Somewhere behind me, I heard music and voices, but then they faded out. I walked in that direction. Past a few houses, I found another street. To my left, I saw a square building with a sloping roof and a wooden sign over the door lit by a bare bulb. It read, simply, EMMA’S PLACE. RESTAURANT.
Inside, I smelled fried fish, and my mouth watered in response. It wasn’t a big place, but it was homey. It looked old and musty, untouched for decades. The walls were covered in black-and-white photos, little paintings of ships, and fishing tackle hung up wherever. Decor was clearly not their strong suit.
The people at the tables were talking over music coming from a classic jukebox, and there was a woman behind the bar. She was drying glasses with a rag. I hoped she would notice my presence, but when she didn’t, I said, “Hey, excuse me.”
She was around my age, maybe a little older or a little younger. Looking not particularly friendly, she responded, “Yes?”
“Could you tell me how to get to Old Bay from here?”
“This isn’t a tourist office. We’ve got food, and we’ve got drinks. Order something or hit the road.”
I couldn’t believe it. I guess hospitality wasn’t the islanders’ strength. I tried to make some witty reply to put her in her place. Something that would piss her off even worse, if that was possible. But nothing occurred to me, and in frustration, I asked, “If I order something, will you tell me how to get there?”
She shrugged and leaned her hands on the bar. I pushed my hair out of my face and smiled tensely.
“A vanilla latte, please.”
“Jesus!” She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a Starbucks!” she snapped. “We got coffee, coffee with milk, and raw sugar if you’re really feeling frisky.”
Where in the hell was I? I started to get up and tell her to gopiss up a rope, but before I could open my mouth, a guy appeared beside her carrying two plates of food and dropped them off at the bar. He was wearing a ball cap with a few coppery curls poking out from under it. He looked me up and down and then glanced at the bartender.
“Carlie, take this to table six.”
Her eyes were murderous, but she picked up the dishes and did as he said.
I couldn’t help but be amused to watch her walk off, cranky and grumbling.
“Your employees here could use some customer-service training. She’s terrifying.”
He smiled. “She’s not my employee, she’s my sister.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No worries. She’s pissed off because she’s being punished. Don’t pay her any mind.”
I settled down on my barstool, more relaxed now. I wondered how old the guy was, but he had one of those eternally young faces that made it hard to tell, plus a beard.
“So you punished her because she’s so charming, or…?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Carlie’s going through a tough time and my parents decided it would be good for her to spend some time with me. They live in Dartmouth.”
“You mean Dartmouth in Nova Scotia?”
“Yeah.”
“What brings you here, then?” I asked with surprise.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
I looked down, wondering if I’d offended him, and my ears suddenly felt hot. I’m not usually nosy. I was just curious, and I didn’t think such an innocent question would bother him, even if we had just met. I mean, I didn’t want to be rude; it was just weird that a guyfrom the city would wind up behind the bar on an island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. According to the sign I’d seen next to the church, Petit Prince had six hundred twenty-three inhabitants. And to judge from the customers at the table, the average age must have been around fifty. If you rounded down.
“Someone loaned me a house on the island, and I’ve come for a couple of days. For vacation, you know.”
“Just you?” He sounded a little skeptical.
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“We get tourists here, but they’re usually groups or families. Rarely just one person on their own.”
