Page 34 of Dead of Summer

FAITH

Faith goes down to the kitchen for an iced tea and sees they’ve already gathered on the veranda.

There is a tight pack of them. The scent of cigar smoke hangs in the air.

An occasional loud, humorless chuckle rises up from among them.

Faith observes them from behind the glass, feeling like she’s watching some sort of nature special.

David is out there with them. She’d pretended to be asleep this morning as he’d slipped out of bed.

The last week has been tense, distrust simmering between them, though they pretend it isn’t.

They have eaten together, making idle chitchat about the weather, and the party, coming up now in just a few days.

Faith wonders what will happen. Will they be able to salvage it or should she start looking for new jobs and apartments with roommates?

Geoffrey saunters out to the veranda and is immediately folded into the center of the men, the alpha male.

David spots her watching and comes into the kitchen next to her. He kisses her cheek. She flinches at the roughness of his stubble on her face. “Who are they?”

“Dad’s friends,” he answers simply.

“You don’t like them?” Faith says. He gives her a look.

“I didn’t say that,” he says quickly. When he sees her expression, he explains, “Look, they’re a certain type of man, right? From a different generation. It’s not that I like them or don’t like them, they just are.”

She looks up at David. Are what?

“Let’s get out of here,” David says, taking her hand and pulling her away from the veranda.

“Where to?” she asks him, trying to find the lightness in her voice. She isn’t going to say anything until she knows more.

“Wherever you want,” he says, leading her toward the main door. “I’ll have Jim bring round a car.”

“There’s something going on in town, an oyster festival or something,” Faith says, remembering the flyer she saw stapled to a board next to the town hall.

“That’ll be perfect.” He seems almost desperate to leave now, picking up his pace, and Faith wonders what he wants to escape.

“I have to change first,” Faith says, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. She is wearing only a black one-piece swimsuit and a pair of gauze pants.

“You look great just as you are,” David says, his eyes pleading with her. She gives in.

Geoffrey Clarke steps into the foyer, cutting them off at the pass.

“Where are you dragging my son off to?” he booms.

“Faith and I were about to go downtown for the Oyster Festival,” David says quickly. “Some local thing. We shouldn’t be gone long.”

Geoffrey eyes the two of them. Faith can tell he is calculating something.

“I’d like to come,” Geoffrey says. “Would be good to show my face around town before the party, don’t you think?”

David pales. “Are you sure, Dad? I thought you were taking the boys down to the course later.” Geoffrey returns a defiant look.

“I think the boys can wait. Or they can come with. They love an oyster. You know that.”

“Aw, Dad, I was hoping that me and Faith—”

“What? Did you want a little private time? Don’t want your old pops tagging along on your little date?

” Geoffrey says this last part antagonistically.

Even though it is true that Faith desperately wants time alone with David, she won’t let Geoffrey see her sweating it.

She gets the feeling he is toying with her. She puts a serene smile on her face.

“It’s fine, David,” Faith says, putting a hand to his arm. She turns to Geoffrey. “You are more than welcome to come. The more the merrier; besides, David and I get plenty of time alone together in New York.”

Geoffrey returns an aggressive smile that shows her she’s gotten to him. “Thank you, Faith. That’s very generous.”

“Jimmy!” he calls out, pushing past them to the door. “We’ll need three cars. SUVs. I’m bringing the boys.”

The air at the festival is briny with shucked oysters. Rows of white catering tents are set up at the site of an old fort next to a low concrete barracks in front of the sea. And Faith feels like part of an invading army as she walks next to David, behind all the men.

They come up to a stall where a father and son work in tandem. The young boy dumps a bucket of ice into the tray while the father lays out gray oyster shells on top. Behind them an oven lets out plumes of woodsmoke.

“Freshly harvested,” the man calls out to them, balking when he sees Geoffrey Clarke moving toward the front of the pack.

“Crooked Clarke Bake,” Geoffrey reads from the menu as the oyster seller sweats in front of him. “What’s that?”

“I’m sure it’s just a joke, right?” David says. “Isn’t that right?” The man pales. Faith’s stomach turns.

“It’s a take on oysters Rockefeller.” His voice is thin with stress. His hand clutches at the towel in front of him. The oyster farmers in the next stall over stop shucking and raise their heads to watch. “It’s quite popular,” he says. And Faith can tell he isn’t sure he’s said the right thing.

“Oh, is it? Then I’ll take an order.”

The man goes white. “Are you sure you want—?”

“What’s wrong? I can’t have the oysters? They’re fucking named after me. They’re popular because of me, after all.” Geoffrey turns on the man, his voice rising to a loud growl. Two women behind a pile of ice in tall waders also turn to watch.

“Yes, of course you can,” he says.

The knife slips, gouging the man in the thigh. He gasps in pain.

“Oh my god!” Faith cries out, reaching her hand to him. “Are you okay?”

“He’s fine, aren’t you?” Geoffrey says, stepping between them. “Look at the size of that blade, can’t be that bad.”

“Never mind. Nothing to worry about,” the man says, gritting his teeth.

He presses a stained white towel to the leg of his jeans.

He calls to the boy, “Go ahead and make Geoffrey Clarke some oysters.” The boy scowls, but his father gives him a desperate stare and his son prepares the oysters, shucking them expertly and loading them with sauce and breadcrumbs, throwing them onto a wood-fired oven set up in the back of the tent.

It’s the first time Faith has seen Geoffrey look like he is genuinely enjoying himself.

He is the only one. Even his posse of polo-shirted men shuffle uncomfortably behind him as he waits.

“What’s everyone so quiet for?” Geoffrey booms. “This is supposed to be fun.”

The boy hands over a paper tray with a blossom of oysters inside. “The Crooked Clarke, eh?” Geoffrey says. The air is suffused with tension as he lifts one to his mouth and tosses it back.

“That’s damn good,” he says, dropping the empty shell onto the ground. Faith feels the whole tent exhale simultaneously. He has chosen mercy this time.

“So glad you like it,” says the man, whose hand hangs limply in front of him as a red spot grows on the leg of his pants. Geoffrey ignores the injury, letting out a loud barking laugh.

“It’s so good you should make your help here sign an NDA.

” As he says this he turns to look directly at Faith.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, meet hers.

She raises her chin and forces a smile back at him.

She glances at David to see if he’s noticed, but he has turned away and is staring pensively down into his phone.

Faith knows that nothing Geoffrey does is by accident.

Even as she maintains her smile, a jolt of terrible recognition shoots through her.

He knows.