Page 52 of The Treasure House

“Here you go.” Jake broke me out of my thoughts, sliding a tray with a bunch of red baskets onto the table.

“You made fries and onion rings,” I blurted, surprised. I hid the letter under the table.

He looked uncomfortable. “Don’t get weird about it. I just felt like fries,” he said as he sat down opposite me. His knees brushed mine under the table. I glanced up, wondering if he’d felt the zap of electricity like I had.

His gaze met mine. His blue-green eyes turned hazy, and my stomach rolled a lazy somersault. He had felt it.

“It’s a feast!” Flo declared, joining us, breaking the tension.

“Hold on, kid. You need to go wash your hands if you’ve been petting the dog and cat.” He pointed at the store. “There’s soap and a towel in the kitchen. Go wash up but don’t touch the fryer—that hot oil is dangerous.” Jake passed me a bottle of water and put a can of Moxie in front of Flo’s spot.

“She wanted—”

“I know,” he cut me off. “Hush and don’t spoil the joke.” His double dimples dented, showing his amusement. Hazel barked. Jake sighed and went to untie her and bring her over to the picnic table. Then he muttered under his breath about his sister being slow to pick up the damn dog.

“How come you don’t want to keep her?” I asked. “She seems like a nice dog. And she likes you.” That was an understatement—she was giving him the most adoring look.

He grunted. “I’m not ready.”

“Oh.” I hazarded a guess. “Those pictures inside, of the golden retriever. That was your last dog?”

He hid behind his plastic sunglasses—black and orange ones today, with the price sticker actually on the lens. “Ben. He died in March. He was old.” Jake seemed relieved when Flo came skipping back.

“I love onion rings,” she chattered, reaching for a handful. Then she spotted the orange can. “Hey!” She picked it up and shook it at Jake. “I hate Moxie.”

“Not anymore you don’t,” he said, eating a fry. “You’re a Mainer now. You’ll love it.”

“Mom’s a Mainah too,” Flo said, copying his accent. “She can drink it.” She parked the shook-up can in front of me.

“No, she’s not. She’s still from away. But you—you’re a kid, so you get to be a Mainer. Adults have to live here for a few decades before we decide they’re no longer from away.”

Flo shook her head at him.

Jake gently removed the Moxie can from in front of me. We both knew it would explode the moment someone cracked it open after the shaking Flo had given it.

In my entire life, I’d never eaten lobster before. I figured it would taste like crabsticks, and it kind of did, but it was a million times better. Jake’s place looked rough and ready, but his food was excellent. The bread from Doris’s was toasted crisp on the outside but was fluffy and soft on the inside; the mayonnaise and scallions were the perfect contrast to the lobster itself, which was fresh and delicious and not fishy at all.

“That’s gross,” Flo decided, sliding her lobster roll my way and reaching for the hot dog and more onion rings.

“Lucky your mom likes it,” Jake said, sounding pleased. His double dimple had reappeared.

“Do you open for weekends all year?” I asked, eyeing the second roll and wondering if I could fit it in.

Jake laughed. “God no. You should see this place in the winter. It’s like an ice planet. Blows a gale, gets buried in snow, and everything that’s not buried is frozen solid. I close up the lobster shack just after Halloween. Until then, we get tourists staying in the campground on weekends, popping out to see the fall color and enjoy some last seaside air before winter. But after October, there’s no one. Even most of the locals head off on vacation. Last year Alan and Roger went to Greece for a bit, and Elton went to stay with his kids in Massachusetts.”

“Are we going to be the only people here?” I asked, chagrined, not liking the thought. I imagined Oxeye empty except for us. It would be like living in a ghost town.

“No. Josie at the library stays. She prefers to take vacation in July. Colleen at the café usually sticks around, and so does old Tom at the gas station. And I’ll be here. Mostly. I might go to my sister’s place for Christmas, though.”

I heard Hazel whine and glimpsed Jake’s hand slipping under the table to toss her a fry. He caught me looking and scowled.

“Found anything interesting in the old house?” he asked, pushing the puppy away as she tried to lick his hand.

“It’s all interesting,” I admitted, “there’s just so much of it. Flo keeps finding all these cats.”

His eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Debussy, who jumped down from the neighboring picnic table.

“Porcelain cats, crystal cats, wooden cats.” Flo had lined them all up on the little desk in her room.