When the Gods Intervene

Summer 2017

This day is like every day. He awakens before dawn. Dawn is a curious thing. One might be thinking 6 or even 5:30 AM, but on this little piece of America that lies southwest of Nova Scotia, even in mid-May means 4:30. Regardless of when he gets to sleep, if he even gets to sleep, the sun begins to assault his dreams. His job is all about late nights. He would love to sleep in, but the sheer curtains on the window of his little hole-in-the-wall conspire with Ra to make sleep a fleeting memory. He used to fight it. Now he embraces the dawn, albeit, sometimes, reluctantly. He has his own studio apartment with Spartan furnishings and considers himself lucky. This time of year, a place like his can fetch $2000/week. In contrast, the seasonal help are two to a room and a shared hall bath.

The night before he had mindlessly stripped off his livery and took a rinse to rid himself of the smoke, oil, and sweat. He awakens naked, throws a brush through his hair, a quick Listerine rinse, then dons yesterday’s shorts and tee-shirt, thrown over an old tandem greedily consuming most of one wall. He grabs his prehistoric Trek single and jumps on the bike path. He has done the eight-mile ride in as little as 25 minutes, which is about what it takes in a car. Cars and petrol are a luxury he can ill afford. If he rides hard, he can get to The Wauwinet by 5:30 AM. Robert will usually have some bluefish from yesterday’s catch prepared beurre blanc. It is a favorite breakfast item for Topper’s guests in the know. Smart ones always ask. He helps Robert with mise en place and the occasional clean up from the night before. It all comes easy to him and the company and the pesce is a fair exchange. He had learned early on that every opportunity to network is valuable. And, of course, there is the chance for respite. He and Robert knew each other at Hyde Park and while mere acquaintances there, on this little whaler’s rock they have become fast friends.

Breakfast for the bankers, lawyers, and idle rich starts at 8:30, so he must be gone by 7. Management will start to straggle in and his presence, while not offensive in some personal sense, might just be an irritation. Robert doesn’t need it, he doesn’t need it, and frankly, who knows when he might be sitting across the interviewing desk. Such is the nature of the hospitality industry. He and Robert are 21st century nomads – gypsies practicing their culinary black magic.

Back on the Trek for the seven-mile ride to ‘Sconset, the eastern leg of his triangular journey. There is no place in the gazetteer called ‘Sconset and there is no one on the island who has ever called it Siasconset. The fastest way to distinguish yourself (in the most undistinguished fashion) is to ask for directions to Siasconset. In the first place, the island has all of seven well-marked roads, so if one can’t find his way from here to there, he should jump back on the ferry and rent a place on the Cape. Second, no one who knows where ‘Sconset is will admit to understanding the question. If a southeasterly is starting early to rid the tourists of the ubiquitous fog, then the ride can take 45 minutes. If not, it can be cycled in thirty. Dismounted, he is walking by the neat cottages that belie their utilitarian beginnings. Now, the haunts of the privileged, ‘Sconset’s cottages were once just fishing shacks. Each now has grown through hodge-podge additions and is adorned with aromatic roses. The grey shingles are the perfect canvas for the bright yellow, red, and orange flowers in full bloom. As he makes his way down the stairs to the beach below, he takes notice of the rapidly eroding cliffs, continuously buffeted by the eastern wind and waves. He sees the newer homes, cottages on steroids, out of place and character. A billionaire’s greed can often know no bounds. Not merely content to steal a piece of real estate by exploiting the labor of exactly those from whom the magnate would also steal the view and the beach. One more public good privatized in the name of property rights. But, nature is the great equalizer. She is a Marxian force that redistributes wealth by slowly and painfully undercutting the foundations of the mini-mansions built as close to the ocean as possible. She repossesses that which was always hers and returns the earth to the sea.

When he first came to the island, he started as sous chef at ‘Sconset’s premier eatery, The Chanticleer. Working under Jeff, he honed skills learned at CIA into practical craft. The most valuable lessons were learning ingredients and the freshness and quality of those ingredients. A diver scallop had better smell sweet. Any fishiness and it is rejected. The arborio for the pecorino risotto must always be prepared with the slightest of bite. The cucumber for the ahi tartare required picking this morning. Knife skills are important, but great restaurants are made from ingredients and no compromise. He liked The Chanticleer and Jeff, but he hated the 45 minute late-night ride back to the village. There were no accommodations for some underpaid sous in ‘Sconset.

Today is a calm day and he makes his way down to the shoreline. There are a few early risers – the sportsman with line in water, the young mom on her compulsory jog before the “family vacation” madness starts another day, the well-heeled retirees who like him are up with the sunrise. Otherwise, all is quiet and solitary. He sits down at water’s edge and like he has done almost every day since she left, he stares across the vast ocean. At 41 degrees latitude, he calculates that his complement on the eastern side is Pousada de Viana do Castelo, a historic hotel overlooking the Limia River and this same Atlantic. He imagines himself on the veranda with a glass of Alvarinho. He wishes he could just start swimming and be there in time to wash down grilled oysters for lunch. Add a little cayenne combined with the Alvarinho’s apple and pear nuances and the experience will be remarkable. As he stares at the surf and the rhythmic motion and thinks of her, he wonders if the waves are a metaphor. The water creeps up close to his toes, sometimes caressing them and then retreats just as quickly. It seems to impeccably describe their relationship since New Bedford. As he stares, he sees her visage in the water, the faintest of apparitions, but there, nonetheless.

She

Born in Fall River, Massachusetts in 1996, her father’s family had come from Germany before the Great War and had settled in Topsfield. When Fall River’s north end enjoyed a construction boom in the early 1980’s, her father brought his vo-tech carpentry skills south. His plan was simple. Work for two years and get some experience. He would save his money and go back to Topsfield and marry the daughter of his Lutheran church’s pastor. She had been his high school girlfriend and they had known each other practically from birth. Fall River had a very different plan for him. Two years turned into five and he kept the Topsfield courtship in play with bi-weekly visits. His “betrothed” waited patiently secure in the belief that her beau was setting the foundation for their future. One day, he had picked the “short straw” requiring a drive to the Brutalist-styled City Hall to get a building permit. This was a job detested by all, except on the coldest of Fall River days. On this day, he spied a new clerk. She was an exotic creature whose family had come from the Azores to New Bedford 150 years earlier. When the whaling industry faltered, the Fall River textile mills provided the employment that kept the family in food and clothing. Her Portuguese community was a tight one and St. Anthony’s of Padua was the center of their lives. Every marital match was to be found at St. Anthony’s. As a result, her family tree included every prominent Portuguese name from the Southeast coast and a few infamous ones. She had been runner-up in the Miss Massachusetts pageant representing Fall River. She was that extraordinary and that talented. For a young Protestant Aryan from Topsfield, she was every forbidden temptation imaginable wrapped up in a single delicious package. Like so many men who sweat confidence, he was a quivering little boy on the inside. Not particularly shy, however he had no experience approaching women, romantically, and this woman was far out of his league. A few stutters later, he walked out with his permit and went back to the site. Much to the delight of his fellow workers, he volunteered to pick up every building permit. From that day, she owned most of his waking thoughts. Before that day, he felt just a visitor to Fall River: passing through. Suddenly, he wanted to know more about the city, its history, why so many Portuguese had chosen to settle there. For the reader who knows nothing of Fall River or New Bedford and the amazing beauty of too many of its women, think Rio de Janeiro with a few less string bikinis. Finally, after five visits to City Hall, he mustered the courage to ask her if she would like to grab a coffee after work. He was handsome enough, certainly well-built and tanned as a result of his outdoor toils. She was always aware of the male stare but men rarely approached her. His advances were a welcome change. Coffee led to dates. Her family never embraced the idea, but he was polite and respectful, and eventually after a lengthy courtship, punctuated by more than a few family squabbles, they were married. Like the closing scene from A Big Fat Greek Wedding, they settled comfortably in a small Victorian on Horton Street in the Flint Village neighborhood three doors down from her parents.

When our protagonist was born in 1996, she was the fourth and last of four girls. It was a great family life, abundant with siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. You could not throw a stone from her front yard without hitting one of her relatives. And then, there was the extended “family” of neighbors all of whom had lived on Horton for several generations. There were plenty of rules and adults to enforce them, but even more love. It was a normal upbringing if it had been 1950, but it felt strangely anachronistic at the beginning of the 21st century where the Internet and cable brought all the world onto an iPad sitting on a teenage girl’s lap. All this mattered not. She obeyed the edicts and became an exemplary student graduating from B.M.C. Durfee High School first in her class of over 500. She was an accomplished pianist and cellist. She had mastered the 3,000 meters and lettered in track and field. She worked weekends and summers at a little restaurant that her Mom’s brother owned. The menu was simple, home-style dishes that grandma would have made: caldo verde, a traditional soup that is a staple in every home; bacalhau a bras – shredded salt cod with potatoes, onions, and eggs, just one of the 365 ways to prepare salt cod; always, a daily stew special; and for dessert, fofas da povoação, the Azorean take on eclairs. The prices were very reasonable, especially after applying the St. Anthony’s discount available to every parishioner, no loyalty card required. What brought patrons back was the quality of the food and the camaraderie. It was more club than restaurant.

She was her mother’s daughter. She could not walk in the room without eliciting silence followed by stares and the occasional old man leer. For all her adherence to guidelines, her single departure from orthodoxy was her hair. It started somewhere, traveling for what seemed like miles in every direction, and ended somewhere, but the observer was so entranced by the journey, he would not be able to tell where it began, where it went, or how it got to its destination – the stuff of real fantasy. Her Mom had chosen to tame her own hair long before her pageant days as a necessary concession to convention. Otherwise, they were bookends each with slender hips that did not distract from her beautiful and ample bosom. Mom had taught daughter the lessons from her beauty pageant days of dressing the part and neither allowed lack of funds to squelch their desire for glamour. What couldn’t be found perfect on the discount rack could be made perfect with a little arts and crafts. One of them was an amazing package. The two, together, left men tongue-tied, grabbing for a beer or vinho verde rosé.

Her single frivolous activity was using a bit of her tip money, jumping in her dad’s old pickup, and taking the 25-minute ride south on MA88 to Horseneck Beach State Reservation. Located at the western end of Buzzard’s Bay, she could explore the beaches and revel in the freedom of the so many birds. The wind blowing off the bay not only brought cool relief from the summer heat, but also the sweet sea smells of places far away and mysterious. For her, this place felt comfortably natural. It was $13 well spent.

She had little interest or need for the boys at Durfee, and she recognized, all too well, their singleness of purpose. She had been on only the fewest of dates, but went to the prom where to no one’s surprise (and the annoyance of more than a few teenage shrews) she was voted the queen. By April of her senior year, she had received acceptance letters from Princeton, Georgetown, Virginia, Dartmouth, and Brown. Her father told her she could go to any school she wanted with two conditions: he would give her the old F150 which she would use to drive home every other weekend, and she could only be a half-hour away. Brown was 21 minutes up the I195 and so Brown it was. Such are the choices that fathers offer to their youngest daughters.

At university, she kept with what had worked, lots of studying and few romantic entanglements. Her dating methodology was consistent with her 1950’s-style upbringing - group dates. In her freshman year, one Adonis, split her from the pack, plied her with a couple of beers coincident to her peaking curiosity about sex (timing is everything). Her assessment of the experience: over too quickly, he really seemed to enjoy himself, a bit uncomfortable, and generally disappointing. He never called again, for which she was relieved. At least the whole virginity thing was behind her and she could focus on the task at hand, excelling. Fall River girls commuting every other weekend no matter how gorgeous are much less interesting than Buffy, Heather, or Jennifer. Country clubs, sailboats, and Ferraris can be very seductive; Ford F150’s with 150K miles much less so. She upgraded to coming home every weekend and waitressing at her uncle’s restaurant. At the end of her junior year, she had the details of her life well under control. She was majoring in Computer Science and minoring in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies. The previous summer she had done an internship at IBM’s Southbury facility and had her eye on Silicon Valley after graduation. This was her last summer and she wanted to do something mindless, fun, and close to the ocean. She got on the web and typed in “hotels Nantucket”. She sent off résumés to the ones that looked most intriguing. And this led her to him.

Steve

Steve was the Director of Personnel for The Nantucketer, a resort hotel that dated back to the 19th century but that had been completely restored and renovated. Along with The Wauwinet, it was the “in” spot for people with too much money and not enough places to spend it. His job was a thankless one. He was head cat herder. Though the “high season” correlated nicely with summer college breaks, he had given up on American college students. They were fickle, lazy, had zero concept of service, but mostly they were easily distracted by any opportunity for merry-making. Nevertheless, one résumé intrigued him. She was a 4.0 QPA computer science major from Brown who spoke fluent Portuguese, not a particularly useful skill at the Nantucketer. She had worked in restaurants as a teenager and college student. Granted, salt cod is not lobster poached in butter, nevertheless, people are people and if she has served people for a half dozen years, successfully, she deserved consideration. Thoughtfully, she had included a headshot of herself. “Why would a brilliant Ivy League super model want to schlep food to a bunch of stuck-up New York and Boston plutocrats?” His rational self told him that she would be like all the other undergrads, not worth the trouble. Headshot fixated, he ignored that skeptic and offered her a job on the wait staff. And so it was that she took her place next to a couple of dozen other young women, H-2B visas in hand, with names like Anya, Olga, and Natasha.

The executive chef was in his second year at the hotel and Steve really liked his choice. He was young for such a responsible position, but he was an alumnus of the Ivy League of cooking schools, was experienced and talented, did not drink on the job, proved reliable, and had a good reputation on the island for being a “stand-up” guy.

She and He

What he noticed about her first was not how smart she was nor how “hot” she was. This woman who could garner attention by just standing still, caught his on her first ticket. The customer had ordered two lemon sole entrees prepared with the most delicate of cream sauces. The silver-haired patron impressing no one, in particular, other than perhaps the trophy with whom he was dining, ordered the 1989 Chateau de Beaucastel. “It was the wine of the year in 1991”, he loudly proclaimed. He was not put off by the $595 restaurant price and certainly pleased with finding such a prize. “Twenty-seven years old and ready to drink”, he added with a wink to his companion who likewise might have been born in 1989. “This will pair just fine with the fish. I saw a book with exactly that title – Red Wine with Fish”, he expressed, declaratively, but with just the slightest hesitation as now he was talking not to his guest but to the server. The ceremonial decanting of the wine was followed by poke martini appetizers, and an appropriate time later, by the two lemon sole dishes. Our customer tastes the fish and washes it down with a swig of the stellar Châteauneuf du Pape. “This fish tastes like the frying pan. I read the Yelp reviews. This place is rated 5 stars. It won’t be tomorrow morning.” Consistent with the mantra that the customer is always right, she apologizes, picks up the two plates and takes them to the kitchen where the chef and the sous both taste. The fish was done, faultlessly, and the sauce was balanced, perfectly. There were no flaws, at least none that the likes the boor might discern. The chef goes to the dining room to offer the necessary mea culpas. Saying you are wrong when you are right with the exact amount of sincerity is a requisite skill. He sees the wine, apologizes, and with a “This Beaucastel is an excellent choice and a very special wine. Allow me to bring you each a rack of lamb on the house that will pair, impeccably. It will take me just fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I will send out a plate of our signature crispy fried brussel sprouts and a glass of White Burgundy for each of you, again, my treat. You will want to save that exquisite red for the lamb”

The rest of the night was incident-free or at least as much as can be achieved in the highly-charged environment of fine dining establishments during “high season”. With time to take a breath, he finally saw what he had completely missed up to this point. This woman, even in waitress garb, was pure seduction. As he listened to her converse, effortlessly, with her fellow workers, he became first curious and then something more. When he could, he approached her. “What do you know about wine or wine-food pairing?” Her hesitation was telling and without forcing a reply, he offered: “Come in an hour early each workday and I will teach you everything you need to know.” Fear of rejection might make it terrifying to ask a girl like her for a date, but it is not hard to finagle a way to spend an hour with her for “work”. Perhaps, that is why office romances are so plentiful.

Their first vinifera tutoring session was all about Southern Rhone wines, their high concentration of iron extracted from the terroir, and how they almost never interact well with seafood or fish. Her primary takeaway was that pairing food and wine is all chemistry. Therefore, it could be mastered by research and studying, her forté. His takeaway was that her chemistry was intoxicating. Each day for the next week, they would tackle a new varietal or region or pairing. They traveled the world together one hour at a time. On days off and work days after breakfast she immersed herself in all things wine and food. At the end of the first week, he suggested that they add a “lab” session for an hour after work. Studying wine out of a book without tasting is a lot like a virgin reading the Kama Sutra and declaring himself an expert on sex. Soon “lab” sessions lasted longer and longer and he was walking her back past his studio to the employees’ dorm well after midnight. One particular evening, a nor’easter brought a storm off the Atlantic that forced refuge in his apartment. It rained all night and most of the next day. They did not leave his bed all night and most of the next day. She wondered aloud why Willamette Valley Pinot Noir tastes so good after sex, a pairing for which he had no response. From that day forward, “labs” were conducted at the studio. Occasionally, the subject was wine.

The big winner in all of this was Mariana, a mouthful of pepper from Romania who had been lucky enough to draw Miss Fall River, Jr. as her roommate. Her double room was now a single and she decided to set up a side business much more lucrative than waitressing. And thus, a micro-brothel was opened on the harbor, reminiscent of the whaling days of old: nice piece of nostalgia with sailors replaced by the bored and indulged.

Our chef arranges work schedules so that their days off were the same and they used those days to explore the island – its cranberry bogs, whaling museums, and beaches. He procured the simplest of a used single gear tandem and they would ride to Polpis and imagine how it would feel to be an heir to the Proctor and Gamble fortune and use every dollar of influence to build a monstrosity on the bay. For a more gentrified experience they rode Cliff and Hulbert to see how WASP’s pass their time. No way were those tycoons and “movers-and-shakers” happier than he or as carefree as she. But for all their sightseeing, her go-to place was the beach at the end of South Shore Road. That was the ocean she knew and the wind that blew just right. There was a singular seal whose head would bob up from the waves. When they walked the beach, the seal was like a sleek hunting dog who heeled at their side, though fifty feet away. South Shore was home. He would drag her out to ‘Sconset, but it never quite resonated and she missed their seal pet.

Einstein is purported to have said: “When you sit with a pretty girl for two hours you think it’s only a minute, but when you sit on a hot stove for a minute you think it’s two hours. That’s relativity.” His summer was over in a moment. High season always goes so fast because the proletariat is busy tending to the nits of the prosperous. But for him, everything was accelerated, magnified, and exaggerated. He had violated a cardinal rule of the hospitality industry: do not fall in love with the summer help. You can bed them. You can amuse them. They can amuse you, but do not fall in love.

She was an enigma. The signals were there, but any suggestion of commitment was obscured by what she knew was next and what she needed next. She had had her summer fling, better than she had planned. She had come to Nantucket a teenager and was leaving a woman. She had come to an island and, ironically, escaped the insularity of a life centered on St. Anthony’s. She couldn’t, so she didn’t travel back to Fall River each Friday evening and thus, conditioned her parents for the future. She was returning to her pre-Nantucket life opened to a whole new world, a world of cuisine and vineyards and places to be explored. She was the future and the future was hers. She thought she loved him, but other pursuits took priority, and really, how could she know what she really felt. Summers on Nantucket are entrancing.

The day after Labor Day – the end of her contract, her cousin was picking her up at the New Bedford terminal for the short ride home. She was taking the high speed ferry at 6:00 PM and two hours later, she would disembark leaving behind her best summer ever – back to reality. He insisted on going with her. It was his day off and he could never have too much of her. She was of a different mind. It was all too much: too much emotion, too much neediness, too much distraction. A moment that could have been lived out at the Nantucket terminal was played out in New Bedford with no greater satisfaction. They parted, promised to email, Skype, text, and a chapter was closed.

He after Her

The Nantucketer is a year-round resort. For him, this is one of its most appealing attributes. While Robert is jetting down to St. Bart’s looking for work, he stays put in his studio. Summer, like it always does, has left a thousand things undone and this summer, more so. Winter is a tough time of year on the island, but work and catch-up filled the hours. The few hours unfilled are inundated with thoughts of her. He has read in the Inquirer and Mirror about dozens of lost letters that a woman had written in 1943-44 to her serviceman fiancé that had been recently discovered in a San Diego post office, undelivered. She had written her lover every day. The lover to her no more than once a week, which tailed off once convinced that what they had was fleeting. It was a sad war story (are there happy ones?) The woman moved on and married another man. The serviceman survived the war, only to be shot in Okinawa by an angry husband. Our protagonist was like that woman. He wrote to his waitress every day because he ached in the morning and her silence, if only for a few days, tortured him at night. There should be a safety limit on the “Send/Receive All Folders” icon. Better yet, hit Send/Receive more than 100 times a day and an electronic shock is transmitted through the keyboard. He is forced to be patient. Fall River requires only a half a day of traveling, door to door. Absent her invitation, he invites himself, and she is receptive. The reception, otherwise, is arctic as everyone in her family knows she can do better than some cook from Nantucket. His only possible ally is her working-class father who suffered the same opposition thirty years earlier. But, she is the father’s jewel. She is his youngest daughter and he protects her with the ferociousness of a grizzly bear. The excitement of being with her is dampened by dealing with the pique of half the relatives and the indifference of the rest. Voluntarily, suffering winter ferry rides and taxi rides and forfeiting a weekend of vacation to be subjected to inquisition-like torment might be a price too high for a woman whose priorities are elsewhere.

The daffodils bloom and the tourists descend. The treadmill called Nantucket is approaching full speed. By Memorial Day, any doubt that “high season”, like a phoenix, has arisen from the dead embers of winter are expelled.

One would conjecture that he submerging himself into 16 hour days repeated 6 time per week would obliterate thoughts of her… if only.

She after Him

Computer science is demanding and Brown is demanding. She has started immersing herself in artificial intelligence which requires research into areas that are biological and chemical. She wonders if amusing herself with her culture had been a luxury, a frivolity. Her mantra: look forward, look forward. She has come back to Brown a different woman and her “glow” distracts the bulls from the WASP princesses. She rebuffs all the boy-men. Her heart and soul and body belongs to him, but not now. Now is inconvenient. It does not fit into the “grand plan”. At 1:30 AM, she yearns for him, that studio, that freedom. She aches for their fantasy travels around the world, flights of fancy fueled by exotic cuisine and the mandatory correct wine. But, she has rules and discipline.

It’s late autumn and the human resources predators descend upon the innocent. The “meet and greets” have become feeding frenzies. A computer science graduate with a flawless record is the most prime of beef. “We have a heifer over here with impeccable credentials and a perfect 3.0 body score. Let the bidding begin.” And so it did. Oracle, Microsoft, Google, and every startup wants a piece. By spring, she has more offers than she can even discern. She quickly becomes an expert on IRS Code §422 specific to stock options. Absent a Cassandra or a crystal ball, there is no way to differentiate one opportunity from another. She is skeptical of big companies, but, rightfully, wary of small. Intuitively, she knows she is in the driver’s seat (if even a F150) and patience will be its own reward.

She knows he will be able to find a job anywhere. He is a real culinary talent. Her plan is simplicity itself. She will secure the best position. Once she is established, he will join her, finding a suitable gig. And, they will live happily ever after. Too many unknowns to share this program with him, yet. She is never one to set expectations on which she cannot deliver.

Summer 2017, continued

For him, all summers are recorded as B.H. and A.H. This summer is 1 A.H. (after her). His work life has become perfunctory: prepare and deliver extraordinary food, deal with the ignorant, clean-up, and go home. The undercurrent always exists: where is she, does she still love me, where is there a future? He can’t bear the pain of South Shore, so he goes to ‘Sconset. At first, he would stop off at Wauwinet, but after the apparition, it is straight east to the beach. Each day, her countenance is growing stronger. It grabs hold of his heart each time he sees her hair gone crazy in the water. On one occasion, he ran into the ocean sure that his fingers would be filled will her sultry strands. All he grabbed was water, sifting droplets through his fingers that return to the sea.

For Memorial Day weekend, she invites him to her graduation and he makes his way to Providence. Try as he can, no wisdom is delivered. For him, more of the same from her family: shunned, ignored, and generally, rejected. From her, the old distractions are replaced by a new distance. These are feelings he has even when he and she are together alone, not from her, directly, but deep someplace inside where his imagined inadequacies live. How can he ever be deserving of her? His opinion of their future is more aligned with the rejecters’ than with hers.

At her celebratory graduation dinner, she announces that she is taking a position in Pescadero, California. The company is a four year-old technology startup that has finalized its “B” round of financing. She has received series “A” pricing for her stock options as the job offer came through prior to the latest round. She has worked not even a single day, and she is already worth over a hundred thousand dollars (on paper). This is real money on Horton Street. Stunned only grazes the top of the iceberg that pummels him. His resources are thin, and repeatedly making his way to San Francisco and then renting a car to drive the hour plus down the coast will bankrupt him. What possible future exists that includes her with him? Her tenderness when they are together is completely incongruent with the blow she has just delivered. “And I leave for California next Sunday.” Like a boxer who has just taken a right to the forehead, this left to the jaw, is a knockout. He pulls himself together, heads to the bar, and downs a couple of Highland Parks. Appropriately anesthetized, he makes his way to the Marriott Courtyard, passes out, and deals with all of his pains the next morning.

He listens to her voicemails left during the night, but words are just words, and her actions have demonstrated clearly her desires. A taxi ride to the New Bedford terminal, he catches the next ferry, pledging to find normalcy.

While the reader might feel bad for him or expect more from her, let’s be clear on the reality of Nantucket. There are only two classes of people on the island: the “haves” and those who serve the superficialities of the “haves”. Nantucket is not a place for those who aspire to “have”. One is certainly welcome to go away and acquire her millions (or preferably, billions), return, pay the initiation dues in the form of exorbitant real estate prices, and settle in nicely. Acceptance is another matter. Most of the wealthy want to close the door behind them. There is no place for her on Nantucket. She could be any man’s trophy wife and yet any man’s hell. Her worth comes from delivering worth, not by being a mere appendage to some insecure mogul certain that his fortune was ill-gained.

He disembarks from the ferry, downtrodden, but awakes the next morning to his same routine. He knows he is going insane, but he perseveres: Dawn, Trek, ‘Sconset, Waves, Work, Insomnia-laced sleep. Each day, the ocean renders a clearer and clearer picture of her.

Enter the Goddess

According to Greek mythology, Benthesikyme is the daughter of Poseidon and Amphitrite, who, for those who missed out on a classical education, are the god and goddess, respectively, of the sea and protectors of seafarers. Benthesikyme is goddess of the waves and can construct intricate paintings using the ocean as her canvas. Her machinations with the waves can create maelstroms not unlike the one in his brain as he sits on ‘Sconset beach. The few artist renderings of her capture a female creature of extraordinary beauty with brown eyes that like the ocean are the deepest pools that would enchant any mortal and hold him hostage. Her hair like our protagonist’s is portrayed as wild, wind-blown, rich chocolate pandemonium. The job of protecting sailors has evolved considerably since the days of currachs and St. Brendan. It has become mundane and ordinary. Benthesikyme is neither of those and is always looking to add spice to her life. Last summer, masquerading as a seal, she had studied a couple who were very clearly in love with both the sea and with each other. She has seen millions of such couples over the eons and yet this couple stood out for her. Benthesikyme observed that the woman was more Azores (one of her favorite haunts) than New England. Benthesikyme rarely felt any real emotion for mere mortals, but this woman was different. She made their happiness her mission. However, right now, he is plenty miserable. Benthesikyme misses seeing them together and wonders if she has failed them somehow. The 21st century is complicated even for Greek goddesses. She fears that she and her ilk are becoming obsolete, influence waning – the ultimate victory of science. What of love then? She hopes her paintings will bring him joy, but all she sees is brief rapture followed by increasing despair. The summer plods along and the rougher seas foretell the coming of hurricane season and thus, autumn. Portrait rendering will become increasingly difficult.

Labor Day

Labor Day marks the end of summer and is always a huge celebration on the island. As long as there is a Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, the well-heeled of New York and Boston will resist following the lead of so many other states of starting school before Labor Day. Labor Day is an almost liturgical convention. The town will host fireworks over the harbor and the hotels will lay outdoor (weather permitting) buffets at an “economical” fare with the food providing cover for the over-priced drinks. This is a time of happiness and sadness with too many farewells. The dads, so important that they cannot miss work, who commute to the island each weekend, are sad because, now under a watchful eye, must say goodbye to weekday mistresses back in the city. The dads, who measure their success on how many weeks they can reside on the island each summer, are happy because they can return to the comfort of their secretary’s cleavage. Likewise, there is the wife who is sad because she will miss the after-lesson lessons of her too young tennis coach. Our ‘Sconset jogger is happy because she can leave a cramped and rustic cottage, her husband calls cozy, and return to her expansive life and home in Greenwich. Particularly sad are the young teenagers who having experienced their first summer romance must bid a tearful good-bye knowing they will never find true love again. The hospitality managers are happy because Labor Day will cap off another successful season and bonuses will be forthcoming. Hospitality workers are sad because, most likely, they will be returning home to less lucrative jobs. The saddest of all will be the Eastern European waitresses whose excitement when they received their visa is now a curse. They have tasted American life and more than a few, American men. All that waits back home are drunken, ungrateful boyfriends offering no future. They will spend the remainder of their lives remembering and wanting. As happens each year, a picture will arrive from Prague or Bucharest of a 9 pound baby scheduled for July but born in May.

Either happy or sad, no one leaves the island indifferent. But, he is not leaving and he is beyond understanding happy and sad. He is only numb. The jubilation of seeing her in the waves is brief and the rest is drudgery. For him, Labor Day is the busiest day of the year, closely tied with the Fourth of July. The Dawn sleeps in a little later each day and he is up at 5:30 AM. Since his first day on the island, the ride to ‘Sconset has taken about 45 minutes. The wind, dawdling walking (or roller blading) tourists conspire to limit new record time. Add the 45 back and he is hard-pressed to be at the hotel by 8 AM, when preparations must start. It is all doable, but he will only have about 30 minutes at the beach. The weather is extraordinary with a hot western wind blowing from the mainland pushing away the ocean breezes from the eastern shore. The weather picture-perfect, makes his job that much more straightforward as he does not have to have a plan “B” for execution of the “indoor” program tonight. The wind has pushed out the waves. Benthesikyme has kept their breakfast date and is already busy placing the waitress’s portrait on a virtually placid sea. He sees it and is left breathless and therefore speechless. Whether a moment of accidental delirium or a calculated move, we can never know. He jumps into the ocean grasping for her. The pain of loss searing him while protecting him from those northern waters always cold. He feels a grip on his ankle and slowly the pain is going away replaced by peaceful euphoria and then the brightest of white lights. He can feel her close to his chest and she kisses him ever so tenderly.

Epilogue

On September 11, Steve is wrapping up the last of the summer personnel matters. With one glaring exception, it was a good summer for him. In his profession, the ability to “read” people is paramount and his batting average is very good. He would never have predicted that his executive chef would just “up and leave” on the biggest day of the year. He isn’t so much surprised as confounded. Chefs are notoriously independent and difficult. Most suffer from some degree of wanderlust, but this one was so reliable. Sure, reports were coming in that he was increasingly distant to the point of reclusiveness, but it had never once impacted his performance that summer. Fortunately, the sous chef had stepped up and because of his outstanding performance all summer and his calm in the wake of a potential Labor Day catastrophe, Steve is confident to recommend him for the Executive Chef position. Upper management concurs. This makes Steve’s job a whole lot easier. Finding a sous is a much simpler task. In fact, he has his eye on Robert over at The Wauwinet, who has been spending much of his too little free time with a plumber named Arthur. Robert has little incentive to fly off to the Caribbean this year and would find year-round employment attractive. With immediate HR issues well in hand, he can finalize his vacation plans. This year he is flying to the Azores. He has worked an exchange deal with his counterpart at the Furnas Boutique Hotel. Such barter arrangements are a nice perquisite in an industry where the hours are long and everyone’s holiday is your busiest day.

The front receptionist interrupts his thoughts with the daily mail delivery. Sorting through, one letter catches his eye. It is addressed to his chef-in-absentia. The surname on the return address is familiar, but the first name, not at all. What jogs his memory is the city – Fall River. That headshot is hard to forget when it occupies a special place in his middle desk drawer. Everyone had known about the chef-waitress affair last summer. Many even said it was more, commenting on their inseparability. Hell, they even rode a tandem bicycle. Not accustomed to opening someone else’s mail, his curiosity gets the better of him and he rationalizes that absent a forwarding address, maybe the letter will provide a clue. The envelope contains what looks to be an announcement and then another envelope. The printed text on the announcement reads:

It is with the deepest regret, we ask you to share our grief upon the passing of our little girl, this day, September 4, 2017. She was the brightest light in our lives and now, free from the pain of this earth, she will illuminate heaven.

A handwritten note was added below that read:

Please find enclosed a letter from our daughter that she wrote just after your visit (graduation party) that she asked we forward to you at the appropriate time. Please accept our apology for the ignorance we demonstrated during your visits. We have learned a great deal about priorities this summer. It is clear to us now that you were her soul-mate. If your journeys should bring you to Fall River, please stop in. You are always welcome.

Having already violated several USPS regulations, Steve rationalizes that opening the enclosed letter is more indiscretion than crime. It reads:

Dearest,

You have just sailed back to Nantucket and I miss you so much already. I know you are furious with me and maybe rightfully so. The job in Pescadero was mere ruse, a necessary white lie to protect you from what is to come. I had so many plans for us and everything seemed to becoming together, nicely. God had a different plan.

Last January, I started having headaches that I wrote off to the stress of Brown. I have had them throughout my life at the most difficult moments (never one in Nantucket). During finals week, I awoke unable to focus my eyes. It cleared up, but I was scared. I went to the infirmary and they sent me for a battery of tests at Women and Infants. The diagnosis is stage 4 brain cancer. The doctors referred me to Stanford Cancer Center, which is doing experimental work with this form of aggressive cancer. It is to Palo Alto not Pescadero that I head on Sunday. The prognosis is bleak, but hope springs eternal. I made only one request to my folks. They found me a little studio apartment in a harbor hamlet, Pillar Point, across the Pacific Coast Highway from El Granada. My studio is in what was once a fisherman’s house. I have pictures and it is pure Nantucket right down to the unpainted and weathered shingles. The beach around the bluff is where the world-class surfers go each year in March to ride winter’s huge waves. My goal next year is to see this competition they call Mavericks.

I could not subject you to what I am going to face the next few months. I love you too much and seeing your pain would only cause me greater pain. I also can’t face your disappointment as I lose my hair that is so much a signature, as my body that you worship (interesting approach to sacrament) is ravaged by the poison injected, and then, most important to me, as my mind becomes a shell of its former self. I fear that I will no longer be me and certainly not me for you.

I am writing this letter now, because there is no guarantee I will be able to write it later. I have entrusted it to my parents to make sure that you are in receipt and if you never see it then so much the better. In that event, we celebrate over a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir.

Yours, always,

Steve is in a quandary. He knows he has to deliver the letter to its rightful owner, but he doesn’t know where to start. The chef has literally dropped off the face of the earth. He makes inquiries to every person of whom he could think had a connection, but the chef’s several-month withdrawal from civil society makes the search fruitless. Over the next couple of weeks, other priorities combined with the futility of the quest pushes the whole matter to the side and he boards a plane from JFK for a much needed getaway.

Furnas is a quiet little town built in the caldera of an active volcano, which would seem a somewhat risky lifestyle. Its hotel is a beautiful piece of luxury set not too far from the natural hydrotherapy hot springs. It is exactly what “the doctor ordered” for Steve. After a relaxing visit to the springs, it’s lunchtime and he hails a taxi for the ten-minute ride to Ribeira Quente on the southern coast. Ribeira Quente is a sleepy little hamlet of about 800 folks with a nice beach and an excellent eating establishment, Restaurante Ponta do Garajau. It is still summer in the Azores and it is a perfect day for dining on the patio. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple. They are seated looking out at the ocean, enjoying the breeze coming on the southern shore. Thus, he sees only the back of their heads. What catches his eye is her hair. It is identical to that Fall River waitress. He knows it by heart. “Do all Azorean women have that same unfettered hair? How do men get anything done with all of that distraction?” The man with her is clearly decades older and his hair snow white. Steve’s curiosity wins the day (a familiar story) and he walks up to the woman. She is the spitting image of the waitress. The man is no one he knows, but there is something familiar and youthful about his eyes. “Excuse me, are you here on holiday”, Steve queried. She replies, “Eu não falo inglês.” He understands nothing but inglês and that is enough. Much like “no comprendo”, it is the universal response instigated by the Tower of Babel. He gives the couple a polite “ciao” which provokes a smile and a “ciao” in response. “Wish they spoke English. I wanted to ask them how the grilled oysters are”. He makes note of the bottle of 2016 Quinta de Soalheiro. He always pays attention to the wine choices of the locals. “Grilled oysters and Alvarinho, a perfect match”, he thought.