2

Inside the café, Mom and Ms. Stillford are seated at a central table, looking at Mom’s not very artful drawing of a new sign for Gusty’s.

Ben and Dominic head over to our regular spot, while Ella and I stop to look at Mom’s idea.

“It’s a good start,” Ms. Stillford says. I recognize her diplomatic voice.

Mom holds up the drawing admiringly. “I like it. It says Maiden Rock.”

“What are those?” Ella asks as she points to some red spots in the corners.

Mom looks at the blobs like she doesn’t understand the question. “Lobsters,” she says. “Two on each side.” Ella and I don’t say anything. Mom continues, “You know, for Maine . . . lobsters . . . like in Gusty’s famous lobster fries.”

“What do you think?” Ms. Stillford asks me.

I don’t want to criticize Mom’s drawing too much, since I agree that Gusty’s should have a new sign. “Maybe we should—er—hire a designer.”

“Okay.” Mom drains her cup of coffee and rolls up the drawing. “I see that my efforts are not going to cut it.” She laughs. “I’ll take this to Rook River and have it done by a professional. We’re going to have a lot of traffic in town this summer, and we want Gusty’s to snag as much of it as we can.” She gives me a quick hug and heads outside to talk to Dad.

“You kids coming over this afternoon?” Ms. Stillford asks me. “That carriage house is calling your names. I so appreciate that you’re doing this for me.”

“We’re ready,” I say. Believe it or not, I truly can’t wait to clean out her carriage house and run a tag sale for her. “But Zoe is coming home this afternoon, so maybe we could wait for her and do it tomorrow?”

“Of course! That would be wonderful. I can’t wait to hear all about her time in Scotland.” Ms. Stillford smiles at me with twinkling eyes. “You must be so excited, Quinnie.”

I feel like Ella has tuned out our conversation. I elbow her and say, “I am. I can’t wait for Ella to meet her.”

Ella smiles. Not a big excited smile. Just a little one. I understand. She doesn’t know what to expect. But I can’t help myself. I’m a silly mess, waiting for the three of us to be together. It’s been two years since Zoe left. Well, one year and eight months, technically, but it seems like an eternity.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” Ms. Stillford asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, and then head for where the guys are seated.

A thin man wearing a black T-shirt and jeans comes in, walks to the counter, and starts to survey the café like he’s a dog looking for a bug on the wall. Up, down, and across. He squints to read some of the raggedy titles on the lending library shelf. Hauntings in Ancient Maine Mansions, Atlas of the Maine Coast, Narragansett, Arundel, Blueberries for Sal, and dozens of old Yankee Peddler and Down East magazines.

Clooney Wickham wipes the counter in front of the man and hands him a menu.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Herbal tea?” he replies.

“Lipton,” she says.

“No herbal?” he asks.

“Nope. No herbal.”

“Water will do, then.”

As she walks away, he adds, “Bottled—if you have it.”

When Clooney returns with the man’s bottle of Poland Spring, he says, without looking at the menu, “I’ll take a kale salad.”

Clooney stands there with her hands on her hips. Ella and I turn to each other with raised eyebrows.

He presses on. “With a citrus vinaigrette.”

Clooney shakes her head and sighs. “House dressing on mixed greens with tomato. Or, we have coleslaw.”

The man looks at her as if he’s assessing how far he can push this line of questioning.

“What’s in the house dressing?”

I cringe. From my seat, I can see the man’s profile. His hair is dark blond, slick and shiny, neat and tight. He has a strong profile with a large nose and chiseled cheekbones. He looks a little like a skinny male model. A skinny male model is asking the fearsome Clooney Wickham to recite the ingredients of the house salad dressing. I would not want to be him.

Clooney takes an annoyed breath, then rattles off: “Olive oil, red wine vinegar, orange juice, lemon juice, honey, orange rind, onion, salt, celery seed, paprika, dry mustard, sugar, and a partridge in a pear tree. And no, we don’t grow the celery ourselves.”

He leans back. “I guess that’ll do.”

Clooney takes the menu from him. This guy has Restaurant Hubert written all over him. What’s he doing here? I make a mental note to tell Dad how patient his normally snarky employee was, how she didn’t do a Clooney on this guy when she easily could have. At the same time, she just told him how Dad makes his greatest salad dressing ever, so I’m a little uneasy.

Ella leans toward me and whispers, “What do you think? One of the cooks at Restaurant Hubert?”

“Probably.” We both know it’s not Hubert himself. Everyone in town has heard the big boss has a shiny bald head.

“I bet your dad’s dressing would be great on a kale salad. Do you think he’d try that?”

“I don’t know, maybe. As long as he didn’t have to spray it with sea mist and serve it on a deboned dolphin fin.”

We laugh so hard at the thought of this that the rest of the café looks our way.

“Anyway”—I pull myself together—“Dad wouldn’t charge twenty-five dollars for it. I heard a salad at Restaurant Hubert costs that much.”

Before Ella can comment on the going rate for a kale salad back in New York City, Dad walks back in and Dominic calls out, “I’ve got a menu idea for you, Mr. Boyd.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dad rolls his eyes. “Whatcha got this time?” Dad’s getting used to people around town recommending Maiden Rock versions of foodie dishes.

Dominic slips a paper from his pocket and reads: “Gusty burgers sous vide.”

This stops Dad in his tracks and causes him to give up a big belly laugh.

“What’s sous vide?” Ella asks.

Ben volunteers, “Dom and I have been studying up on this stuff. It’s where you vacuum seal the burger in a bag and cook it submerged in water at low heat—”

“That’s a good one, guys,” says Dad. “But I don’t think I’ll be boiling my burgers in a bag. I’m sticking with the griddle.”

The slick-haired man at the counter grunts. Although he has the house salad to occupy him, he’s obviously been listening to all of this. And he practically does a double take when Sisters Rosie and Ethel bustle through the main door and head for the counter. The sisters used to live at the Our Lady of the Tides Convent. Nowadays, and after a sketchy episode a while ago involving a convent fundraiser and the disappearance of Ms. Stillford, they’re running a cat rescue in an old lighthouse on Pidgin Beach, south of here. But they still come to Gusty’s every day for a meal or a piece of pie.

The stranger turns and cuts the sisters a look like they’re annoying him. He pushes some lettuce around the plate with his fork, then spears a piece and looks at it like it’s a scientific specimen. Finally, he puts it in his mouth.

I can tell Dad’s studying this guy as he chews. It doesn’t take long before the deliciousness of the salad registers on the stranger’s tongue. He takes a second bite, then a quick third. He pulls a piece of paper and pen out of his pocket and starts writing.

“Will you be wantin’ anything else?” Clooney asks the man, having fielded the sisters’ pie order. “Blueberry pie? Whoopie pie? Cinnamon bun—”

“What did you say was in this dressing?” he asks her with his pen poised.

Clooney looks at the pen and paper in his hands and backs up against a stack of coffee cups, which clink against each other in response.

Dad steps in. “So glad you like it. It’s a Gusty’s trade secret.”

I immediately think, Good for you, Dad! He’s starting to feel a little protective of his recipes. Anyway, why does this stranger want to know? Our salad’s not exactly Hubert’s style.

Dad sticks his hand out. “I’m Gusty. This is my place.”

The guy opens his mouth and says something, but I miss it because Owen Loney leans over our table and asks me, “Who’s that?”

“We think he’s from Restaurant Hubert,” I answer.

“Fool place,” Owen responds.

Sister Rosie’s a critic too. “I read in the paper about the beam of light. I don’t get it.”

Owen Loney adds, “That’s an insult to a decent lobstah.” He grumbles as he watches the slick-haired man stride out of the café.

“You know,” Ella says, “if you really want to give Gusty’s a face-lift, we could repaint the benches out front,” says Ella.

“That’s a good one. I’ll do that,” Owen Loney says.

“We could make some flyers with coupons for specials and put them in the mailboxes,” I say. “And put new ones out every week.”

Ella adds, “We could do a Facebook page, Instagram, and a Twitter handle.”

“And Snapchat,” Ben says, pulling out his phone. “It would be like ten seconds of me eating lobster fries.”

Dad arrives at our table in time to hear our ideas. “Don’t worry, you guys. It’s just a healthy rivalry.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” I say.

Ben offers, “We could fix up the dock behind the café, and boats could sail right across the pool.”

Dad looks back toward the kitchen, in the direction of the tidal pool. “We’d only be sailable at high tide. We found that out years ago. Mucky mess at low tide.”

“Let us do something, Dad,” I say. “Coupons?”

“I don’t make more money by giving away food that everybody around here already loves. And don’t get me started on Facebooking, tweeting, and snapping.”

Ben can’t help himself. “Snapchatting.”

“Flower boxes?” I say, sounding a little desperate.

“Clooney’s on that,” Dad says. “Look, you relax for a bit, have some fun, or better yet, go help your mom with welcome packets for the summer people. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

“Please, Dad,” I say, getting more worked up about it. “This is really happening. That guy was from Restaurant Hubert, I know it. He was trying to steal your dressing recipe. At least get some kale or something.”