Page 60 of The Beachgoers
“In here, Mitch,” Elsa’s voice calls back, whiskey glass in hand. “Join us.”
Shane, still standing at the end of the island, hitches his head to Mitch. “Care for a shot?”
Carol steps in right behind this Mitch dude. “What are we drinking?” she asks, scooting past.
“Whiskey shots,” Maris answers. Sitting beside Jason at the island, she raises her half-filled glass.
Meanwhile, Mitch is moseying over to the pseudo bar Shane’s got going on. “Nice to meet you, bartender.” He stops and squints at Shane. “My oh my, you lookawfullyfamiliar.”
“Mitch,” Jason says from the other side of the island. “You might like to know this is Shane. Kyle’s brother.”
“Well, I declare.That’sthe resemblance.” Mitch tips up his safari hat. “Shane. Shane Bradford, is it?”
“That it is.” Shot glass in hand, Shane gives a slight salute back.
“Shane.” Jason motions across the island. “This here’s Mitch Fenwick. New friend to us all.”
“Mitch. Good to meet you,” Shane tells him with a nod.
Carol, in her crocheted halter top and gypsy skirt, lifts a covered platter from a barstool and sets the platter on the counter. Dragging that stool to the island then, she sits beside Eva. “Shane’s a lobsterman, Dad,” Carol says while settling on the seat. “We met on the beach one evening.”
“A lobsterman!” Mitch takes a glass of whiskey Shane slides his way. “How do you like that? So you live a rugged life on the sea.”
“I do. A life which has served me well,” Shane tells Mitch.
“How so, my friend?” Mitch asks.
“Well.” Shane fills a shot glass for himself, then sets the whiskey bottle down. “I’ve learned many things, many life lessons, out on the Atlantic. Standing on deck, contemplating the glass ocean some days. The sky.” He raises his drink to Mitch then. “And other lessons? Let’s just say there’s plenty I’ve learnedbestin her storm waters, when half that ocean is trying it’s damnedest to knock me off my feetandoff the boat.”
“Ah, yes. A wise man you are.” Mitch raises his own glass.
Many of them do, actually, right along with Mitch. Jason. Maris, Eva. Celia. “Down the hatch,” Shane tells them all, then takes his shot in one swallow.
Mitch does, too. After setting his empty glass on the island, he drags a hand along his goatee. “You know something, Shane? I’ve got this picture hanging in my cottage porch. Think you might appreciate it. It’s of a big hurricane wave toppling over my very own cottage. Hurricane Carol. My daughter’s named for it,” Mitch goes on, nodding to Carol. “You oughta come by and see it, son.”
“You should!” Carol agrees as Shane slides her a shot of whiskey. “Anytime. Just stop by.”
As Carol lifts her glass, Elsa breezes over. She takes that covered platter from the counter and sets it on the island top. Carefully, she lifts the platter’s cover to a plate of crispy, golden-brown nuggets sprinkled with tiny parsley flakes.
“Why, Elsa.” Leaning an elbow on that grand island, Mitch turns to her. “Those look like…”
“Hush puppies,” Elsa finishes. “I made them special for you and Carol tonight.”
“Special?” Cliff squeezes into an empty space around the island and has a closer look.
“Yes, Cliff. It’s a southern recipe. Those there are deep-fried cornbread balls.”
“And here’s the dipping sauce,” Celia says, setting down a bowl of creamy green-flecked sauce.
“That’s an herb-mayo sauce, made with my own fresh basil leaves.” Elsa motions to the red-pail herb pots in her garden window. “Just some southern hospitality for our southern neighbors. Or,neighbor, rather,” she says to everyone suddenly watching. “Mitch is a native southerner. Hails from South Carolina.”
“Much obliged, Elsa,” Mitch says as he gives her hand a brief squeeze.
When Matt, Vinny and Paige walk into the kitchen just then, Shane pours them each a shot.
“What’s the whiskey for, anyway?” Matt asks. “To go with something on the menu?”
Vinny downs his shot. “Pasta Bolognese, maybe?”
