Page 25 of Text Appeal

Me: Fully recovered.

Connor: Let me know if you need emergency ice cream or anything.

Me: Ha. Will do.

“Riley,” greets Noor in her husky voice. “I picked some chilis from my garden just for you, darling.”

“Thanks,” I say drily, pulling up a seat.

Joyce and Martha both laugh at me. Something I am getting used to.

Friday’s craft projects are rainbow-colored blanket squares for Joyce, another rude cross-stitch for Noor (this one says “Don’t Be A Cunt” inside a circle of daisies), and Martha is busy reading something on a tablet.

As promised, the women are sipping cocktails. My mental health demanded I do the same. I tried to write in the apartment.I tried to write in the café downstairs. (The topic of the dueling tip jars was whether toilet paper should be hung under or over.) I drove out to the point and tried to write with the salt wind blowing in my hair and the noise of the waves lapping at the rocks surrounding me. Nothing. Nada. Not a single damn word.

“Honey, we need another mimosa,” says Joyce.

“Coming, Ma.” A man’s voice comes from the back kitchen this time. Makes me wonder how many members of her family are involved in running the place. It must be wild, working with people who know you so well. People who have known you your whole life. I should write a book about a family business. Lots of people to interview for information here.

Thanks to the weather, the three women are seated inside the Mermaid Café. It rained through the night and into the morning. Only stopping an hour or so ago. However, the sky is still thick with clouds.

“Nice to see you’re no longer as red as a firetruck,” says Martha. “I was worried about you there for a minute.”

Noor snorts. Today her lipstick is a rich brown to match her shirt. An ornate silver necklace hangs around her neck and her hair is pulled back in a French roll. The woman is goals. Though I doubt I could put in as much effort on a daily basis, as evidenced by my baggy jeans, ribbed tank, and Birkenstocks.

“Why on earth did you do it?” asks Joyce. “If you know you can’t handle hot food, then why eat it?”

I keep my mouth shut.

Noor shrugs. “Maybe she’s a masochist. Or maybe she just loves Mexican.”

“I told you,” says Martha. “She was sticking it to Denise.”

The smart move would be to continue to keep my mouthshut. Watch me not do that. “Yeah. About that. I know she’s your daughter…”

“So what?” asks Martha. “At any rate, you’re wrong. Denise is my daughter-in-law. Her ex-husband, the boys’ father, is my son. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a more useless, irresponsible, and selfish creature.”

Now I don’t know what to say.

“He left town a long time ago,” says Noor in a quiet voice. “Back when the boys were in school.”

“That was a hard time for everyone.” Joyce sighs sadly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

A mimosa is set in front of me. “Thank you.”

The handsome bald man nods before heading out back. Talk about muscles. He is ripped. I bet he could bench press me.

“I’d have thought Denise would be in a good mood what with the town picnic coming up this weekend,” says Joyce.

Martha snorts. “All hail the chowder queen.”

“What am I missing?” I ask, setting my drink down.

“Years ago, when Denise was crowned Miss Port Stewart, she had an idea for fundraising.” Noor studies her cross-stitch as she speaks. “I thought it was rather clever. A chowder cooking contest that coincides with the annual town picnic in the park.”

“People take their chowder seriously in these parts,” Martha informs me.

Joyce just nods. “Even more so since the start of that competition. Phew. Some years you’d think it was all that matters. I am more of a pie girl myself. Let me get in the kitchen and bake something and I am happy.”

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