Page 15 of Considering Us

“You’ve still got me, Dev. And they’re damn good cookies. Did you bring any enchiladas?”

...

“Hey, what are you up to?” I asked Andrea as I got out of my car outside of Wentworth House. She was sitting on a bench eating an ice cream cone. Raspberry. It looked delicious. My stomach rumbled.

“Georgy Porgy’s closes this weekend,” she said. “I hear you’re an ice cream fan. Better get some while you still can.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “When do they open up again?” I had gotten so accustomed to my Vanilla Toffee fix over the past month that I hadn’t thought about what I would do during a fall and winter hiatus.

“Usually May first,” she said. “Coming back from Boston, I assume? How’s David Anders?”

“Good,” I said, not wanting to give Andrea any information that could be spread to others at the local watering holes or elsewhere. “It’s always nice to see him.”

“So, I need some help,” she began, and I tried to relax. I quickly learned that leading the dining services involved a lot more than feeding three meals a day to the students and any staff and their families that showed up. There were a millionlittle extra events and needs and things to keep track of. “Did you notice the scaffolding and tarps at the entrance to campus?”

“Yeah, you can’t miss them,” I said. I had meant to ask the maintenance staff what was going on, but something else always came up, and I was distracted. “What’s going on?”

“There is a local artist—actually, he’s an alum—named Ward Connelly who is creating an art installation for us. It’s his gift to the school, and he’s world-renowned, so it’s a big deal. It’ll be the first thing people see when they drive through the gates of Rockwood. Everyone is very excited about it.”

“Cool. So, they’re working on this installation under these drapes and stuff until it’s ready to be revealed, I’m guessing?” I had worked with a few artists and their families in Boston, plus hosted numerous dinners and receptions for them at restaurants I had worked at, so this wasn’t anything new.

“Exactly. And he wants to unveil everything at an event next Friday, weather permitting. Even if there’s a bit of rain, we can likely still pull it off with tents. I’d love for you to meet with him to come up with a catering menu. The Board of Trustees will all be in attendance, so we want it to be nice. There will be champagne for adults, so we need to be careful about student access, but I can give you the name of a bartender we’ve worked with before who will be fine given the circumstances.”

“Okay, sounds good,” I said. “Email me the details, and I’ll figure it out.” It was short notice, but it didn’t sound like a ton of work.

“I’ll tell Ward that you’ll meet him at The Barnacle at 9 PM tomorrow then,” she said, throwing her napkin and the paper cone wrapper in the trash barrel next to the bench. “So nice this isn’t overflowing with cardboard boxes anymore,” she mused.

“Um, where’s The Barnacle?” I didn’t know all the Portsmouth bars and restaurants yet, and this one sounded nautical and interesting. I imagined portholes for windows andlots of life preservers and anchors. Maybe a big whale hanging from the shiplap-covered wall.

“It’s right underneath where you work every day,” she said with a wink. “Ask Kyle. He’ll tell you all about it.”

...

The line at Georgy Porgy’s stretched around the side of the little house and past the picnic tables, but I was ready to patiently wait my turn. Besides, I needed to process this new information. I wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by taking a meeting with Ward Connelly, the artist, or the prospect of throwing together this event for the most important people in the Rockwood community. No, none of that. Whatwasbothering me was the fact that there was apparently aspeakeasyof all things underneath where I had worked and cooked for over a month. I felt stupid and naïve. I didn’t even know where the damn stairs were to reach a lower floor. Or floors. For all I knew, there was a whole underground village at Rockwood.

Kyle and who I presumed to be his daughter Annie, based on the pictures he had shown me, were standing in the halfway point of the line, and he motioned for me to join them. The little boy behind them yelled, “Hey, she’s cutting!” and Kyle fished a dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Add another scoop, kid. Get espresso chip and stay up all night.” The boy and his mother stared at Kyle with their mouths open. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s my dad,” Annie said, shaking her head. “He does this stuff all the time.”

“Hi,” I said, giving Annie a small wave, not knowing what else to do. “I’m Devon. I went to school with your dad a long time ago.”

“I know who you are,” she said, pointing her chin up knowingly. “You made the French toast I had for breakfast.”

“I wish I had,” I said. “But my team did. I was making food to bring to a very hungry basketball player. Do you ever watch the Celtics?”

“When I stay with my dad,” she said. “We watch all the sports.”

“Well, I cook for David Anders. He’s super tall and loves cookies.”

“Cool,” she said. “Dad, I want to try the Puddin’ Pie ice cream tonight.”

“They’re really playing up the Georgy Porgy theme this year, huh?” Kyle said. “Not sure if they’re going nursery rhyme or Toto cult classic song, though.”

“Toto sang a song about Georgy Porgy?” I asked. Kyle was an endless font of weird knowledge.

“You bet. You would never know it was the same band that sang ‘Africa.’” Kyle looked up at the menu board. “Vanilla Toffee, I assume?” he asked me. “My treat.”

I shook my head. “You don’t need to,” I said. “Especially since I need to get some information from you. I hate to occupy your time with Annie here, but I need a little intel.”

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