Page 14 of Dead of Summer

FAITH

By morning the weather has turned stormy.

Dense clouds gather above Faith as she walks along the shoulder of the road toward town.

The seagrass whips into her legs, and as she passes the beach a foghorn bellows.

It seems like a bad omen, but Faith couldn’t bear spending another day waiting around for David in the giant house with its sterile air and quiet hallways.

As luxurious as it is, something about being there has started to make her feel uneasy.

A strange creeping sensation prickling along her spine, like she is being observed.

She’d sat on the side of their bed for a while staring into space and then before she could change her mind, she’d texted him, I’m going into town .

Always having somewhere to be and someone to go with is something she’s taken for granted these last few years in New York.

It’s only been recently, since falling in with Elena, that Faith has been constantly around people, but she’s gotten used to it quickly.

She tries to remember the ring instead, glittering in its tufted box. Waiting for her.

The electricity in the air makes her pick up her pace until she reaches a bend in the road and Port Mary comes into view, a small strip of low buildings along the churning shoreline.

Their bright colors look garish in the gloom.

Faith hadn’t had any destination in mind when she left, just a desperate need to get out of that house.

The town is more low-key than pictures online indicate.

She’s halfway through it in a few minutes.

She finds herself at the ferry dock, looking out at the ocean.

Waves knock at the boats moored out in the harbor, sending their masts swirling like bath toys.

From here she can see the back decks of the restaurants she’s read about.

They are empty now, but their tables are set for dinner.

Faith wonders if David will manage to bring her to one of them tonight or if she should prepare herself for another awkward family meal at the house.

There is something deeply unpleasant about Geoffrey that she wasn’t expecting.

She turns back to the road and peers into one of the shops, its windows displayed with sweatshirts and trinkets made from seashells.

The rain starts suddenly. It pummels the pavement, turning the sidewalk dark and slick.

Barely able to see through the storm, Faith dashes toward the row of restaurants on the side of the pier.

She ducks inside the first one she sees, a red-painted block of a building with a hand-painted sign that reads The Salty Crab swinging wildly in the wind above the doorway.

Inside it is darker than she would have expected, more of a bar than a regular restaurant.

A handful of tables surrounds an old horseshoe bar already scattered with people, most of them staring quietly down into their drinks.

Tom Petty plays on the jukebox over a clack of pool balls in the dimly lit bump-out in the back.

Leave it to me to seek refuge in a dive bar , Faith thinks.

The bartender, a sturdy woman with a shock of curly silver hair, moves like she has worked in service for most of her life, her hands sure and steady on the taps as she pours another beer and slides it over to a man with a big gray mustache at the end of the bar.

Faith hesitates, glancing back at the street where the rain is coming down in a torrent.

“Take a seat,” the man says. He kicks out an empty stool next to him.

“Oh, I—” She looks behind her through the door to the rain pummeling the pavement.

“It’ll be here a minute. This storm’s not passing anytime soon. Stalled out just offshore.” He shakes his head as he lifts the full beer to his mouth. The foam sticks to his mustache, making him appear walrus-like. “Might as well let Jean make you a drink.”

Faith approaches the bar, cautiously claiming the empty stool a few down from his.

She glances up at a dusty anchor hanging precariously from an ancient-looking rope above the bar.

The old nautical maps on the walls are stained with a thick layer of grease.

Below them a group of locals watch her from behind their pint glasses.

Despite the long stares and bad lighting, Faith feels instantly at home inside the Salty Crab. These are her people. Or they were.

“Leave the poor girl alone,” the bartender says, rolling her eyes. She slides a plastic-coated menu across the bar. “Take a look. I’ll be right back.”

“Try the clam cakes. Best on the island,” the man says.

Pale blue eyes sparkle from a web of squint lines when he speaks.

He is wearing a faded T-shirt, its seams rippled with holes.

The white of his beard make his deep tan even more pronounced.

He hasn’t stopped watching her since she came in. Faith wonders if she’s made a mistake.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, resting a solid hip against the bar. Faith notices the ropy muscles in her forearms. She is a woman who has worked hard for a long time. It reminds her of home.

“I’ll have the chowder and some clam cakes.

I hear they’re delicious,” she says, looking sideways to catch the approval of the man next to her.

The bartender nods, pulling the menu away.

Then before she turns completely away, Faith adds, “Oh, and could I also have a beer, whatever your lightest is, mixed with tomato juice?”

The bartender gives her a quizzical look before she reaches down for a glass. “Not a drink order I’ve heard in a while.”

A red beer, Faith’s family called it when she was growing up.

Her mom would make them in the heat of summer to beat whatever hangover she was nursing.

A can of V8 tipped into whatever light beer was on special from the Stop and Save.

Her mom would pour one for each of them, putting more beer in her own glass.

Faith had never admitted to anyone that she drank them, knowing somehow that it was odd and not wanting to get her mom into trouble.

Jean raises her eyebrows ever so slightly but makes her the drink.

Faith watches the beer swirl into the tomato juice, her mouth already watering.

Vile and disgusting were the words Elena had used the one time Faith ordered her favorite drink in her presence.

They were on vacation in Tulum and terribly hungover.

“Please never get that again. I don’t want people to see me with you drinking it.

” She’d glared at Faith over her sunglasses. “Plus, it smells horrific.”

And so, duly shamed, Faith hadn’t allowed herself one since.

Back then she was just starting to learn what was acceptable behavior among the monied class of people she’d suddenly found herself surrounded by and did not want to mess it up.

There were unspoken rules, she was coming to understand.

Faith was learning them over time through Elena’s intensive exposure therapy as she brought her to catered parties at penthouse apartments and on weekends to the Hamptons.

It was all in the details, she learned. And unless you were very careful it was all too easy to slip up and draw attention to yourself in ways that would not get you invited back.

It was lucky Faith had Elena to teach her.

But then, Faith was always a quick study.

She could learn anything as long as there was a purpose behind it.

After Elena’s scolding, even when Faith was tempted, she’d never allowed herself to order a red beer in New York, not wanting to make herself into some sort of conversation piece, as though it would draw a straight line from her to her humbler origins.

Now as she tastes the forbidden tang of the drink, Faith closes her eyes for a moment and is transported home, back to the bar where she was practically raised, a hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one, just off the highway a mile or so from her mom’s place.

It had a deer hunt game in the corner and a lineup of vintage beer cans on a shelf behind the bar way up by the ceiling.

The whole place was stained with old cigarette smoke and grease from the kitchen, and it had a faint smell of spilled beer no matter how early in the day.

Faith can clearly picture her mom playing pool with her aunt Shelly in the back corner, the way her mom’s smoker’s cough crackled through the bar when she laughed too loudly, which usually meant she was starting to get drunk.

She can see a very young version of herself eating french fries at the bar, chatting up Diane, the owner, or occasionally falling asleep below the pool table, the drunken chatter and jukebox music lulling her to sleep. Why does part of her long for it?

“Did you have Jean put tomato juice in your beer?” a voice interjects, jolting her out of the memory.

“It’s a family tradition.” Faith turns her head and smiles at the man, relieved not to be self-conscious for once.

“Cheers to that,” he says. “Family is everything.” She holds out her glass and lets him tap his against hers, a strange lump forming in her throat.

Faith doubts David has ever set foot in here.

She realizes that she’s never been anywhere with him that isn’t perfectly cultivated to bring you the most pristine dining experience, with the best food, where the wine list didn’t include regional varietals.

In other words, a place that isn’t swarming with rich people.

“I’m Walter, welcoming committee here at the Crab,” the man says.

“Self-appointed welcoming committee,” Jean interjects, returning from the kitchen with Faith’s food. “No one would hire him. That’s why he had to retire from commercial fishing; not even the fish could handle his company.” She smirks at her own joke.