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 his 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.