Triple Moon Page 6

  “Pancakes?” Ingrid chirped, handing Molly a plate of two.

  Molly didn’t really want to be eating pancakes, but she couldn’t keep herself from blurting out, “Wait a second. Why does Mardi get more than me? I only have two. She has three.”

  “Four actually.” Mardi yawned. “I already ate one.”

  “Sorry,” said Ingrid. “I’m afraid that’s the last of the batter.”

  “You snooze, you lose,” Mardi said.

  If no one else had been in the room, Molly would have snatched a pancake from her sister. But since she had an audience, she made a show of sitting up very straight on her barstool to contrast her posture favorably with Mardi’s slovenly slouch.

  After breakfast, she announced that she was going to cycle to town to look for a job. Could she please borrow Ingrid’s bike?

  Ingrid had a three-speed painted a cheerful red, with an oversized wicker basket hanging from the handlebars, “for trips to the farmers’ market.” As Molly pedaled it through bucolic North Hampton toward the Main Street, she wondered how much trouble she would get into if she used her fake ID to gain employment at Ocean Vines, the high-end wine store next to the town’s old-fashioned, third-run movie theater. At least that way she would learn something about wine to add to her culture and patina.

  She imagined that Tris Gardiner was a frequent patron of Ocean Vines. He certainly seemed like a connoisseur. She pictured him coming in for advice on the perfect white Burgundy to accompany a romantic sunset picnic with a certain girl on the beach. She would play along, pretending he was referring to someone else, until the last minute, when he would break into a sexy laugh and tell her he would be picking her up at six.

  Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? It was driving her crazy. She squeezed down hard on her handlebars in frustration and felt the press of the gold ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Last night after family dinner at the local fish-’n’-chips place, while they watched television with Ingrid and Matt after the kids were in bed, Mardi had slipped Molly the ring in a barely perceptible moment of sisterly bonding. Ingrid and Matt had not noticed a thing. They had been cuddling, which was sickening to watch. Old people should not do PDA as far as Molly was concerned.

  Molly sighed as she rode past Ocean Vines, but she was immediately distracted by the charming, gingham-framed picture window of a gourmet shop two doors down called the Cheesemonger. Her eye was caught in particular by a display of a red-lined picnic basket with leather straps and big brass buckles. There were pretty metal plates, with a floral design that mimicked fine china, and pearl-handled cutlery. Inside the basket was an array of gourmet foods: wild boar sausage, cloth-wrapped aged Cheddar, veiny Roquefort, artisanal crackers, a tin of shortbread, a farm-stand pie, a bottle of local sparkling cider. It made her want to lie on a blanket and hear opera under the stars. And she didn’t even like opera.

  At least, Molly thought as she leaned her bike against a tree, I will feel civilized in a place like this.

  It never occurred to her that there might not be a job for her at the Cheesemonger, and it certainly never occurred to her that she might not be a suitable hire.

  If she’d been honest with herself, she would have had to admit that this twee, “charming” sort of shop was not at all up her alley. She usually made fun of any person, place, or thing that tried to appear homespun. While she knew this deep inside, she didn’t want to acknowledge it. She didn’t want to question the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, the Cheesemonger was pulling her inside with a magnetic force.

  As she entered the narrow store, a bell tinkled behind the counter and a pretty, long-lashed elfin boy with huge cornflower blue eyes popped out from behind a door that presumably led to a storage room.

  “Well, hello,” he said with a cheerful goofiness. “How can I help you?”

  Molly smiled, sweet and blinding. This was going to be easy. She decided to give herself the “challenge” of getting herself employed on the strength of her charms alone, without resorting to magic. Although of course she would do whatever it took. She was not one to follow rules too closely, not even her own.

  “Actually,” she said, “I was hoping I could help you.”

  “I—I’m sorry?” He began to fiddle nervously with a cheese knife in his right hand. He had sandy hair and mild, pleasant features.

  She reached across the old-fashioned register and steadied his hand with hers. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite you,” she said. “I thought you could probably use some help around here. I’m sure you’re expecting a huge influx of customers over the summer, and I have great retail experience.” She neglected to mention that all of this retail experience was on the consumer side, and not in sales. It hardly mattered. She knew what people liked.

  “Oh, I get it now. You’re looking for a job?”

  She nodded, bouncing her dark hair seductively against her slender neck. “I’m spending the summer in North Hampton, and I’d like to do something productive with my time. I’m very interested in a restaurant or boutique hotel career. I’m exploring my options. And I would like to deepen my understanding of the gourmet food business. I’m thinking my ideal hours would be from eleven to six or seven, during the part of the day when one doesn’t want to get too much sun.” She laughed. “That’s probably your busiest time anyway,” she added, gesturing around the empty shop.

  “A-actually,” he stammered, “I’d love to hire you, but—”

  “But what?” She withdrew her hand.

  “Well, it’s actually my mom’s store, and she’s left me to work here for a few months. She didn’t really give me the authority to make this kind of decision.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense, now, does it? I mean she left you in charge, didn’t she?”

  “I suppose she did, but I’m not sure we have the budget to—”

  Molly was beginning to itch with impatience. She figured that if she worked on him long enough, she could get what she wanted the “normal” way. But Molly Overbrook was not known for happily biding her time. And with such powerful forms of persuasion at her disposal, why subject herself to this silly back and forth, when she knew the end result would be the same no matter what?

  Before she had time to consider what she was doing, she had whispered an incantation that had him handing her a neatly pressed blue-and-white-striped apron to match his, with the Cheesemonger logo, a mouse with a beret and curled mustache, embroidered on the front.

  He invited her behind the counter in order to show her how the displays were organized. “The cheeses are by country. From left to right, we have France, Spain, Italy, and the US. The meats are over here by France. The prosciutto, salami, and roast beef are all from local farmers. Do you know how to use a meat slicer?”

  “Of course,” she lied.

  “And, in this case, we feature a few salads that I source and make myself, along with a daily quiche. I also make muffins and scones. And over there are the pies and cakes I buy from a wonderful woman down on Dune Road. People sometimes come and stay for lunch.” He gestured to two wrought-iron tables, each with two chairs, at the back of the store. “Finally, the breads and other baked goods are in these square baskets back here.”

  He seemed to gain confidence as he moved through his familiar little universe. He took visible pride in his wares. Within his limited sphere, she remarked with a certain degree of appreciation, he appeared almost passionate. It was sort of attractive, she had to admit.

  Suddenly he stopped talking and flushed. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I have no idea how we’ve come this far without an introduction. Marshall Brighton.” He looked down at his Converse high-tops as if her beauty was too dazzling to look at.

  “Nice to meet you, Cheeseboy, I’m Molly Overbrook. And I start tomorrow.”

  9

  THE DOCK OF THE BAY

  My mommy is a lib
rarian, and my daddy is a policeman,” Jo practically sang as she spoke. She and Mardi were curled up on the couch, with Midnight napping between them. “So, what job are you going to get, Mardi? Mommy says you need to get a job.”

  “I think I’m going to work on a fishing boat,” said Mardi. She had been racking her brain to find some way to escape Ingrid’s controlling gaze. It had to be physical work, work that would numb her frustration and tame her anger. She pictured herself hauling nets full of stripers across wave-swept decks, diving with a harpoon to spear swordfish and tuna. She would be one of the guys, in her short yellow slicker and high rubber boots, going out for beers at the North Inn after a hard day’s work.

  “How fun to be a fisherman!” Jo closed her pretty eyes. “You’ll be like a silver mermaid on the prow of the ship. The fish will see the shiny green light from your mouth and the pretty rainbow on your neck, and they will be under your spell. They will come flying out of the water onto your fishing boat just to be your friends. And by the time the sun rises, you will have so many fish on the boat that all the other fishermen will love you and crown you their queen.”

  “You’re a great storyteller.” Mardi smirked. However, her face fell as her mind snagged on six little words from Jo’s vision: by the time the sun rises. What an idiot Mardi was. Fishing boats went out before dawn. Mardi hated the morning. Unless, of course, she was seeing the sunrise after a night of clubbing, in which case the morning might as well be the evening, since she was heading straight to bed. The notion of vigorous exercise in the ocean spray was a whole lot less appealing when she had to consider setting her alarm for some ungodly hour. Never mind. She had to think of something else physically punishing enough to expend her energy.

  “So, what do you know about potato farming?” she asked Jo.

  Before Jo could answer, Ingrid came in and suggested that Mardi help clear the breakfast dishes.

  Man, did Mardi miss her online delivery services. But she bit her tongue, rinsed the plates, cups, and silverware, and loaded them into the dishwasher. Although she hated to admit it, dishwashing actually wasn’t that bad. She felt a simple satisfaction in the domestic chore. The running water on her hands was hypnotic. As she worked, she noticed that her ring finger was bare. She faintly remembered slipping the ring over to her twin while they were watching TV with Ingrid and Matt, but she could no longer picture the actual moment of the exchange. She and Molly could recall their ring exchanges for a little while, the way you hold on to a vivid dream, but eventually the images would fade.

  “So Jo tells me you’re considering a fishing career?” Ingrid smiled as she gathered her things to go to work at the library. Since the children had been born, she went only part-time, three afternoons a week, during which time Graciella, the housekeeper, watched Jo and Henry.

  “Yeah, I was considering doing fishing. Until it occurred to me that I would have to get up at some crazy hour. So I’ve scratched that career path. But it would be cool to find something to do with water.” As she spoke, she realized how drawn she was to the sea. “And I guess that if I’m going to work on controlling things in myself, I need to be pretty active. Otherwise, if I don’t, you know, move my body a lot, stuff builds up inside me, and it all starts busting loose.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been doing a bit of thinking,” said Ingrid with barely concealed delight. “Funny how that happens when life slows down.”

  Mardi smarted a bit at Ingrid’s self-congratulatory tone. “Well, I guess I’m off to the docks to see if I can find a job that’ll keep Dad off my case and keep me from killing someone this summer.”

  With that, she went up to her room, pulled on a 1965 black-and-white-striped minidress, and slipped into a pair of dark gray Vans that she had illustrated herself in black Sharpie, with an intricate pattern of skulls and bones. She waited to go downstairs until she heard Ingrid’s car start and then fade into the distance. She had had enough advice for one morning.

  • • •

  As Mardi pulled out of the driveway, she was terrified by the thump of little Henry landing in the passenger seat beside her, as though he had dropped out of the sky.

  “What the—!”

  She slammed on the brakes and looked up to see that he must have fallen from the branch of the oak tree above the car. How had he gotten up there? And how had he chosen this very moment to let go, when she happened to be passing under to break his fall?

  She didn’t want to know, and she certainly didn’t want to deal with explaining what had just happened. She didn’t need people accusing her of recklessly endangering a child right now. She turned off the car, scooped him up, and carried him back to the house.

  She knocked on the front door and handed him to Graciella. “I found him wandering in the driveway,” Mardi claimed.

  Not waiting for a reply, she rushed away with the distinct sensation of Henry’s silent gaze tracking her every movement from the safety of Graciella’s arms.

  Without looking back, she sped to the North Hampton harbor, where the Ferrari drew curious and appreciative looks. She parked and began to walk along the docks, not quite sure what she was looking for but somehow certain that she was in the right place.

  “Hey,” came a familiar voice, “fancy meeting you here.”

  “Trent!”

  His hair was wet, and his thick lashes sparkled with tiny crystals of salt. He must have been fresh from the water. He had on deep green board shorts, flip-flops, and a worn blue T-shirt with the words THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY in faded lettering across the chest.

  “Who’s the one that got away?” she asked.

  “It’s the name of a local fish place. A friend of mine runs it. It’s awesome. Best bluefish I ever had. They do it with fennel, olives, and orange rind. Maybe we can go sometime.”

  How could he look so studly and be talking about fennel and not seem totally ridiculous?

  “Yeah, sure. I do bluefish sometimes.”

  “Cool . . . So, it’s good to run into you here. Want to see my boat?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You live on a boat here. Now I remember. The Dragon, right? Your brother’s boat?”

  “You got it. Come check it out.”

  When Trent took her hand in order to lead her to his mooring, she didn’t snatch it away as she normally would with a virtual stranger. In fact, she liked the feel of his sun-kissed skin. He played with her hand. “You have a ring tan right there,” he said, amused at the white skin around her fourth finger.

  “Yeah, my sister has the ring on now. If I’m not wearing it, you can be sure she is, and vice versa. That ring is basically the only thing we know how to share.”

  Trent gave a sunny laugh as they approached a long sleek white boat with a high mast and gleaming teak decks. With childlike delight, he explained that the Dragon was considered a midsized sport fishing boat, that it had twenty-foot outriggers and a seventeen-foot high beam, and that it could cruise at up to forty-four knots at 2,330 rpm.

  He started Mardi’s tour up top, on the exterior gallery with its mezzanine-style cockpit replete with tackle, coolers, and a fridge full of beer.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked.

  “Looking for a job,” she said.

  He nodded. “Want a cold one?”

  “Sure.”

  He popped the tops off two icy pale ales and handed her one as they headed down a flight to the second tier, the flybridge and peninsula style console. There was starboard and forward seating, with bright orange-and-white-striped cushions.

  “And finally, down here,” Trent announced, opening a solid teak door onto steps leading to the interior gallery, “is where I lurk.” Belowdecks, the walls, cabinetry, and built-in beds were all of cherry wood. The counters were black granite. The upholstery was leather, chocolate with cream piping.

  Mardi looked around for a few minutes, then whi
stled. “No offense,” she said, “but I didn’t picture you living somewhere quite so . . . well . . . fancy. I got the impression you were escaping all that by hiding out on the Dragon. But this here is pretty flash.”

  “It’s not my boat, remember. This is all Killian’s doing. And Killian was all about impressing Freya when he bought it. I’m nothing but a squatter on the Dragon.” He took her hand again. This time, he did not let go. “But a squatter has squatter’s rights.” He winked. “Which means I’m entitled to visitors whenever I want.”

  She turned around so he wouldn’t see her blush. Then she made her way back up the stairs.

  Back in the daylight, she told him more about her job search, that she wanted something physical, on or near the water, but that there was no way she was getting up early to work on a fishing boat. Did he have any ideas?

  “I’m sure we can think of something,” he said. “But why the urgency to get a job? Can’t you relax for the summer?”

  “I’m sort of in trouble,” she blurted out, not sure why she was trusting him with this information but unable to hold back. “Molly and I both are kind of screwed, actually. And we have to make a show of cleaning up our acts and pretending to be normal so that the authorities will leave us alone.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said.

  “Fair enough,” said Trent. “But I’m all ears whenever you’re ready.” He led her back to the deck, where they looked out to the sea through a forest of masts and billowing sails.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “So, about a job,” he said calmly. “You look pretty strong to me. How do you feel about loading and unloading cargo?”

  10

  C IS FOR COOKIE

  Once Freya found out that Molly was working at the Cheesemonger, she made a habit of stopping by on the way to her shift at the North Inn for her favorite sandwich of cave-aged Gruyère, salted butter, and cornichons on a crusty baguette, always followed by a brownie studded with walnuts and pecans.