Season of Angels (9781101612170) Read online

  “Good thinking. Keep going.” Molly grabbed a pad and pencil to jot down notes. This food had to be prepped at high speed, and they would have to work separately to get done on time. Once they got a game plan, Molly was going to pull one of her workers, who were staffing the front of the shop, to help out.

  Her father took some big cans and containers off the open shelves of the pantry and came up with even more inspirations.

  “Artichoke hearts. Perfect.” He held up the five-pound can as if it were a prize. “Your grandmother used to make a really nice starter with artichokes and Gruyère. I think I spotted some Swiss. That will work fine.”

  Molly made a note. She remembered that dish, all baked and bubbling with melted cheese, and very tasty. But she was surprised to hear her father suggest it. Her father didn’t talk about his mother much. Or her cooking.

  Still, Molly remembered. Grandma Addie used to make all kinds of delicious things when the family traveled up to Vermont during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. It was an annual reunion, just about the only time of the year when both sides of the Morgan clan, Joe’s family and his brother Kevin’s, visited.

  The family didn’t get together like that anymore, not since her grandfather George had died seven years ago. Now her father rarely mentioned his mother, Adele. He dutifully called her once a week, asking about her health and other needs. But there was always tension, even in these brief conversations. He rarely visited, unless there was an emergency. Grandma Addie was closer to her younger son, Kevin, and his family now.

  Joe was a good man with a warm heart. He could never turn his back completely on his aging, widowed mother. But Molly knew that he had no interest in healing the rift that had begun with his father’s death. And this was no time to remind him of it. She knew he wouldn’t talk about it anyway. Over the years, the Cape Light side of the Morgan clan had established new traditions, and hardly anyone mentioned those Vermont gatherings anymore. Though sometimes on a snowy afternoon during the holiday season, Molly did feel wistful for a cup of hot cocoa and those good times in Grandma Addie’s kitchen.

  Molly shook off the memories and glanced over at her father, who was busy at work. He had opened the huge cans of artichoke hearts and dumped them quickly in big metal bowls.

  “You could be on one of those TV cooking contests, Dad,” Molly said as they got to work. “I bet you’d win the grand prize.”

  Her father just laughed. “I’d rather help you out of a jam any day, honey. That’s all the glory I need. Now go get those baguettes and do what I told you. We’ll turn out a pile of the tastiest appetizers you ever served in no time.”

  * * *

  The innkeeper had told Jonathan that they served three meals a day. A good bargain, he thought, even if the place didn’t turn out to be half as nice as it looked on the Internet.

  He had left Boston late and then hit traffic on the highway, all the early-bird shoppers clogging up the lanes leading in and out of the malls. It had taken twice the time he had expected to reach Cape Light. The map said the village was only a few miles from the island. But who knew if he would find any place to eat over there. By all accounts, Angel Island was a fairly deserted spot, and it was nearly three p.m. His best bet was to stop here for a bite, or settle for afternoon tea and cookies at the inn. He had a feeling it was that sort of place.

  He cruised down Main Street, looking for a likely spot. A neon sign for the Clam Box caught his eye. He slowed his car and parked in front. The old-fashioned diner was just the sort of place he had hoped to find. He hoped the prices were old-fashioned, too. Living on a graduate student’s budget was a challenge, especially compared to the way he’d been raised—a bit sheltered and spoiled. Not the way most people lived, that was for sure.

  The monthly allowance from his father was not lavish, but it still bothered Jonathan to accept even that small support. He knew it was given halfheartedly, for one thing, and he also felt he was old enough to be making his own way. He couldn’t wait to finish his degree and start earning a decent salary. Though that was another flaming hoop to jump through. Faculty positions were hard to get these days, even with a PhD from Tufts University.

  That’s why the project he had come here to research was so important. The topic was new territory in his field, which was something like saying he had found a secret gold mine. If he could get a paper out of it and get published in a respectable journal, it would give him a huge advantage over other post grads. And maybe then his father would accept that he had made the right decision by quitting law school.

  There were a lot of “ifs” in his life, weren’t there? Jonathan smiled to himself and pulled open the door of the diner. Maybe that’s why he loved history so much, where there were only facts left to sort through.

  The diner was just as old-fashioned looking inside and practically empty. Though it was not as quiet as he expected. A uniformed policeman sat at the end of an otherwise empty counter, talking—arguing almost—with a man on the opposite side. Judging from his white apron, Jonathan guessed he was the cook. The two were engaged in an animated discussion as the cook refilled catsup bottles from a giant plastic container. He suddenly paused at his task and looked up.

  “Sit anywhere you want. Waitress will be with you shortly.” Then he turned and shouted into the kitchen, “Tess? Where the heck are you? You’ve got a customer out here waiting.”

  Jonathan chose a table near the window, happy to put some space between himself and the obstreperous cook. He noticed a blackboard listing specials and scanned the offerings. A waitress walked out from the kitchen and headed for his table, grabbing a glass and a water pitcher on the way.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like some water?” She leaned over and quickly filled his glass before he could reply.

  “Thanks, and I wasn’t waiting long.” Jonathan smiled briefly, trying to put her at ease.

  She stood back, holding the pitcher with two hands. She was chewing a big wad of gum and looked rushed and nervous.

  “Here’s a menu.” She pulled one out of her apron pocket and handed it to him. “The specials are up on the board. I think we’re out of the chili . . .” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “No great loss. Same for the hot roast beef hero,” she added in a quieter voice.

  He laughed and looked up at her. She had bright blue eyes and reddish-brown hair pulled back in a long ponytail. Curly wisps framed a pretty face. Her large hoop earrings and lace tights were a little bold for his taste, but they looked good on her.

  “Thanks for the warning. Red meat isn’t my thing anyway.”

  “Me, either. It’s bad for your health, not to mention the planet. I’m trying to reduce my carbon footprint.”

  Jonathan looked back up at her, intrigued by this turn in their conversation. Before he could reply, the grouchy cook called out, “Tess, I need you. Pronto.”

  “Be right there, Charlie.” She turned back to Jonathan. “Do you know what you’d like? I can come back in a minute if you’re not ready. If I don’t get fired in the meantime, I mean.”

  Her wry humor made him smile again. “A bowl of clam chowder and the tossed salad,” he said quickly. “And some coffee, please.”

  “Wise choice. I’ll be back with the coffee.”

  Jonathan nodded and watched her walk back to the counter. She had long legs and an easy, swinging stride. She was just tall enough, he thought, and slim. Her frumpy waitress shoes and gray uniform did little to detract from her good looks, though the outfit would have been a deal breaker on most other girls.

  Jonathan turned away and looked out the window. She was not exactly his style, but very attractive. Not that he would ask for her number or anything like that. He was here to work. Period. He didn’t need any distractions. And he was taking a break from dating. His last charge into that battlefield had left his heart and eg
o battered. His ex-girlfriend, another student in his program, had dumped him for an assistant art history professor. He was better off without any female entanglements right now.

  He reached into his briefcase, searching for something to read. A slim hand-bound manuscript caught his eye and he pulled it out. A white label on the brown paper cover bore the title: Folklore Origins of the Massachusetts Bay Colonies—Original research by Martin Pilsner. Dr. Pilsner was Jonathan’s advisor and had written the paper years ago when he was at Jonathan’s stage in his academic career, still working on his doctorate.

  It was generous of his professor to share this manuscript with him. Jonathan had been touched by the gesture. Martin was the professor who truly encouraged his work and reminded him what important work historians were called to do. Jonathan knew he would have never stuck with history if it had not been for Dr. Pilsner. He was grateful to his mentor and wanted to make him proud. I will, too, Jonathan promised. So . . . no girls for now, he reminded himself as he saw the waitress approach with his order.

  “Here you are. Chowder. Salad. Coffee.” The waitress announced each item as she set the dishes down before him. She pulled a handful of oyster crackers in cellophane packets from her pocket and put them next to the soup bowl. “Milk and sugar are on the table. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

  “Thanks.” Jonathan nodded, trying not to look at her. He took a taste of the chowder instead. “This is sort of . . . thick,” he said honestly. He didn’t really like chowder when it was full of flour and potatoes. He liked a thinner broth and more clams.

  “Gluey, I think, is the culinary term. But I know what you mean. I guess you’ve never been here before?”

  “This is my first time in town.”

  “Are you just driving through or visiting awhile?” she asked.

  “Driving through.” He quickly took another spoonful of soup. That wasn’t exactly true. He was driving through the town but planned to stay only a few miles away, on Angel Island, which technically was still part of the village. But he didn’t elaborate.

  “Would you like a newspaper while you’re eating?” She glanced at the counter, where he saw a pile of papers. “We have the Cape Light Messenger and today’s Boston Globe . . . Oh, and this week’s You Swap It.”

  The last choice made him laugh again. “Very tempting. But I’m all set, thanks.” He glanced at the study that sat on the table next to his food and she did, too. He could tell she was reading the title upside down.

  He wondered what she thought. Pretty dull stuff, he guessed would be her conclusion. He couldn’t imagine her reading a historical analysis of colonial traditions during her work break. Fashion magazines, maybe, or the latest bestselling novel.

  She looked up and seemed about to say something. Then her boss bellowed at her again. “Tess? Done chatting over there? I need you to stack these glasses and get the tables ready for the dinner rush.”

  “Okay, Charlie. I’ll be right there.” She rolled her eyes and spared Jonathan a quick grin, then headed back to the counter.

  Jonathan watched her again for a moment. He wondered what she had been about to say. Some comment on his choice of reading material—or a question about it? What did it matter? She seemed nice enough, but he doubted they had much to talk about beyond the dos and don’ts on the menu here.

  As he ate his meal he tried to read the introduction to Dr. Pilsner’s study, but was too conscious of the waitress standing a short distance away, stacking the clean glasses. She hummed a song while she worked. She had a nice voice and a temperament to match to be so cheerful working here, he thought.

  He sat back and sipped his water, staring out the window at Main Street. It was a pretty little town, classic New England. He knew that the village had been settled in the mid-1600s, and the villagers had played their part in the American Revolution. He was looking forward to exploring the area and checking out some of the older homes and buildings.

  The street was busy with lots of people walking about. The main thoroughfare led down to a large harbor, park, and village green. Most of the shop windows were decorated for Christmas, and the parking meters were covered in red and white stripes, like candy canes. Free-parking candy canes, he’d noticed when he’d left his car. Green wreaths with red bows hung from the old-fashioned lampposts, and out on the village green, he saw the town Christmas tree covered with lights and topped by a big star.

  A stone church at the opposite side of the green looked as if it had been built in the nineteenth century. It might not go back to the time of the original settlers, but it seemed like it would be worth a visit.

  “Would you like anything else? More water?”

  She was back. He hadn’t heard her coming. He turned quickly, still holding his glass, and she misunderstood the gesture and started to pour.

  “No, I didn’t mean—” He jerked his hand away then realized it was a dumb move. She was suddenly pouring the water into midair.

  “Oh no . . . I’m so sorry!” She stepped away from him, righting the pitcher, but not quickly enough.

  Jonathan jumped up and stared at the table, speechless as water streamed down the table edge, on to his pants and shoes. “Oh, blast . . .” He quickly scooped up the manuscript, but it was too late. The pages were soaked through. He held up the soggy pile, suddenly shocked and angry.

  “Your papers! Here, let me help you . . .” She reached over with a dry towel she had found somewhere.

  “That’s all right. Please don’t touch this.” He snatched the manuscript out of her reach. His words were mild enough, but his angry tone made her flush.

  “But I could help you dry it off. You should blot that between some towels right away.” Her voice was quiet and shaky. He could tell he had hurt her feelings and felt sorry, but he was too upset to apologize.

  “It won’t dry that way,” he said, embarrassed and annoyed. He exhaled a long breath. The pages on the bottom were wet, the ink already running. “It’s just that I need to read this, and I need to read it while I’m here. For my research—” He stopped himself, feeling it was futile to try to explain.

  “Yes, I understand. Where do you think you are, Mars?” she answered without looking at him. She was using the towels to quickly wipe the table and seat. He could only look on and wave the paper in the air a bit as drops of water dripped down.

  He could tell from her expression that she was mad—and insulted. Before Jonathan could say anything else, her boss ran over with a mop and began cleaning the floor.

  “What’s going on here?” the man named Charlie grumbled. “Looks like Niagara Falls. What did you do, Tess? Give this guy a bath?”

  Charlie grinned at Jonathan. Trying for a man-to-man thing at the cost of belittling the waitress, Jonathan thought.

  “It was my fault. Totally,” Jonathan said.

  “No, it was my fault,” Tess insisted. “No charge for your meal. It’s on the house,” she added.

  “On the house?” Charlie stopped mopping and glared at her. “I’m the only one allowed to say that.”

  “Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ll cover it,” she snapped back.

  She had a lot of character, that was for sure. Jonathan felt bad now about his reaction and getting her into trouble with her boss.

  “It was just an accident. Nobody’s fault,” he said quickly. The whole situation was so uncomfortable. He had to get out of here. He had already grabbed his bag and leather jacket from the other chair, which luckily was clear of the spill. He tucked them under one arm, the soggy manuscript in his hand. Then he reached into a pocket with his free hand and pulled out some bills. “This should cover it.” He set the money on the table. “Keep the change, miss.” There would be enough left over for a good tip.

  She glanced at the money. “Wait . . . take this back. You don’t have to do that.” She tr
ied to get the bills off the table, but the surface was still wet and they stuck as if glued.

  “Let it be,” Charlie said, waving his hand. “If he wants to pay, let him.”

  Jonathan headed quickly for the door. Once out on the street, he took a few deep, calming breaths. Well, that was hardly his usual lunch hour. He didn’t mean to look back through the window, but he couldn’t help it.

  She was still wiping the table, her boss still hovering and giving her a hard time. He suddenly wondered how long she had been working there. She didn’t look as if she was going to last much longer.

  I might not even see her if I go back. You don’t need to go back to see her, he reminded himself. You don’t need to go back to the Clam Box ever again, in your entire life. Are we clear on that?

  He nodded to himself as he got back into his car. The smart thing would be to forget this entire episode, except for the soggy research paper. He found his gym bag on the floor and took out a clean towel that was stashed with his workout clothes. He folded it twice and pressed the wet manuscript between the fabric. She had been right. The towel did help dry it. Perhaps he could get some extra towels at the inn when he got there. Maybe it wasn’t a complete disaster.

  He started his car and headed out of the village, following the signs to Angel Island. He soon came to the land bridge that connected the island to the mainland and slowed his car a bit to take in the full view.

  He couldn’t see the legendary cliffs from the bridge, but he had seen photos and could picture them clearly. The cliffs that were shaped like an angel’s wings. Were they a sign that the island was blessed in some mysterious way? Or simply the erosion pattern caused by the wind and sea? Jonathan tended to believe the latter, more logical explanation. But he had come to investigate the former, the folklore, which he had heard was widely believed around here. He had come to research the legend and make a name for himself by digging up the truth.

  He drove across the bridge, followed the road onto the island, and headed for the inn, which he knew from the map was only a few miles more. The landscape was beautiful, he had to admit, wild and unspoiled. But that was another distraction that he couldn’t indulge in.