Page 17 of Sea La Vie
“Right, the coffee.” I smile and motion for him to follow me down the cracked sidewalk.
“You’re a saint, Lainey Adams. Thank you.”
“You might not want to thank me yet. If Huck made it, you’re safe. He’s a coffee snob and spends a good bit of his morning measuring out beans and water and grams and who knows what. If Dad made it though, plan on thinning it out with some creamer. Or…better yet, throw it in one of the potted plants when he’s not looking.”
“I would never waste coffee of any kind. Well, except Lucille’s,” Tate teases. “This place hasn’t changed a bit,” he says, marveling at the soft white exterior of the old Keeper’s quarters of the Widow’s Wharf lighthouse that used to sit a few yards away. “Other than…where is the lighthouse?” he asks, scanning the yard.
“The top fell off during Hurricane Sandy. It was going to be too much to restore so they decided to tear it all down. Not enough tourism,” I explain.
Tate clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Where do all the kids go now to—” I clamp a hand over Tate’s mouth. “Shh,” I say, my eyes wide. “Dad never knew about any of that. Hestilldoesn’t know about any of that.”
The door swings open by dad himself, as if summoned. Tate’s a good size, with his broad shoulders and tall stature, but Dad seems to swallow him standing there in the door frame, his burly beard hiding his kind face. The beard didn’t come until after mom died; a way to hide his feelings from the world, in my opinion.
“Sure I do,” he says. “Where else would Henry have gotten Eden pregnant?”
My eyes grow wide and Henry appears behind Dad, silently sliding a thumb across his neck. “Die with the lie,” he mouths.
“Shut up, Henry,” Eden says from behind me. “The whole town knows after you bragged about it to the entire football team the following weekend. Sam, honey, please put down the caterpillar,” she says, her voice dripping with exasperation.
Sam grabs Midge with his free hand, slides past both me and Tate then crawls through Dad’s legs into the house, before Eden can stop him.
“Well hello, Tate,” she says. “Welcome to Saturday breakfast where secrets are spilled, and it’s entirely too early for a glass of wine. Good morning, Archer.” She pats both Tate and I on the back then slides between us and wraps an arm around dad’s middle. Eden’s been the only one other than me who’s ever felt comfortable enough around dad to do something as simple as hug him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find where Sam has stashed that poor dead caterpillar.”
Dad’s bearded face turns up in a smile so quickly it’s gone before the next blink. He backs out of the doorway enough to allow Eden to pass through.
“If you want to turn around now, I completely understand,” I offer.
Tate glances between Dad and me, and then back at dad, before shaking his head. “Coffee, Lainey. I need coffee,” Tate whines under his breath. “Although I don’t remember your dad being so terrifying.”
“That’s because he was never home,” I whisper.
“Who are you?” Dad asks, nodding his chin in Tate’s direction. Tate shrinks a few inches, and I suppress a giggle.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say, standing on my tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “This is Tate. He used to vacation here years ago. Do you remember the Matthews’? Their cottage is on the edge of town, close to the pier.”
Dad narrows his eyes. “Ahh, yeah. How could I forget you?” he grumbles.
“Nice to see you again, Archer,” Tate says through a thick swallow. Dad nods, and Tate’s discomfort is so palpable, it’s starting to rub off on me. Finally, dad backs away from the door fully, waving us through.
“Did I do something wrong?” Tate whispers as we walk into the kitchen. His eyes land on the black coffee pot on the counter and he points to it. “Can I?” he pleads.
I reach into the cabinet above, pull out an old Widow’s Wharf High School mug, and pour him a cup. Tate holds it with both hands and drinks before letting out a little sigh, causing something to stir in the pit of my stomach again. It has to be hunger pains. That’s all.
“No,” I tell him. “That’s just Dad.” What I don’t tell Tate is that the night of our big fight, my dad found me crying into my pillow and dragged me downstairs to bake brownies and listen to Stevie Nicks on the record player with him. He may not have known how to comfort me like my mom would’ve, but he did a pretty great job in his own way.
Tate takes another sip, another sigh slipping from his lips. “This is the best coffee I’ve ever had,” he says, his eyes fluttering closed. He breathes in deeply through his nose before lifting the cup to his lips again.
“How many cups have you normally had by now?” I ask, pouring a cup of my own.
Tate glances at the clock on the wall. “At least three,” he says with a shrug.
My eyes shoot up.
“Don’t give me that look,” he says. “I get to the office at seven every morning. You'd drink coffee like a fish, too, if you had to figure out where millions of dollars went for fancy pants clients nine hours a day.”
“Tate! We heard you were back in town. How have you been?” Huck asks, walking into the kitchen. He reaches over me for his own mug then turns around to face Tate.
“Hey, Huck,” Tate says. “Long time no see! How are you?”
