

“What’s the fish in the fish soup?”

Dad looks around and says softly, “Whitefish heads with some added cheeks, leeks, and potatoes.”

“I don’t see it on the menu.”

“It’s not on the menu,” he says. He taps his pen on the order pad. “It’s for local connoisseurs.”

“Hmm. I’ll have that,” she says. “And a side house salad.”

Dad’s not sure he heard her correctly. “The fish head soup?”

“Yes. The fish head soup, please.”

Dad walks into the kitchen scratching his head.

Dominic leaves his station at the espresso machine to consult with me at the end of the counter, where I’ve been folding paper napkins. His face is solemn. “I feel betrayed.”

My mind races through all the things I could have done to make him feel this way. Then he laughs.

“Hey! Don’t freak out. It’s just that I’ve been here a year, and you’ve never told me there’s a secret soup for real Maiden Rockers.”

Relief floods through me. “I nearly got away with it too,” I laugh. “Only a few more weeks and our secret would have been safe from you.”

“No, really, I want to taste this stuff.”

“Fine. But I don’t want you going and telling all of New Jersey about it.”

Dominic orders his own bowl of fish head soup, which Clooney takes out to him with a doubting glance. She brings a bowl to Mrs. Billingsley’s table with an even more skeptical look on her face.

I can only image what Billingsley thinks about the fish head with its flat eye staring up from the middle of the bowl, but she doesn’t flinch. She smells it, runs a spoon through it, and tips a stream of broth back into the bowl. After her first taste of it, she adds some salt, which visibly irritates Dad. Next she scoops a potato cube from deep in the bowl and savors it in her mouth. Then she touches the bowl several times with the palms of her hands.

“Mr. Boyd?” Mrs. Billingsley calls Dad to her table.

“Yes? How do you like the soup?” Dad asks.

“It will do, but you must remember to heat the bowls before you ladle the soup into them. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

Dad hesitates. I think he’s trying to keep steam from coming out of his ears.

Dominic swivels in his stool at the counter and calls out to Dad: “Mr. Boyd, this fish head soup is fantastic! But the bowl’s a little too hot.”

Dad smiles.

Mrs. Billingsley makes a hmmf sound.

The next time the café door opens, Mom’s favorite type of visitors walk in—a middle-aged couple with affluent lower New England written all over them. She’s got the sweater set. He’s got the cashmere V-neck. They look around approvingly and select a picturesque table near the window. She takes old Down East magazines off the lending library shelf and delights at how tattered and charming they are. Clooney has menus in their hands in a nanosecond, and just as quickly gets the scoop on them, which she passes along to us. His name is Robert Lewis, hers is Helena Lewis, and they aren’t staying here in Maiden Rock. They’re at a bed-and-breakfast near Scavenger’s Bay, and they caught the article in the paper on their way through Rook River. They’re very polite, according to Clooney. “They never once complained about the temperature of the plates.”

One thing I notice, though, is that Helena Lewis orders too much, and Robert Lewis picks off her plate, and they don’t take a doggie bag. I kind of take offense at that.

For her part, Mrs. Billingsley leaves before she finishes her fish head soup. On the way out, she tells Clooney to tell Dad that the salad dressing was a pinch too sweet.

* * *

That evening, Ella, Zoe, Dominic, Ben, and I collapse on my family’s back porch. None of our seats could be called comfortable. Mom has been talking about getting new rockers and cushions because the current ones are falling apart, but that’s on hold until after our Gusty’s refresh effort. But we don’t care. We’re exhausted.

“I’m covered in paint,” says Zoe.

“You paint like a toddler,” Ben says. “That’s why.”

“When is your mom getting the new menus?” Dominic asks me.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Will there be any new dishes on them?” Ella asks.

“I don’t know. Dad’s thinking about it. I told him he should do one of his dishes in a Hubert style—to be funny, if nothing else.”

Dominic, who has been slumped in a rattan chair, jumps up. “I’ve got it!”

We all yawn.

Dominic continues, undeterred. “It’s the fish head soup. Hear me out: it’s unique, regional, kinda weird-looking, and above all, delicious. Gusty could modify it only slightly—like, I don’t know, stick kale in the fish’s mouth, add a small slice of beetroot or something.”

He stops and waits for it to sink in. We all clap.

“That’s brilliant,” I say.

“Damn, Dom,” says Ben.

“Excellent,” says Ella.

“Crackin’,” says Zoe.

We all look at her.

She shrugs. “That means nice.”