Olivia owned many pairs of practical shoes—practical for getting around Manhattan.
What she did not own was anything even remotely suitable for jumping on and off a small boat and wading through mucky, seaweed-filled water to reach a sandbar in the middle of Cape Cod Bay.
She showed up at the dock wearing a T-shirt, a pair of Free People denim shorts, a Yankees baseball hat, a mini–Fjällräven Kånken backpack, and a pair of Tory Sport slip-ons.
Marco took one look at her feet and ordered her up to his house, where Lidia helped her find a pair of Jaci’s knee-high rubber wading boots.
“And get a sweatshirt too,” he’d told her. “It’s fifteen degrees cooler out on the water.”
She should have remembered that; Olivia was no stranger to the water. In fact, she enjoyed boating. A few summers ago, she’d dated a guy who owned a house in East Hampton and they’d spent weekends sailing on his fifty-foot catamaran. She had not expected Marco to take her out on a similar vessel, but she definitely had not anticipated the bare-bones Carolina Skiff, as he called it.
“See how there’s no big V like other boats,” he said. “This is made for shallow water. And when we reach the flats, you’ll see why.”
The skiff had a scuffed-up white deck and a narrow bench next to the controls that could seat one person. A few ropes were scattered at her feet; there were two egg crates and buckets off to one side and an oblong floatation device tethered to a rope. Marco’s knapsack rested next to her.
Over the rumble of the motor, he said, “Everything I grow is in cages. When I first started, I used racks but ended up switching.” He glanced over at her. “I just want you to have a sense of the operation. And, really, the remarkable thing is that the whole setup out here was sort of a mistake on the part of the Division of Marine Fisheries.”
She’d never heard him so animated. She didn’t fully grasp what he was talking about, but she felt a thrill that he wanted to share his work with her.
“What kind of mistake?” she asked, holding her hat on against the wind.
“Truro and Provincetown made a joint effort to take fifty acres of open water and turn it into an aquaculture-designated area—a place where people could raise shellfish in deep water. But it never occurred to the Division of Marine Fisheries that we float most of our gear on the top. They somehow thought we would be sinking everything and bringing it up, but we don’t—floating cages are a big part of the operation. I’ll show you that another time.”
Another time? She bit her lip to keep from smiling.
“It’s basically two pontoons and underneath is a cage that holds the oysters. At any rate, it turns out we are located in the North Atlantic Right Whale Critical Habitat. They do not want vertical lines in Cape Cod Bay, so from February to May, our gear has to be sunk to the bottom—and this goes for the lobstermen too. Most everyone gets this done by December because no one wants to be out there in February dumping cages.”
“This sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is. And frankly, when I took it on, I thought Jaci would be a part of it. So it’s frustrating.”
A stretch of sand came into view. “Is that it?” she asked, looking up at him.
“That’s it,” he said. “Two hours ago, that was underwater. And it will be underwater again later, so this is our window.”
They cruised steadily forward.
“Do you eat oysters?” he asked.
“Um, no, actually. I don’t.”
He smiled at her. “That’s okay. I’m not offended.”
“I’m sure yours are great, though.”
He laughed. “It’s a matter of personal taste. Oysters take on the flavor of where they’re grown. Provincetown Harbor is very clean and the water is salty, so my Long Pointers have a briny terroir.”
“Don’t all oysters come from salty water? I’d imagine they’re all briny.”
“There are subtleties. For example, Wellfleet oysters are grown in a more brackish environment and they have mudflats, so I’d consider their flavor profile more musky.”
They drew closer to the sand and Marco cut the motor. “Okay, you need to get on the bow there and jump.”
“Jump?”
“Yeah, and jump long, not just down. The farther out you get, the more shallow the water.”
Olivia climbed onto the wide, flat surface at the front of the skiff. She felt self-conscious, certain she would not get very far with her leap. But with no choice, she took a deep breath and bent deeply at the knee, a motion that harked back to long-jump practice in high-school gym class.
She landed in water that was sufficiently shallow. It didn’t rise above her boots. She looked behind her and Marco gave her the thumbs-up, and her chest swelled with an absurd sense of accomplishment. While he climbed off the boat and dragged it to shore, she opened her bag to grab her phone to take a photo of the distant Long Point Lighthouse from her unique vantage point. She tried to post it to Instagram but found she had no internet connection.
Marco carried the egg crates, buckets, and his knapsack. She trudged alongside him in water so thick with green seaweed it was like walking through pea soup. She cringed at the thought of how she’d have managed out there in her slip-ons.
“Welcome to the oyster farm,” Marco said.
The farm was half a dozen rows of square wire cages just a few inches deep in the middle of the sandbar. They were exposed to the air, but the residual seaweed clinging to the tops made it clear they had recently been submerged.
Marco set the two egg crates in front of the cages, sat on one of them, and motioned for her to do the same. He handed her a pair of thick, textured gloves and she pulled them on as he unhooked the top of the cages. Opened, the cages revealed hundreds of oysters of various shapes and sizes. She’d never seen anything like it.
“So we’re looking for oysters that are three inches in diameter. Measure them with this.” He handed her a round metal ring. “If it’s not three inches, toss it back in the cage. If it’s large enough, put it in this bucket.”
“Okay,” she said. Sounded simple enough. But then she looked around at all the cages. Going through every single one by hand, oyster by oyster, would take hours. No wonder he wanted Jaci’s help.
“But also, if it’s too thin, toss it back. We want the oyster to have some depth. Think of how it would look on a plate.” He pushed the oysters in his cage to one side, and Olivia did the same with her own. A small crab scuttled across the bottom and she gasped.
“All right,” Marco said. “Let’s get to work.”
When Fern walked in the door sometime during the early-afternoon lull, Elise felt a rush of relief. They had not texted or spoken once all day, and Elise couldn’t stand the silence for another minute.
“Hey,” Fern said, joining her behind the counter to check the register receipts. “I thought Cynthia was coming in today.”
“She’s on her lunch break.”
Fern did not embrace her or offer any conciliatory gesture. Her expression was stony, and for Elise, being in the presence of her overt, simmering anger was almost worse than missing her.
Clearly, this was not the best time to bring up the news that Cynthia’s father was an adoption attorney.
Fern poured herself a cup of iced green tea and adjusted the volume of the music just a notch quieter. “I see you enlisted Jaci to babysit.”
“She offered,” Elise said. “She likes taking care of Mira.”
“Yeah, well, I was at the Barroses’ when Marco got the news and he didn’t handle it very well.”
“That’s between Jaci and her brother,” Elise said, rinsing the metal shakers in the sink. “It’s not my fault she has no interest in the family business. You heard her the night of Rachel’s party.”
Fern turned to her. “What kind of attitude is that? Lidia and Manny are our friends. If we’re doing something to contribute to tension in their family, we should minimize it.”
Elise slammed one of the shakers on the counter. “All you do is find fault with me!”
Fern made no move to deny it. They locked eyes, and neither blinked until the front door opened and Amelia walked in.
If Amelia noticed the tension in the room, she didn’t acknowledge it. Her smile was warm and her tone breezy when she asked for an iced tea. “Whatever your tea of the day is.”
“It’s our Mariner’s Mint,” Fern said.
“Sounds delightful,” Amelia said, perusing the display of bracelets for sale at one end of the counter.
“I’ll pour it,” Elise said, opening the refrigerator. She needed something to do with her hands, a place to focus. An excuse to turn her back on Fern while she blinked away tears. Scooping ice into a plastic cup, she tried to pull herself together.
“Fern, we’ve barely had a minute to talk in weeks,” Amelia said. “I’ve seen Elise, but you have been such a busy bee. Come to the house after work for a glass of wine.”
Fern began protesting, but Amelia cut her off with “There’s always time for happy hour. I will not take no for an answer.”
Elise realized that Amelia had not shown up at the shop for a cold beverage; somehow, she knew that things were going off the rails. She was there to help. “We’ll be there,” Elise said, trying to catch Fern’s eye but failing.
“Elise, I’ve barely had a moment with this one here. Surely you can spare your wife if I promise she’ll be home for dinner.”
“Oh, sure. I just thought that—”
“I’m happy to spend some time with you, Amelia,” Fern said. “In fact, we should have dinner.”
Elise poured Amelia’s tea over ice and garnished it with a mint leaf, her hand shaking. The subtext of Fern’s comments could not be more clear: I won’t be in any rush to get home.