He gave the word
lobster
a broad New England twist that made her smile.
I can't
claim they're up to Coco's standards, but there's plenty of local color.
We'll see.
Uh-uh. Parental cop-out.
She sighed, shrugged.
All right. Kevin would enjoy it.
Good.
He handed her glasses back before he rose to heft another board.
Tonight, then.
Tonight?
Why wait? You can call Suzanna, tell her we'll drop the kids off at her house on the way.
I suppose I could.
Now that his back was to her, she had no choice but to watch the ripple of muscles play as he set the board. She ignored the quick tug at her midsection, and reminded herself that her son would be along as chaperon.
I've
never had a lobster roll.
Then you're in for a treat.
He was absolutely right. The long, winding drive in the spectacular T-Bird was joy enough. The little villages they passed through were as scenic as any postcard. The sun dipped down toward the horizon in the west, and the breeze in the open car smelled of fish, then flowers, then sea.
The restaurant was hardly more than a diner, a square of faded gray wood set on stilts in the water, across a rickety gangplank. The interior decoration ran to torn fishnets and battered lobster buoys.
Scarred tables dotted the equally scarred floor. The booths were designed to rip the hell out of panty hose. A dubious effort at romantic atmosphere was added by the painted tuna can and hurricane globe set in the center of each table. The candles globbed in the base of the cans were unlit. Today's menu was scrawled on a chalkboard hanging beside the open kitchen.
We got lobster rolls, lobster salad and lobster lobster, a waitress explained to an
obviously frazzled family of four.
We got beer, we got milk, i.e. tea and soft drinks. There's French fries and coleslaw, and no ice cream 'cause the machine's not working. What'll you have?
When she spotted Nathaniel, she abandoned her customers and gave him a hard punch in the chest.
Where you been, Captain?
Oh, out and about, Jule. Got me a taste for lobster roll.
You came to the right place.
The waitress, scarecrow-thin with a puff of steel gray hair, eyed Megan craftily.
So, who's this?
Megan O'Riley, her son Kevin. This is Julie Peterson. The best lobster cook on Mount Desert Island.
The new accountant from The Towers.
Julie gave a brisk nod.
Well, sit down, sit
down. I'll fix you up when I get a minute.
She swiveled back to her other
customers.
You make up your mind yet, or are you just going to sit and take the air?
The food's better than the service.
Nathaniel winked at Kevin as he led them to a booth.
You've just met one of the monuments of the island, Kevin. Mrs. Peterson's family has been trapping lobster and cooking them up for over a hundred years.
Wow.
He eyed the waitress, who, to almost-nine-year-old eyes, seemed old enough to have been handling that job personally for at least a century.
I worked here some when I was a kid. Swabbing the decks.
And she'd been kind
to him, Nathaniel remembered. Giving him i.e. or salve for his bruises, saying nothing.
I thought you worked with Holt's family Megan began, then cursed herself when
he lifted a brow at her.