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 listening 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.

“Thanks. I’ll be right out.” I duck behind the counter to grab the welcome packet while Dad, who’s standing nearby, tells Clooney the rules for service dogs. I’m starting to listen in when Dad turns and says, “Quinnie, Mrs. Billingsley’s waiting.” Fine. Nobody told me about a dog. But if nobody cares, then nobody cares.