If You're Lucky (7 page)

I pulled the back delivery door of the Inn open just in time to hear Marc hurling half French, half English insults at someone. I made my way tentatively to the kitchen. Marc was waving a stainless-steel spoon at the oily grime that Karl had left on the stovetop. I guess he couldn't even get near it without a weapon. Apparently, Karl had left the kitchen in less-than-premium condition after the brunch shift. I'm sure he got slammed this morning. For the first time this season, all twelve of the Inn rooms were occupied for the weekend.

Jeff and Miles were running interference.

“If you could just keep your voice down, I'm sure we can get this place cleaned up in no time,” said Jeff.

“We? Oh, no, no, no, I don't clean up after that
connar
d
!”

Miles cracked the swinging door an inch to check on the dining room. Over his shoulder I saw a few couples lingering with their afternoon coffee. They were looking in the direction of the kitchen with puzzled expressions. Miles let the door close softly and made alarmed eye contact with Jeff.

I snuck quietly over to the prep table and started working while Jeff and Miles tried to calm the red-faced Marc. I watched and waited for an opportunity to slip out and check on something I'd been musing over all day. The first batch of cookie dough only took me a few minutes. I quickly rolled it into four logs and wrapped them in plastic wrap. I put them in the walk-in to chill and then I slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed. The door to Miles's ex – broom closet office was open and I was relieved to see that his computer was turned on. I clicked the mouse and it came awake. The payroll file was right on the desktop. I clicked on it. I could still hear Marc yelling. He was threatening to quit, calling them amateurs. The file opened. I scanned the list of employees, searching for Fin's name. It wasn't there. I went through the list again. The only name that wasn't familiar to me was Abel Sacula. I was confused. Was it Fin's real name? I jotted it down on a piece of paper and shoved it in my pocket. I also happened to glance at what they were paying Marc as opposed to Karl. For what that prima donna was making, a little cleanup from time to time wouldn't kill him.

I could still hear raised voices in the kitchen, so I quickly googled the name Abel Sacula. I tapped my finger impatiently. Nothing came up for Abel Sacula, but a few links appeared for the surname with connections to Bulgaria. I quickly read a link. Someone calling themselves Violeta Violina had posted on a message board
: I am looking for members of my family from Bulgaria with the surname Sacula, my maiden name. I know that my great-grandfather was Romani with family near Sofia and I am interested in learning more about my Romani heritage . . .

Romani?
I googled the word and clicked on a link. I scanned the article:
“
The Romani people are also known by a variety of other names such as Gypsies and Roma.”
Fin did look exotic and he certainly had gypsy jazz in his blood. Had Fin's dad been Romani? I was intrigued. Why wasn't that part of the story he told me?

I clicked the computer back to sleep. Miles would kill me if he found me in here. I peeked into the kitchen where things seemed to have simmered down for now. Jeff was wiping down the cooktop himself while Marc chopped up vegetables and dropped them into a stockpot, still grumbling in French. Miles was pouring a generous glass of the Heron's best French red. He placed it in front of Marc: a peace offering. Marc still had his pouty face on but he picked up the glass and took a big gulp. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Then Fin appeared next to him, seemingly out of nowhere. Marc smiled and greeted him in French. Fin responded in perfect French. Of course he spoke French.

“Tout ce spectacle, c'était juste pour le vin?”

Marc laughed and clapped Fin on the shoulder.
“Eh bien, il est assez bon, ce vin. Je prends un autre verre?”

Fin shook his head.
“Je ne pousserais pas si j'étais vous. Ces deux là sont très pingre avec le vin.”

“
Pas qu'avec le vin, ils sont radins comme tout
,
” said Marc, and they laughed together like old friends—like old
French
friends. Miles and Jeff watched the exchange with amusement, even though it seemed that Fin and Marc were talking about them.

I stood there watching through a crack in the door for a couple of minutes. Fin's accent was beautiful. I could have stood there listening all day.

Fin seemed to be leaving. I guess he wasn't on the schedule for dinner service. “
Adieu. À bientôt,
” he said to Marc. To Jeff and Miles he said, “Later, gentlemen.”

They both grinned. “Bye, Fin,” they said in unison. They were head over heels in love.

After I finished baking the cookies and pulled two trays of plum and cardamom crisps in individual ramekins from the oven, I set everything to cool on the prep table and I hung up my apron. The kitchen was peaceful for a moment but the staff would arrive soon to start setting up for dinner service. I left out the back door and walked briskly home up the hill. The sky looked ominous. It was still early evening, but the fog had never really pulled back all day. I was tired and my headache had returned. I really wanted to talk to Sonia, but I doubted she wanted to talk to me after this morning's conversation. I was starting to feel something strangely unsettling about Fin, but I decided to keep it to myself for now. Fin was just what this town sorely needed: a good dose of charm and a fresh face. Who was I to get in the way of that?

As I neared my house, I saw Fin's red truck parked in the driveway. My pulse quickened. My first thought was that he'd come to see me. The house was dark, though. My dad wasn't home yet, but my mom's studio glowed warmly through the tall windows. I stood off to the side, hidden by the creeping jasmine, and watched through the studio window. Fin was sprawled in my mom's old wicker chair, holding a large handmade mug in his lap. He rubbed Rocket's belly with his bare foot. Rocket was passed out next to him on the wooden floor. My mom was perched on a stool a few feet away, burnishing a pot on the canvas-covered worktable. She vigorously rubbed a small polished piece of glass against the outside of the large pot, bringing the surface to a soft sheen. Her forearm looked strong and sinewy, and a strand of hair fell across her eye. She looked a bit like Georgia O'Keeffe, my namesake. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I could see their lips moving. My mom didn't look up when she spoke. She seemed very comfortable having Fin sit there, watching her.

I'd never sat in that chair long myself. My mom had always shooed me away after a few moments, claiming that I was distracting her. I was a fidgety kid. I could never sit still. Watching Fin, so comfortable in that chair, and so comfortable in his own skin as he watched my mom, I felt envious again. I also felt protective of my mom and her space. But she was smiling slightly. She looked focused and calm. She seemed not to mind that Fin had crossed boundaries I wouldn't cross, boundaries that had been in place since I was a little kid. She laughed at something Fin said and looked over at him coyly. It was clear now who he came to see. He was here to charm my mother the same way he'd been charming every living thing in his path, including me, since he arrived.

I let myself into the darkened house through the kitchen door and flicked on some lights. There was a damp chill in the air. I started a fire with kindling in the woodstove and added a few logs once it got going. My laptop was on the kitchen table. I quickly typed in Abel Sacula again. This time an article from a French newspaper appeared. The headline read:
“Guitariste célèbre tué dans un accident de voiture.”
I tried to read the article but could only figure out a word here and there. It seemed to say something about a car accident. In the middle, there was a grainy black-and-white photo of a man who looked an awful lot like Fin playing guitar. Underneath the photo it said, “
Yuri Sacula, sur scène.
” I worked my way through the article, word by word, as though my French might improve if I kept at it long enough, but it just frustrated me.

I got up and put a kettle on for tea. Then I sat down again and clicked through some more links till I found one in English. It was a story in a British guitar magazine about Yuri Sacula, a famous gypsy jazz guitarist from Bulgaria. This had to be Fin's dad. There was a better photo here too. Yuri was attractive in the same way that Fin was. He had the same dark expressive eyes and the same bemused smile. The article said that Yuri was married to a woman named Sophie. There had been a car accident outside Paris and Yuri and Sophie were killed. The gypsy jazz guitar world mourned the loss of a magnificent player, it said. It mentioned that the couple's son Abel had survived the accident, but there was nothing about what happened to him after that. Fin's story checked out. He was who he said he was. Why wasn't I more pleased about that?

I got up and looked out the window at the studio. The two of them were still there. The kettle whistled and I shut the burner off. I browsed the fridge. Dad had left a colander full of clams on a plate. I'm sure he had plans for them, but I needed to do something, so I started working on linguine and clam sauce: I gathered up parsley, garlic, white wine, olive oil, lemon. We had no shallots but onions would do. As I was chopping the garlic, I heard the kitchen door open. My mom was laughing. It was possible that this was the first time I'd heard her laugh since before Lucky died. Suddenly she and Fin were standing together in front of me. My mom's cheeks were pink and her eyes were dancing the way they used to when she and Lucky would go on their walks on the beach and they would come back full of ideas. Rocket gave me a halfhearted greeting and returned to Fin's side.

“I didn't see you come home, Honey.” My mom kissed my cheek.

“I thought I'd better get a fire going. It was so chilly in here.” I kept chopping.

“Have you met Fin, Lucky's friend? Oh, I forgot, of course you have.”

She said “Lucky's friend” like it was all the endorsement she needed, like it was the passcode to gain him access to everything that was Lucky's.

“Uh-huh.” I looked up. “Hi.” My heart pounded in my chest. I felt a twinge of guilt, like I'd been reading his diary. The story of how he was orphaned was terribly sad, but he seemed so self-assured that it was hard to think of him as the little boy who'd lost both his parents in one moment.

He grinned at me. “Hi, George.” He seemed to need to explain to me what he was doing here. “I was just returning Rocket. We went on a field trip together, didn't we, Boy?”

Rocket, hearing his name, did a quick happy circle around Fin and then looked at me just in case I may not be aware that this Fin guy really knew how to show a dog a good time. It occurred to me that Rocket must have been in Fin's truck when he stopped off at the Inn a couple of hours ago.

“Looks like you've made a friend,” I said, finally looking him straight in the eye. “Looks like you've made lots of friends.”

He was still smiling with not even a hint of sheepishness in his eyes. He looked at the clock over the table. “It's getting late. I should get going,” he said.

“Really? Can't you stay for dinner? We've got lots,” said my mom. She touched the sleeve of his pale blue linen shirt. Her eyes sparkled. “He should stay, shouldn't he, George?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Almost all of me
did
want him to stay even though I intentionally sounded sarcastic. I would not let him know how conflicted I was feeling, but I wanted desperately to touch him. I wanted to be near him.

He watched me. “Another time,” he said.

My mom looked disappointed. “Okay, then. Another time. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Oh, wait, let me grab that book I was telling you about.” She went into the living room, leaving me alone with Fin.

He plucked a stem of parsley off the cutting board and put it in his mouth. “Your mom is incredible. I see now where you get it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Hey, by the way, I looked up your dad online. He wasn't just some guitar player. He was really famous.” I watched Fin for a reaction.

He didn't respond at all. It was almost like he hadn't heard me. I rubbed the back of my neck. My headache was back with a vengeance.

I tried again. “And Jesse says hi.”

He looked at me with a deeper intensity in his eyes. “You're really suffering with those headaches, aren't you? You should get off your meds. The sooner, the better. They're poison.”

“Found it!” called my mom from the other room. She returned with the book
Th
e Philosophy of Andy Warhol.
She handed it to him. “Take your time with it. You'll see what I mean about him.”

“Thank you, Madeleine.” He kissed her cheek.

“Bye, George.” He waited for me to acknowledge it.

I tried to look nonchalant. “Bye.”

“Hey, maybe you could come along next time.”

“Next time?”

“Next time I come for Rocket.”

Th
is is a regular thing now, you in my house?

Rocket jumped up on him and gave him a slobbery kiss, sensing that this was good-bye. “Till then, Rocket Man!” he said.

As he turned to leave he looked back at me. “And say hi to Jesse for me, okay? I owe that guy a letter.” He didn't wait for my reaction. He was already out the door.

My mom opened the fridge and pulled out the colander of clams. She looked at the ingredients on the chopping board.

“Linguine and clams? That sounds good. I'll put on the water for the pasta.” She hummed to herself while she ran the water into the big pot at the sink. I dropped a tea bag into a mug and grabbed the kettle off the stove with a potholder.

“Tea?” I asked my mom.