“Not exactly, but I found out.”
“I bet he doesn’t even remember me.”
Cece doesn’t have to say anything. She can’t lie.
Morgan laughs a bitter laugh and picks at the steering wheel with a jagged thumbnail. “That tracks.”
“I didn’t know,” Cece says. “I had no idea he…If I had…”
“What? Dumped him on moral grounds? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Okay. I deserved that.”
Morgan shakes his head and readjusts his baseball cap. “I get it; I was just your summer fling, your hall pass before you went back to Jonathan and your comfortable life. I thought I could do it, okay? I knew those were the terms, and I had no right, but I started wanting something more, something real.”
“But it was more, it is more.”
“Who are you kidding, Cece? Your little speech up there about the community? About being a New Londoner? How long have you lived here? Three months? Not even. You’re no local. This is just your working-class cosplay phase, and I played a part, and sure, I was happy to; I’m not saying I’m blameless. But you took it further than you needed to. It could have just been that one night, but you wanted more, but then you didn’t…You chipped away at me.”
The truck starts with a sputtering grumble, the air thick with exhaust.
“I left him,” Cece shouts over the noise. “We broke up.”
Morgan shifts the truck into reverse and checks the rearview mirror and says, “What do you want, a medal?” And then he’s gone, the roaring engine sending waves through Cece, like she’s a buoy at sea, rising and falling to the whim of the waves.
18
Forty-eight hours later, Richie and Cece are dining at an upscale spot called the Oyster Club in Mystic’s historic district. There is cause for celebration. The expansion has been approved by the zoning commission, and even the threat of legal action from Lorraine isn’t enough to dampen Richie’s spirits. He’s still riding high after the assault charges were dropped. He’s convinced she won’t follow through with it, so for now, they drink to victory.
Late-summer tourists mingle around their two-top, jostling for a position at the bar and sliding into booths, voices booming upward to the white coffered ceiling. With his Teva sandals and black jean shorts, Richie cuts a striking figure against the sea of khaki, linen button-downs, and pastel dresses.
“This really wasn’t necessary,” Cece shouts over the din.
“Are you kidding? You sold them, Cece. It was all you,” Richie says. “Plus, we’re this restaurant’s oyster supplier. Everything’s comped tonight. And the owner also owes me big-time. Hecrashed into my truck last summer after too many martinis. I didn’t call the cops.”
Magically, a bottle of white, along with bread and warm butter, appears, but Richie insists they touch none of it. Not until the oysters have arrived, which they promptly do, a dozen gleaming bivalves on a bed of ice and seaweed. The waiter expertly navigates the already-frosting tray onto a metal stand. It reminds Cece of pizza places she’d go to as a kid, where the whole family would split a pie, elevated above paper plates and red plastic cups of soda. Embarrassingly, Cece knows nothing about eating oysters, a fact Richie is intent on remedying.
“First,” Richie says, his finger lingering over an oyster, “we’re smelling. They should smell like an ocean breeze. Second, we’re checking for plumpness or meatiness. Third, we’re looking for them to have a glossiness to them, a sheen, like they’re swimming in a liquor of sorts. Check all those boxes, you’ve got a good one. You can tell these are ours because of the green shell, see?”
Cece studies the half shells, glistening under the lights. She thinks about the whine of the winch and the rush of water through the cage. She thinks about Santiago, eyes inscrutable behind his sunglasses, a cigarette dangling on his smiling lips. Pride wells up in her chest, and she hopes Richie can’t tell how hard she’s trying not to cry. Everything’s making Cece cry these days, even the good stuff. She’d spent the night in the same motel watching bad television and raiding the vending machine. Luckily, the minibar had never been refilled, so there was no risk of drunkenly texting Morgan and making a fool of herself. He’dbeen clear as day. He didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. Cece doesn’t blame him. She’d foisted friendship on him, knowing, deep down, there was something more there. She’d used him to make sense of her own screwed-up relationship with Jonathan. She’d betrayed his kindness and his patience, and for that she is truly sorry.
“Finally,” Richie says, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, “the last thing we’re looking for has less to do with our oyster and more about the guy or gal shuckin’ them. See, you want to keep the oyster intact, and you want to keep as much of its juices in the shell. The last thing someone wants to eat is a cut-up oyster. This one’s perfect; it looks like someone just opened it with a key. And of course, a good shucker never breaks off parts of the outer edge. There’s nothing worse than picking bits of shell out of your mouth while you’re trying to enjoy a taste of the ocean!”
“When do we eat them?”
Richie gives his nod of approval. Wine is poured. The first few oysters are eaten without any fixings: mignonette, cocktail sauce, horseradish, or even lemon. To Cece’s surprise, she finds herself tasting all the things he’d told her to pay attention to. They’re refreshing and clean, a metallic tang lingering on her tongue. Once they’ve eaten a few without accoutrements, Richie relaxes his rules. The owner, a tall, handsome guy with black hair, comes by the table and introduces himself, but the name is lost in the chatter of the dinner rush. He thanks Richie for his impeccable product and melts into the muted light of the foyer, no doubt embarrassed about the aforementioned martini-induced car accident.
They order another dozen oysters, some local sourdough, mussels, and corn bread. Richie checks the wine, pulling it from the chilling bucket, but doesn’t order more, which Cece finds slightly disappointing. She was hoping for a license to get a little more than tipsy this evening. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Richie says, fingering his oyster-shell necklace. “I’d like you to do more around here. Give you more responsibilities.”
“I’d make a terrible secretary,” Cece says. “I promise you.”
“I’m talking about making you the supervisor for Mamacoke.”
All Cece can do is laugh. “What are you saying?”
“I’ll need another set of eyes on that operation.”
“What about Santiago?”
