Cece finds herself sinking, gloriously, into the mattress. She’s forgotten how nice it is to sleep on a Tempur-Pedic bed…and on these six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian-cotton sheets. “It’s nice to be back.”
“I’ve been thinking about attending my high school reunion,” Jonathan says, “in August. Any chance you’d join?”
Cece is somewhere else, the memory foam pillow cradling her heavy head, the central air-conditioning washing over her body in waves of snowflaked cool. Outside, the dim hum of streetlights and the occasional faraway siren. Hips loosen, and the knots in her shoulders melt. She will sleep well tonight. “Sure,” she hears herself say, “I’d love to.”
Jonathan only squeezes her hand softly, his breath going quiet and deep. In the apartment, only the drone of energy-efficient appliances. Even Bernard has settled in for the night.
In the morning, Jonathan’s possessed with the idea of visiting Rayburn Oyster Company. “I’ve never seen an oyster farm,” he says over toasted whole wheat bread and orange juice. “At least show me where you guys are planning to expand. I wanna see the site.”
Cece can’t tell if his interest is earnest or manufactured, but she realizes it doesn’t matter. He’s trying—that’s what matters. “When would you like to go?”
“How about this morning? I’ve got nothing. We can take your car up and I’ll catch the train back.”
The idea makes so much sense Cece has trouble finding an answer other than yes. It’s Sunday, so Santiago and Davi won’t be in Noank, which is perfect. It’s not that she’s embarrassed for them to meet Jonathan; she just wouldn’t know how to introduce him. Ex-fiancé now friend / potential fiancé again? Either way, they would give her shit.
It’s midday whenthey get to the docks in Noank. The Sunday crowd is already out on the water, leaving dozens of empty slips, squares of placid water reflecting the clouds above. Before taking Jonathan down to the water, Cece shows him the warehouse where all their equipment is stored. She can’t help brimming with pride as she points to the towering stacks of oyster cages she’s cleaned, the meticulously organized buoys, and the enormous floor-to-ceiling pegboard wall she reorganized to hold all their shop tools. A musty aroma—dried seawater and motor oil—lingers in the stale air.
“You had to have seen the place before to appreciate the neatness,” Cece says after she sees the bewildered expression on Jonathan’s face. Of course, what she might see as a well-organized symbol of all she’s accomplished this summer, Jonathan might just see a dank room filled with things.
Not to be deterred, Cece shows him the oyster-sorting equipment next and explains how the process works. Jonathan lets out a low whistle and runs his hand along the grader. Cece explains how they move the bags from the boat to here, where they gothrough the process of tumbling, sorting, and washing. Encouraged by his enthusiasm, she points out what makes this unit special: the adjustable spray bar, the self-aligning conveyor belt, and the sliding chute doors. Cece almost starts regaling Jonathan with the story of her heroic repair job but stops herself, worried he’ll find it boring.
“Looks like a serious operation,” he says. “I wonder what the overhead costs are on this whole setup.”
They make their way down to the water, and while they don’t have time to go out on the boat, Cece hands Jonathan a set of binoculars and points to a spot in the near distance where oyster bags float like thousands of mermaid purses on the calm blue-green water. She tells him how the oysters are first spawned and fertilized at their hatchery, then moved to one of their outdoor nurseries in the surrounding bays and coves. Once they’ve matured, that’s when they bring them out to open water for their final growth phase where she and Santiago clear seaweed off the bags and flip them when necessary.
“This is even more involved than I was imagining, Cece,” Jonathan says, binoculars still pressed to his eye sockets.
“Let me guess,” Cece says, something close to satisfaction swelling in her throat. “You thought it was some little rinky-dink outfit.”
Visibly flustered, Jonathan protests. “I didn’t have anything to go on. I mean, you didn’t tell me it was so big. You…”
“Relax. I’m just giving you a hard time. Wanna see the cove where Richie wants to expand?”
“I’d love that,” Jonathan says.
They drive backto the pool house and down toward the water, past the boatyard, to a dead end where a worn trail leads through rebellious forsythia bushes. Cece is aware of taking a specific route so as to avoid Morgan’s house—a fact she only half recognizes as they drive. If Lorraine hadn’t shown Cece how to access the cove on foot, she might never have known about this path—a favorite of local nature enthusiasts and hikers.
Through the trees, glimpses of cedar-shake waterfront homes and still water. The trail is meticulously maintained, the underbrush conveniently cut back to combat the ticks. Darkness gathers, and then they’re free of the tree line, low marshland ahead, and then the cove, a lush blue-gray paint spill, surrounded by low-lying grasses, towering oaks, and the occasional home, placed a polite distance from its neighbor. Cece can see Lorraine’s point; she understands how Richie’s oyster bags might disturb the natural beauty of this place, but soon enough they’ll feel like they’ve always been here, like these sun-faded homes. And in truth, Cece wonders just how many times a year the residents of these houses look out and admire the pristine beauty before them.
To Cece’s surprise, Jonathan has all sorts of questions about the intended expansion. They walk to the water’s edge, or at least to where the grass turns to marsh, the ground wet and squishy. Jonathan wants to know where the bags will be situated and how many. He wants to know how the oysters will be transferred once they get large enough. Questions about output, logistics, margins, and profits flow from him like he’s a seed investor of a promising startup. While Cece does her best to answer all hisquestions, he slips an arm around her waist as they look out over the water. There’s an unencumbered giddiness to him, and Cece finds herself letting go and easing against the crook of his arm, while she details Richie’s vision for the company and its expansion.
Jonathan turns to look at Cece and puts his hands on her shoulders. “I want to invest.”
Cece can only laugh. The words don’t make sense. “This isn’t the stock market, Jonathan.”
“It’s investing all the same, and if Rayburn is expanding, you’ll need an infusion of capital. There are all sorts of costs to consider: permitting, more equipment, more boats, more employees.”
The idea is so ridiculously audacious Cece is dumbstruck. It seems silly, paranoid even, in hindsight, to have thought Jonathan would have reservations about her new job. Sure, working on an oyster farm is a stark change from her old actuary job, but she should never have doubted his support. Isn’t this what Cece’s been waiting for? His encouragement and devotion? And if it is, Cece thinks, then why does something nag at her, like a run in her stocking, threatening to split wide open? Why is she resisting? What is she afraid of?
“I don’t even know if the farm is profitable,” Cece says, unsure of what she’s trying to protect.
“Then we’ll make it profitable,” Jonathan says excitedly. “I see how happy you are here, Cece, and if you’re this passionate about the business, then I want to be a part of it. And once the project gets approved, you and Richie will need all the help you can get. Who knows—maybe we buy Richie out eventually and run it ourselves? You could take care of the aquaculture stuff,and I’ll handle the money side. Maybe we settle down around here. There’s no reason I can’t work from home, and it’s closer to my parents.”
Is it Jonathan’s spontaneity or his obsession with turning Rayburn into another asset Cece finds disconcerting? “You’d really do all that?”
“Is this the thing you were born to do? Is this the thing that makes you feel most alive?”
Cece looks out at the serene water, Jonathan’s body warm against her. “It’s the closest.”
