Page 5 of Those Two Words

“Booth. They look like dead caterpillars. We’re trying to encourage people to eat here, not have them call pest control on our asses. Can’t we stick to cilantro like other restaurants? I don’t want Martin Willis to claim we’re probing his backyard for herbs again.”

Booth snaps his head up from his laptop. “That dude has it out for me and you know it.” A smile curves his lips. “Did you just say probing his backyard?”

“Shut up, man. I know he’s a bit of a nuisance, but he gives us a great deal on vegetables, and we can’t afford to lose that—plus, he owns a lot of the buildings on Robin Road. Let’s keep next season’s dishes more home comfort than fine dining, okay?”

“This town wouldn’t know fine dining if it smacked them across the face,” he whines.

While sulking over his weird insect plants—and begrudgingly deleting fiddleheads from the menu—I look over last week’s sales report that Graham has sent over. I scroll through the figures and when the red numbers continue their depressing pattern throughout the spreadsheet, my hand slams the laptop shut. Red for under profit. And for failure.

We’re sitting at one of the two large oak tables in the restaurant today. The white, wooden chairs we’re sitting on match the smaller tables dotted around the restaurant floor. Exposed brick covers the wall behind the bar, while the other walls are paneled and painted with a whitewash effect. If you didn’t know Our Place was a seafood restaurant at first, you would when you walk in. Decades old fishing gear adorns almost every surface—buoys, fishing nets, and lobster traps decorate the space, along with pictures of the restaurant and the town over the years.In total, we can seat up to forty covers when it’s a full house; though, I can’t remember the last time we were at capacity.

My favorite part of the restaurant is the bar. Being along the coast, Dad and George wanted to give a nod to our town’s location and history. Together they crafted a driftwood bar from random pieces of wood they collected over the years, right here in Sutton Bay. It took three weeks, one trip to the emergency room, and a lot of dollars in the swear jar. My dad always told me it was worth it and swore he could smell the Atlantic every time he walked in here. That, paired with the array of fresh seafood dishes, made this place a fisherman’s wet dream.

Looking around, the wave of emotions and memories I’m hit with seems extra intense today. Something feels off, although I can’t put my finger on it. Stepping in here is like walking through a time warp back to my childhood. There have been a few small changes over the years, but for the most part, it’s exactly as it was the day it opened almost twenty-eight years ago.

In a way, this place is like a memorial for my dad and Valerie. It’s hard not be reminded of their memory whenever you’re here. The interior might appear a little dated, yet if there’s one thing my siblings and I can agree on, it’s that we don’t want to change anything about the decor—keeping Our Place forever frozen in time and holding onto whatever memories of our dad we can. He was the one to hang the black-and-white photos of fishermen on the walls. He was the one to beg our mom to pick a shade of white paint, even though he was adamant they were all the same. Even the tables with their wobbly legs hold memories: doing homework, eating lobster rolls, or jigsaw puzzles on rainy days.

A lot of other memories rise to the surface when I look around. They’re not all happy ones, and I tend to tuck those away in the corner of my brain where they can be forgotten.

My dad and George were the official owners back when it opened, but their wives were very involved and had a big say in the direction of the restaurant. Mom and George are now the co-owners, however, have taken a backseat over the years and left a lot of the decision-making to Booth and me. Graham helps out as the restaurant’s accountant, but he also has a long list of demanding clients to keep in check, so he isn’t as involved. Florence, while she loves this place, is too busy jetting off around the world, and I think she prefers it like that. When responsibility was first handed to us, I recall pride swelling in my chest, so determined to prove to them and myself that I was cut out to run the restaurant. Only now, the pressure of those responsibilities has me snowed under with worry.

I wonder if they regret their decision.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t notice my phone vibrating on the table at first. I look down to see Graham’s name light up the screen and answer it before it rings out.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“You won’t believe who I just saw in town,” he gruffs, his voice serious and deep as usual. Graham is the polar opposite of Booth. Night and day. Where Booth is smiles and jokes, Graham is brooding stares and grunts.

“Well hello to you too, sweetheart. How’s your morning going?” Graham isn’t one for salutations, so I decide to taunt him a little.

“Hello, hi. Did you hear what I said? I saw?—”

A knock on the front door has me pulling the phone away from my ear, cutting off what he’s saying. I look to the front of the restaurant and see my mom and George standing outside. I wave at them and point at the phone, but Booth is already walking over to unlock the door and let them inside.

“Listen, I’ve got to go; Mom and George are here. We’ll catch up later.”

“Patri—”

I end the call and cut off whatever he was about to say. He knows how to send a text.

A flurry of fresh snow follows behind Mom and George before Booth can shut the door. They shake off the snow from their hair and coats, dusting the floors in white specks that melt immediately from the warmth inside the restaurant. Their pink cheeks and noses are a reminder of how cold it is today.

“Hello, darling,” my mom says as she unwraps herself from a knitted scarf that looks double her height. She’s a petite woman, with dark blonde hair like mine, only hers is now streaked with gray and cut short, sitting just below her jawline. It’s difficult not to feel anything but love and kindness when you look at her, although I wouldn’t let that fool you—she’s as honest as they come and won’t hold back if she thinks you need putting in your place.

“Hey, Mom.” I bend down to kiss her on the cheek, my six-foot-one frame towering over her. My brothers and I are all above six feet, and we constantly tease her about it, usually earning us a pinch to the back of our arms.

The swinging door to the kitchen opens, revealing Booth with cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk—he must have snuck to the back when I wasn’t looking—a bread roll in one hand and a plate in his other. He was recently promoted to head chef after his long-serving predecessor, Gloria, retired after twenty-seven years. She was the first employee the restaurant hired when they first opened their doors and was famous for her signature clambake, and blueberry pie.

Having my brother by my side has been such a blessing, especially as I tried to navigate life as a single parent and work full-time at the restaurant as bar manager. More recently, I’ve been balancing the role of both bar and restaurant manager, after the last one resigned in the summer. We’ve had lots of restaurant managers walk through the doors, but they’ve never lasted. My standards aren’t high, I just have certain expectations, and most didn’t make the cut.

We’re not a huge restaurant but trying to juggle everything has been challenging and tiring. I admitted defeat two months ago and finally gave in to my mom and Booth’s pestering to put an ad out for a restaurant manager.

So far we have had a whopping zero applicants.

I look at Booth, who is still stuffing his mouth. “Do you ever stop eating?”

Gulping down the bread roll almost whole, he shakes his head. “No, and that’s why I’m taller than you.”

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