At Wave's End: A Novel Read online

  ALSO BY PATRICIA PERRY DONOVAN

  Deliver Her

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Patricia Perry Donovan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939387

  ISBN-10: 1503939383

  Cover design by Diane Luger

  For my parents,

  who first took me “down the shore,” with love and gratitude

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PART 1: PREDISASTER

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  PART 2: IMPACT

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  PART 3: HEROIC

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  PART 4: HONEYMOON

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  PART 5: DISILLUSIONMENT

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  PART 6: RECONSTRUCTION

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  AFTERWORD

  QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

  —Louisa May Alcott

  PART 1: PREDISASTER

  1

  With Piquant’s stainless steel kitchen door propped at exactly the right angle, head chef Faith Sterling could clandestinely scan the entire dining room, which at eleven o’clock on this mid-September weeknight remained two-thirds full. She’d barely left her station at the South Street Seaport eatery all evening, but now, with her final entrées plated and run, she could breathe.

  “So I’m reading this magazine,” her mother continued.

  “Magazine. Got it.” Adjusting the phone at her ear, Faith answered absently, intent on interpreting Xander’s end-of-night table-hopping. All seemed positive as her boss sipped his ritual armagnac while chatting with the regular at table nine (filet medallions au poivre, medium rare), but Faith didn’t relax completely until his laughter bellowed over Piquant’s piped-in music. Another successful night, she thought with relief. Xander had been shrewd to open on the ground floor of the Wall Street residential high-rise, whose wealthy occupants treated Piquant like their local diner, descending from their glass-walled condos almost nightly to dine.

  “So what do you think?” her mother asked.

  “About what?” Faith had tuned out whatever her mother had been saying.

  “About the opportunity, Faith. In the magazine. I think I just might win this one!”

  Opportunity. Faith stiffened at Connie Sterling’s code word for the contests, sweepstakes and assorted schemes that consumed her. Her code word for obsession. Of all people, Faith’s single mother should have figured out by now that life rarely offered something for nothing. Faith had survived more of her mother’s “opportunities” than she cared to remember. Like the earn-thousands-by-working-at-home offer. Or the no-money-down real estate course for which Connie borrowed some of Faith’s summer waitressing money earmarked for college textbooks to purchase the course’s CD recordings. Though her mother had promptly repaid the loan, it had still rankled Faith that the recordings sat unopened in the back of a hutch, Connie already seduced by the next sure thing.

  Faith had long ago schooled herself to spot the warning signs, horrified that her mother could devote days, weeks, months to obvious scams. Thankfully, before she left for college, she had convinced Connie to take a job in the packaging department at the local food-processing plant. Though she earned only a pittance, her mother at least would qualify for a pension and lifetime health benefits after ten years—a milestone now just months away, to Faith’s immense relief.

  Faith reminded herself of this approaching stability now, to keep from being too worried about this latest “opportunity,” whatever it was.

  “You know how these things always end up,” Faith said, massaging her lower lip.

  “I know. But I feel this one in my bones. If I win this time, I’ll never enter another contest again. You have my word. Moon and stars.”

  Moon and stars—words her mother could take to the bank, Faith thought ruefully, scanning the gradually emptying dining room once more. Her gaze fell on Piquant’s entrance, where the appearance of a stocky, balding male prompted the remaining staff to snap to attention—all but Faith, who inched back from the kitchen door a bit.

  The late arrival was a building resident and an NPR—kitchen shorthand for “nice people get rewarded,” or a diner meriting over-the-top service. He asked for Faith each time he dined, ever since she’d impulsively broken her own rule about steering clear of the clientele and trooped upstairs with the staff for a tour of his penthouse.

  Knowing her boss would have zero qualms about seating the high-roller regular, even at this hour, her heart sank. And, sure enough, she watched Xander clap the man on the back and steer him to a table, extending her shift and all but assuring she’d have to join him at some point for another round of awkward small talk.

  “Sorry, Mom. Big customer. Talk later.”

  Don’t make the mistake of socializing with a customer ever again, she scolded herself, returning to her station. Abandoning the kitchen’s protective cocoon made her anxious and vulnerable, like a soldier without armor or an asthmatic without an inhaler. She preferred connecting to Piquant’s patrons strictly via the dinner tickets fluttering on her rail like crisp white shirts on a clothesline: table seven’s coffee-burnished magret de canard, rare and rosy; blue-corn-dusted cobia with zucchini and
okra for the gluten-free-by-choice diner at table thirteen; table twenty-one’s salmon and quinoa salad, carrot-sesame vinaigrette dressing SOS (sauce on the side).

  “Very funny,” she muttered as Cesar, Piquant’s senior server, clipped the NPR’s ticket to the rail in front of her, a thick red heart encircling the man’s order.

  Faith adjusted her beanie and tightened her ginger ponytail before decimating a handful of garlic cloves on a cutting board. Scraping the dice into a sauté pan, she attempted to recall Connie’s words: something about a magazine? It was probably just some coupon, she decided. And besides, the odds were pretty much stacked against her mother winning anything at all.

  By the time she had goldened the garlic in its drizzle of olive oil and seared the man’s chicken paillard and fingerling potatoes to perfection, she had all but forgotten the exchange with her mother. As she bathed the entrée in its fragrant coriander extraction, Faith’s breathing steadied, the exercise so meditative she even managed a smile when Xander himself appeared to run the NPR’s meal.

  Once her boss exited the kitchen, Faith double-checked her station’s lineup of essential ingredients and oils and condiments for the next day. Satisfied with her mise en place, she grabbed her coat from a hook, about to depart to meet her friend Ellie for a drink, when the door swung back open and Xander reappeared.

  “Hey, Faith. Before you go—”

  “Don’t even say it.” Faith dropped her coat onto a kitchen stool. “I know. Somebody wants to pay their compliments to the chef.”

  2

  Beneath the string of bare bulbs, Ellie’s haloed solitaire glinted at Faith across the Copper Nickel’s high-top like a lighthouse beacon.

  “Sorry I’m so late. Blame the NPR,” Faith panted, out of breath from her dash down Atlantic Avenue, where she dodged the exuberant throng exiting the Barclays Center in hopes of catching her roommate before last call. Her breastbone burned, a consequence of the fast food fries inhaled on the way over.

  “English, please?” Ellie demanded, sliding a beer toward her.

  “Sorry. He was a VIP customer. A regular.”

  “Was he cute? Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  “Ugh. No way.” Faith swallowed a swig of beer.

  “Well, if not him, somebody else, then. I’d just like to see you loosen up for once. Have some fun.”

  “Please. Why is everyone so anxious for me to let loose? I like my life just fine the way it is.”

  “If you call working around the clock a life.”

  “I can’t help it if I love what I do.”

  “Then why is it the second someone tries to get close to you at work, you move on to the next restaurant?”

  “I do not. I’m just always on the lookout for a better opportunity.” Now who’s talking about opportunities? “Besides, Piquant is the dream job I’ve been waiting for. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Faith fervently believed that, having hitched her wagon to her boss’s. Xander had managed the first New York restaurant she ever worked in. He had grander aspirations for himself, and was biding his time until he could open his own establishment, he told her the night they met. When he finally acquired enough capital to open Piquant, Faith was the first person he hired for his kitchen.

  So what if he had overextended himself a little recently. The cash pinch was simply part of Piquant’s growing pains, he explained.

  Ellie’s fiancé, Dennis, sidled over and draped an arm around Faith. “Tough night, huh?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s over now.” Faith pressed her hands to her cheeks to cool them. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “Of course. Dennis, what do you think we should talk about?” Ellie’s eyes danced.

  “I don’t know. What do you want to talk about, babe?”

  Their coquettish back-and-forth made it obvious the two were bursting with urgent news to share. “Just tell me,” Faith pleaded. “You two are adorable, but I’ve had a crazy night. Let me guess: you finally booked the honeymoon.”

  “Not exactly.” Ellie licked her lips, then slid a paper across the table toward her. “It’s more like a babymoon.”

  3

  Ellie was pregnant.

  Faith squealed and got up to hug her friend.

  “See, these are the arms.” Ellie stroked the peanut-shaped mass on the paper in front of them.

  “That’s amazing,” Faith murmured, leaning over to examine the whorled image, which was no bigger than a thumbprint. Cocking her head, she found that it more closely resembled a Teletubby than a newborn—a Teletubby that would turn her happy-go-lucky friends into parents, she thought with amazement. As Faith listened to Ellie describe the bliss of hearing her baby’s heartbeat for the first time, she tried to visualize her friend balancing an infant on her lap in six months instead of the designer handbag occupying that space tonight.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Ellie.

  “Nothing. Just thinking ahead to this time next year.”

  “Right. Next year.” Ellie grabbed Dennis’s elbow and pulled him toward her, her blond head barely reaching his shoulder. “We should talk about next year, shouldn’t we, Dennis?”

  Dennis shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes. Right. Good idea.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Faith. No easy way to say this, but there’s been a change of plans.”

  Instantly, the vibe veered from celebratory to serious, like the abrupt zzz-zzzTTT of her mother’s old turntable needle skidding off a well-worn Carly Simon album and cutting off the music. As Dennis talked, Faith’s smile faded, and she rubbed at the anxiety prickling her neck. It now appeared that this baby, this Teletubby, would seriously impact Faith’s life as well, altering the game plan she and Ellie had mapped out for Faith to stay on in their apartment until the wedding. In that version, newlyweds Ellie and Dennis would assume full ownership of the well-appointed Park Slope townhouse Ellie’s parents bestowed on her at college graduation, while maid of honor Faith moved on to a new domicile.

  But as Dennis now explained, this infinitesimal being would force Faith out about five months earlier than anticipated—the five months she needed to replenish her savings after helping Xander out of his credit jam.

  Had the couple adhered to their original timetable, Faith could have dug herself out of her financial hole. But without an all-important security deposit in her pocket, she couldn’t go anywhere, except possibly to a friend’s couch. She’d sleep in Piquant’s kitchen before going back to those days.

  So even as Faith smiled and nodded at the couple, she couldn’t squelch the selfish seed of anxiety germinating in her own gut.

  “So are you sure you don’t mind moving out just a teensy bit sooner? I know the whole Craigslist thing can be a drag.” Ellie’s brow wrinkled with the question, and Faith noticed for the first time the slight mooning of her face that marked a pregnant woman, as though the life she carried filled her clear up to her cheekbones.

  “Of course I don’t mind.” Faith prayed she sounded sincere. If only a wade into the New York City rental market were her only worry.

  Ellie hugged her. “I knew you wouldn’t. Didn’t I tell you, Dennis?” They planned to convert Faith’s bedroom to the nursery, she explained. “Nursery, Faith. Can you believe I’m even saying the word?” As Dennis rubbed his fiancée’s back, Ellie further volunteered that their wedding would be postponed until after the baby’s birth, when she could squeeze back into the wisp of a designer wedding gown she had her eye on. “I know I’m going to be such a cow at nine months. It runs in my family.”

  And how amazing that Faith would now have not one but two very important roles: Ellie’s maid of honor and godmother to the new baby!

  Faith nodded, worrying in what universe her paycheck could cover the costs of Ellie’s bridal and baby showers in close proximity. No doubt Ellie and her socialite mother would expect celebrations of a certain caliber. Then there was the worry of wrangling time off from Piquant for both.

&
nbsp; Stop being so selfish, Faith admonished herself. Her best friend was going to be a mother, and this was how she reacted? Further plumbing her emotions, Faith realized she felt hurt that her best friend hadn’t confided in her about her pregnancy. Until now, they’d told each other everything.

  Perhaps there had been signs. Had Ellie offered a lame excuse the last time Faith suggested a girls’ night out? She couldn’t recall. She only knew that even when there was no food, their fridge always contained an open bottle of pinot grigio, corked with a hideous stopper in the shape of a bride, a wedding favor from a couple who divorced within the year, after the bride’s affair came to light.

  Forcing a smile, Faith held up her flute for more of the champagne that had materialized after the announcement (with a side of sparkling cider for Ellie).

  Perhaps she should take a page from her mother’s book and buy a lottery ticket on the way home—anything that might shore up her precarious circumstances now that Ellie quite literally had pulled the rug out from under her.

  4

  “How’s the hunt going, Faith? Got a new crib yet?” Tomas, Piquant’s lead bartender, polished another pilsner glass as it came out of the steamer and slid it onto an overhead rack.

  “I don’t, but my roommate does,” Faith joked. Ellie had already registered for dozens of baby items, including a futuristic pod crib with clear acrylic sides that turned into a toddler bed. “This whole apartment thing is stressing me out.”

  Indeed, in the four weeks since Ellie had announced her pregnancy, Faith had gone through the motions, visiting countless Brooklyn apartments, fudging her financial picture to get by the agents. Meanwhile, the apartment felt less and less her own, especially with the dog-eared What to Expect When You’re Expecting taunting her from their coffee table.

  Faith picked up Piquant’s leather cocktail menu and perused its offerings—all ironically named and featuring muddled produce of one sort or another: muddled orange slices and blackberries, even muddled celery. Xander claimed to have foreseen this trend.

  Faith felt a bit muddled at the moment—as though someone had taken a pestle to her well-ordered existence. She ran a finger down the list of drinks and paused at the Boxcar, a blend of London gin, Cointreau, fresh lime juice and egg white, reminded of Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny Alden, the heroes of The Boxcar Children, a book series she had devoured as a child. If those young orphans managed to survive in a boxcar, she certainly could blaze a new trail as well. Look at the way millennials had appropriated trailer parks lately.