Cece can only look at him, unable to find a reasonable reason to say no.
“I’m taking the silence as a yes.”
“Sure,” Cece says.
“Meet me down here on Saturday. Let’s say sunrise,” Morgan says, before turning to the approaching men. “Busted engine from Richie. And Mickey, let’s try not to fuck this one up more than it already is.”
It’s strange to hear him giving orders, his language rough, his tone stilted and ill-tempered. The man Cece presumes to beMickey scowls at Morgan from under a mop of brown hair. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“Next you’re gonna tell me the drive clamp screws stripped themselves.”
“I already told you that was Wesley.”
“Okay, Einstein. Don’t forget. Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”
Morgan already seems to have forgotten about Cece while he helps the men carry the engine. After muscling the tailgate shut, Cece gets in and watches him in the rearview mirror. After dropping off the engine, he stalks through the yard with purpose, arms swinging ever so slightly against his boxy frame, checking the undersides of boats, rubbing his hand along the bottoms. He climbs ladders into raised motorboats, walking the length of the spacious decks and inspecting whatever work’s been done. Back on solid ground, he makes a phone call to the owner, Cece presumes, and starts gesturing to the water and then to the enormous crane above. Another worker comes out and offers a smoke. Morgan hangs up and the men stand there surveying the yard, arms crossed over their chests, sun beating down on their shoulders. Cece wonders what they’re talking about in that strange language that men use with each other. Before Morgan notices her lingering, Cece starts up the truck and heads back to Noank, hoping Santiago will be impressed she didn’t crash.
Lorraine hovers overthe stove stirring red sauce with a comically long wooden spoon, the fragrance of fire-roasted tomatoes and sautéed garlic filling the air. Cece had been wary ofgetting too close to Lorraine when she’d first moved into the cottage. An old, eccentric ex-hippie landlord hadn’t exactly been Cece’s idea of a friend. Plus, she wasn’t intending on staying very long. But apparently, all it takes to sway Cece from her convictions is a decent home-cooked meal and an invitation. There’s also the prospect that Cece is simply lonely, but she doesn’t allow this thought to linger.
While Lorraine shuffles around the island, Cece peruses the sitting room. The coffee table is littered with old newspapers and magazines, mostlyNational GeographicandFine Gardening, a strayNew Yorker, by the looks of it. It’s not exactly the house of a hoarder, but it’s close. On the walls, faded posters for Woodstock ’69, Earth Day, and the Altamont. A giant flag hangs over the sofa:SAY NO TO NUCLEAR POWER.
“I’ve been meaning to get those framed,” Lorraine says, appearing at her side, spoon held out to Cece, “just haven’t gotten around to it. Taste.”
“Perfect.”
“Not too spicy?”
“Bring on the heat.”
“I lived in Calabria for a while after college. Let me tell you. Once you taste food like that, you can’t go back. Everything’s gotta have spice.”
“What were you doing over there?”
“My former botany professor. She was working at the local university. She hired me as a research assistant. But mostly, I just remember drinking some incredible wine and eating the best meats and cheeses I’ve ever had in my life.”
The only times Cece’s left the country were with Jonathan.She’d never considered studying abroad. It hadn’t seemed financially feasible. As for traveling after graduation, taking three months off to backpack Europe or Southeast Asia didn’t exactly seem like the most responsible thing to do. Gainful employment was her highest priority. What good was her degree if she couldn’t make money and pay off her loans? Now Cece wonders if she’d made a mistake. If she’d traveled more, gained worldly insights, would she be stuck in her current predicament? Or might she have found the courage to strike out on her own? Compared to Lorraine’s, her life feels quiet and small. The thought depresses Cece. Isn’t she too young for such regrets?
“These posters are great,” she says, hoping to change the subject. “Very vintage.”
“When you’re old, everything you own is vintage,” Lorraine says, and drops a handful of salt in a pot of water. “That last one…the Altamont. Hells Angels were doing security. Beat my best friend into a coma…Animals. You don’t ride motorcycles, do you?”
Before Cece can answer, her pocket vibrates. “I gotta take this.”
Lorraine shoos her out the French doors onto the deck. “Dinner’s being served in fifteen minutes, with or without you.”
Outside, the pool looks almost inviting, framed by a wrought-iron fence and flower beds sporting vertiginous Russian sage and floppy catmint. Cece loves these long summer evenings, when the night deepens, the sun clinging to the horizon. They make her feel like she still has time, like her life’s not rushing by. She thinks about sending the call to voicemail, but that’ll only make things worse. Cece wonders how much Wynonna’s told Mom.No doubt they’ve been strategizing about how to get Cece back on her feet or, more precisely, back with Jonathan.
“Hi, Mom,” Cece says, trying to sound aloof.
“How’s the job search coming?”
From the steady whooshing on the other end of the line, Cece assumes her mother is driving home from work. Manhattan to the suburbs—a commute she would wish on no one. Her parents still call Tappan home, a hamlet lodged in the southern tip of New York, where Cece and her sister grew up. Even though it meant an hour-plus commute for her father to his job in Newark, higher taxes, and a mild strain on their finances, Cece’s mother had insisted on living in the Empire State (a harbinger of Kim’s expensive taste and general desire to always have what she couldn’t quite afford). Money was plentiful back then, or at least Cece couldn’t remember any fights about the lack of it. Business was booming for Barry’s print advertising business with clients like Exxon, Nabisco, and Seagram’s. The company had recently secured a major deal withBon Appétit, and there was talk of moving headquarters to Manhattan.
“It’s practically the same town,” Barry said, pouring coffee into his travel mug. “We move a few streets over and save ten grand on taxes. Even the schools are better. So what if it’s New Jersey?”
“It’s a matter of principle, Barry,” Cece remembered her mother saying while she smeared cream cheese on just-toasted sesame bagels.
“Careful now. You’re starting to sound like a snob.”
