Page 4 of Those Two Words

“Love you more than s’mores. Oh, oh, can we have s’mores for dinner?!” she asks and nods her head enthusiastically. I laugh and blow her a kiss before the admin takes her by the hand and walks her over to join her prekindergarten classmates.

My daughter has the appetite of a hungry hippo, just like her uncle Booth. I’m grateful she’s not a picky eater like my little sister, Florence, was when she was her age.

I make my way off the school property and check the time on my dashboard. The restaurant opens later on Mondays, and I doubt a lot of people will be venturing out of their homes with all the snow we received. The extra time allows me to catch up on admin work and finalize some vendor issues we’ve been having.

As I cruise back through town, I take in the view through my windshield, which is, hands down, the best in town. Robin Road is the main road leading into the town and ends right at the edge of the bay, and from the top of the hill, you can see the town in all its glory. The bay is about two miles wide and curves with the town until it meets the secluded beaches nearing Acadia National Park. The town is surrounded by cliffs, bluffs, and towering pines; permanently enveloping us in evergreen colors. Wherever you are, you get a sweeping view of the waterfront as you watch the fishing boats come in and out.

Robin Road is the heart of Sutton Bay. The road is lined on either side with mismatched brick buildings, painted in an array of colors, and right now, the small businesses are opening their doors to start a new week. We have fewer tourists this time of year, except for the town’s annual Christmas markets, and it gives the businesses some time to recuperate before they come swarming back in spring. One of the newest is a small bakery called Just Brew It. Despite it being the new kid on the block, it seems to be doing well from the small crowd forming out front.

I push the jealous pang that hits me when I spot the line of people outside the bakery. Something we haven’t seen in a long time.

When I see an empty space outside of the restaurant, I turn on my blinker and pull into it. With the collar of my parka high above my ears, shielding myself from the biting air, I make the short walk and avoid piles of snow along the way.

Once I’m standing in front of the brick building I know better than the back of my hand, I glance up and read the bold, white lettering stenciled across the navy-blue, wooden sign. Our Place. Dark red bricks decorate the two-story building that’s tucked between the town’s post office and hardware store. I glance left and right and can’t help but cringe at how neglected the outside of the restaurant looks. The exposure from the salt air doesn’t help, but giving the restaurant a face-lift is on the long list of things I’ve been meaning to do for months.

The glossy blue paint is chipped, and the white lettering on the glass-paned front door is starting to peel. The O and L look sad and deflated from where they’re sitting above the restaurant’s logo. A lobster. Because what else would we use for a seafood restaurant in New England? Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peer through the window of the front door. The rising sun glares off the glass, making it hard to see inside the dark restaurant. But I know exactly what you’ll find inside. It’s the same as it was when I was running in between the tables with my siblings and best friend…

The rattling of bike chains stops my mind from wandering down memory lane. I turn to find my youngest brother, Booth, pulling up along the sidewalk, looking way too cheerful for this frosty morning. He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair. Out of all four kids, Booth is the only one of us not to take after our mom’s dark blonde locks, instead inheriting our dad’s dark brown—before he went bald, that is. Ironically, he is the only one to have our mom’s icy blue eyes. Like me, he keeps his face clean shaven, though his reasoning is to show off the “money makers.”

Or dimples, as most people call them.

“What’s that face?” he asks.

Staring flatly at him, I ask, “What face?”

“That face.” He points and chuckles. “Did Lottie put dirt in your French press again?”

“No.” I nod toward the front doors and grimace at the reminder of my sweet daughter kindly adding extra flavor to my coffee a few weeks ago. “C’mon, we’ve got work to do before Mom and George get here. Did you finalize all your ideas for the spring menu?”

Booth chains his bike up at the stands by the front of the restaurant and nods with his gloves between his teeth. Something that sounds like most of them but comes out like moft ov dem comes from behind the wool material.

“Great, because I really want to have it nailed down and ready to present this afternoon.” I struggle to pull out the overflowing set of keys from my coat pocket and unlock the drab-looking front door. The rattling of keys between my trembling fingers must give away my nerves, because Booth sidles up next to me and takes them from me to unlock the door himself.

The gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach hasn’t disappeared since this meeting was arranged a couple of weeks ago. I’ve tried not to overthink what Mom and George want to discuss with us, but for the last eight months I’ve been dreading and expecting this day. Every time our middle brother, Graham, reports back the restaurant’s monthly profits, and it remains in the red, the knot in my stomach grows in size.

“It’ll be fine,” Booth says as we step into the restaurant. Reaching for the beeping security alarm, I enter in the six-digit code, the action now a habit. “It’s been a tough few months, but what do they expect during winter? April will be here soon, and we’ll see more people coming in.”

I shrug because I don’t know how to respond. It’s a good thing Booth is optimistic about today, because one of us needs to be. The lack of customers has nothing to do with the season, but I also have no clue as to why we’re struggling to get people through the doors. Finding the time to get to the bottom of that issue is yet another item on my never-ending to-do list. The rising costs and people having to make certain cutbacks in their finances definitely doesn’t help, and unfortunately, eating out is one of the first things people stopped doing. When other businesses in the area are thriving, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve failed and question what you’ve done wrong.

This place, Our Place, holds so many memories from my childhood, teenage years, and adult life. I like to think it’s those memories that keep the building standing, not the brick and mortar. It’s also the place that reminds me of two people I lost in my life almost six years ago.

From the day my father and his oldest friend, George, decided to make their dream of going into business together come true, they wanted to create something special. Where families like their own could come to celebrate birthdays or anniversaries, couples could have awkward first dates, and friends could catch up over dinner and drinks. They did just that, but they also created a safe space for their own families to be raised. Somewhere my siblings and I could come to escape if we’d had a bad day at school or needed a home comfort away from home.

That’s what Our Place is—a home away from home.

I only wish my dad and George’s wife, Valerie, were here today to see what their dream has turned into.

Or perhaps it’s best they’re not.

two

PATRICK

“What the fuck are fiddleheads?”

“They’re furled up baby ferns. Really nutritious and cheap because we can forage for them in the park. They’re perfect as garnishes,” Booth says, like I should know exactly what they are. I’m too busy staring at the screen of my laptop and reading over his final menu proposal to catch his expression, but I know he’s rolling his eyes.

I open the search engine and warily type in fiddleheads. When the results come up, it’s not as bad as I thought, but I still recoil in disgust as I scroll through the images.

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