Page 39 of Under the Stars

“No, they did not.” Sedge lifts his beer and finishes it.

“But then I’m hunting around Google, right, going down all these nineteenth-century rabbit holes, like you do, and I stumble on kind of an interesting coincidence.

Might mean something, might not. In the early hours of the morning, the day after Thanksgiving 1846, the steamship Atlantic wrecks on a reef off Winthrop Island on its way from Norwich, Connecticut, to New York City, and the surviving passengers are given shelter”—he knocks on the bar counter—“right here in this building.”

—

What I love most about kitchen service, other than the satisfaction of creating nourishment for another human being, is that it keeps you too busy to think about anything else.

The way I run it now, that is, in my brand-new kitchen at the Mohegan Inn, with Taylor at my side.

No yelling, no swearing (okay, not much swearing)—just quick, efficient, methodical cooking.

Within the first hour, we’re sold out of the duck pot pie and the shrimp and quinoa risotto I tested out on Meredith.

The carnitas nachos are a massive hit—no surprise there, the carnitas prep takes three days and cuts no corners.

By nine o’clock, when the kitchen officially closes, Taylor has made forty-seven hamburgers and drops her spatula when Monk Adams saunters past from the rear entrance, guitar slung across his back, and stops near the fryer to gaze about in amazement. The light glints in his hair.

“Holy shit,” he says. “It’s hygienic .”

“Oh my God, oh my God,” whimpers Taylor.

Monk swivels his head to the stove and points at me. “Audrey! There you are. My wife is having kittens over this Irving thing. She’s out front if you have a second to say hi.”

“Hey, move along, will you?” says Mike. “They’re waiting out there.”

I put my arm around Taylor’s quivering shoulders. “If you’re looking for the best hamburger of your life, this is Taylor, my new line chef.”

“Taylor!” He walks over and offers his fist for a bump. Taylor misses the first try but hits him squarely on the second. “I’ll take a raincheck on that burger, but make sure you come by after the show and tell me what you think of the new stuff.”

“For God’s sake,” says Mike, “stop flirting with my kitchen staff and get the fuck out there before they tear apart my new taproom.”

“ Taproom. ” Monk shakes his head and winks at us on his way out the other side. As he disappears through the doorway, a roar shakes the timbers.

I turn back to the stove and sling some vinegar over the grill. “I’ll finish cleaning up, honey. You go on in and enjoy the music.”

—

An hour later, the kitchen’s spotless and Monk Adams is finishing up his set with a slow, melancholy ballad.

I slip through the doorway into the packed, hushed taproom and step behind the bar, where Mike’s pulling what must be his thousandth pint of the night while one of his guys hooks up a fresh keg under the counter.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“Nah, you take a break. We’re good. Go say hi to Mallory over there.” Mike nods toward the end of the bar, where Mallory Adams sits next to Sedge Peabody and an empty glass with a wedge of lime on the bottom.

“I don’t want to bother her. What’s she drinking?”

“Just club soda.” Mike looks at me and winks. “You know what that means.”

“You think so? Already?”

He shrugs. “They’re in a hurry. They got an older kid already. Here, you can take this to that fucker with the Yankees cap.”

I deliver the beer and pour another club soda for Mallory.

She’s so absorbed in her husband, she doesn’t notice.

Next to her shoulder, Sedge stands with his arms crossed, watching the stage.

He’s changed into a button-down shirt in the usual cheerful pattern, rolled up to the elbows.

As I turn away, I catch him bending down to whisper something in Mallory’s ear.

Something about the gesture freezes me. I stand there, watching his lips move. When he lifts his head, our eyes meet.

Sedge’s mouth splits into a gigantic smile. He leans forward and touches my shoulder as he speaks in my ear. “That carnitas was everything you promised.”

“Had to deliver for my biggest investor.”

Monk’s voice croons over our heads. Sedge glances at the stage and back to me. “Look, can I find you later?”

My heart thuds in my ears. “I’m a working girl, Sedge. Catch me tomorrow morning?”

“Okay,” he says. “Sure. Tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

Mallory elbows him in the ribs and lays a finger over her lips. Sedge rolls his eyes and mouths, Sorry.

I turn to weave my way around the bar staff until I reach Mike at the taps. “You know what? I’m kind of beat. If you don’t need me, I’m going to head back and make sure Meredith’s not setting up a still in the pool house.”

“Nope, we’re good. Go on home.”

As I turn to untie my apron, he touches my shoulder.

“Hey. You did good today, kiddo. Everyone loved the new food.”

Monk hangs the last note in the air like a star. The taproom erupts in noise.

I go up on tiptoe and kiss Mike’s cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

—

Meredith is waiting up for me in the sunroom. “How’d it go?” she asks.

I stare at her lap. “Is that a puppy ?”

“This is Quincy.” She fondles the ears of a ginger head that rests in her lap. “He’s a year old and housetrained, or so I’m told. I guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we?”

I drop my bag on the floor and gape at them both. “Where did he come from? What the hell? What are we supposed to do with a dog ?”

“I really don’t know. You’re the dog person. I’m not scooping any poop, that’s for sure.”

“Meredith, I’m so confused.”

She looks up. The dog looks up too and cocks his ears at me. “Your admirer dropped him off this afternoon. Nice guy, by the way. Not bad-looking. You could do worse.”

“My admirer?” I ask, in a weak voice.

The doorbell rings.

“That’s probably him now,” says Meredith. “I’d go answer it myself, but I’m not wearing anything under this nightgown.”

“What the hell, Meredith. I didn’t need to know that.”

I turn and hurry down the hall to the foyer.

Sedge grins sheepishly when I open the door. “Hey. I know you said tomorrow morning, but—”

“A dog, Sedge?”

“Long story. He was rescued from a kill shelter a month ago and a friend of mine was fostering him and I thought—because you lost your dog—”

“Sedgewick.”

“Was I out of line?”

He stands on the top step in the wash of light from the foyer.

One hand palms the back of his neck; the other hangs by his side.

His neat, businesslike hair has begun to curl back on his forehead.

There’s something about the line of his shoulders that makes me want to put my hands there, one on each side of his neck.

Something about his bashful expression that makes me want to plant a kiss in the middle of it.

“Wait right there,” I tell him. “I’m going to see if I can find a leash.”

—

Quincy’s eager to explore his new domain. The third time he tries to pull my arm out of its socket, bolting after a squirrel or something—hard to tell in the darkness—Sedge takes the leash and says something about teaching the dog some manners.

“What kind of dog is he?” I ask.

“A beagle mix, Emily says. I don’t know what’s in the mix. I’m guessing some golden retriever by the size and color.”

“Who’s Emily?”

“Friend of mine. The one who fosters dogs.”

“Sedge,” I say, “your ears are turning pink.”

“We might have gone out a few times. Little rebound thing. But that was a while ago.”

Our feet crunch on the gravel. Quincy makes another bolt for freedom, but Sedge reels him gently back in.

The back of the house looms. The lights in the sunroom are off; Meredith has gone to bed.

In the moonlight, I watch Quincy trot obediently at Sedge’s side, tail wagging, tongue hanging, and I think about how Foster used to veer away when David came near.

How, after David disappeared, she started sleeping on the bed with me.

The dew settles in the grass. The world is a beautiful shade of silver. I stop walking and Sedge stops too and turns to me. Quincy strains at his leash, then sighs and sits on his haunches, grinning idiotically at us.

“I like how you stay friends with your exes,” I say.

“Well, not all of them. Depends on the ex.”

“So what went wrong with Emily?”

“Nothing went wrong. It just wasn’t there, you know?”

“Anyone special in your life right now?”

“Yes,” he says.

I bend down to fondle Quincy’s velvet ears and the look of molten adoration stabs me, like I’m cheating on Foster.

Cheating on the memory of her. How can I allow myself to fall in love with another dog?

Another claim check for heartbreak. A month or a year or a decade down the road, the grief lies waiting for me. Guaranteed.

Sedge squats to join me. “To be honest, I kind of went back and forth for a bit. I thought maybe it was too soon for a new dog.”

Quincy nudges my hand and whines in his throat.

The damp grass wets my shoes. A couple of feet away, Sedge’s eyes are soft and earnest. His shoulders beckon.

I imagine them bare, imagine the curve of muscle and the lines of good, solid bone under my palms. Imagine the skin of his stomach against the skin of my stomach.

“He’s a sweet guy, though,” I say. “Not his fault about the timing, right?”

“You can give him a chance, at least. Get to know him better. He seems to like you, anyway.”

I lay a last pat on Quincy’s head and straighten back up.

Sedge rises too. Everything around us is so dark and quiet and sacred, it’s like standing in a cathedral.

Quincy squirrels his head under my palm.

Sedge stares down at me with the same molten expression as the dog, except it doesn’t stab me.

Doesn’t hurt at all. Like starlings fluttering around my stomach.

I touch the side of his cheek with my thumb. “How about I make you something to eat?”

—