Page 61 of The Beachgoers
“Oh, that soundsgood,” Paige adds, standing beside him.
Elsa eyes the three of them. “The whiskey, FYI, is an ingredient for therelish.”
“Relish?” Eva asks from where she sits on a barstool beside Maris.
“For the hot dogs,” Elsa explains, nudging the dipping sauce closer to the hush puppies.
At which point, the whole darn room goes quiet. Shane can’t miss it. Some invisible curtain dropped. Until suddenly, the gang starts up with curious questions.
Hot dogs?one voice asks.
I could’ve stayed home and thrown a hot dog on my own grill, another admits.
Hot dogs for…wedding food?
I mean…wieners?someone tosses out there.
Elsa’s schlepping it, man.
And so it goes until Elsa grabs a wooden serving spoon and bangs it on the island-top.
“Basta!” she calls out. “Enough!”
When that quiets the restless and hungry crew, she continues.
“News flash, okay? You’re all going to eat notonlymy hot dogs,” Elsa insists, “but you’re going to eat yourwords, too. Now get out of my kitchen!” In her black, lace-trimmed jumpsuit, she opens her arms wide and shoos each and every one of them through the doorway into her dining room. The women, Celia included. Maris and Eva. Carol. Then Cliff. Paige and Vinny.Everyone. Lastly, Mitch—who strolls past with a wink and an easy smile as he tips his hat at her.
But tips that hat in such a way that as soon as he’s in the dining room, Elsa swipes her plant mister, tilts up her head and discreetly gives her neck a quick spritz before following them all.
But discreet doesn’t get past Shane. Or Jason. Both of whom managed to step out of Elsa’s way as she herded the crowd. Both of whom raise an eyebrow at her personal cooldown.
“It’s either the heat,” Jason says matter-of-factly. “Or Mitch Fenwick.”
Shane throws a suspicious squint at Elsa hurrying into the dining room now. But when Jason slides his empty shot glass across the island, Shane turns back and refills it. Tops off his own glass, too, before raising it to Jason in a toast.
“Once more—with feeling,” Shane says, before they both toss their liquor down.
* * *
Everyone spilled into the dining room. Some jockey for a seat. Others clutch their whiskey shot glasses.
As Jason makes his way around the long wood-planked table, and touches the tops of Elsa’s distressed-navy French country chairs, Maris motions him to the seat beside hers. Heading there, Jason takes it all in: the talking; the banter; the seashells leaning against flickering lanterns on the set table; the jars of wildflowers and blades of beach grass; the mismatched antique china plates set out for some fine hot-dog cuisine. Beside a chipped-paint, built-in cupboard, a piece of driftwood strung with rope hangs on the wall. Painted across the driftwood are the words,The best memories are made gathered ’round the table.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Jason says, nodding to the sign as he sits with Maris.
Maris nods. “Lauren made that,” she tells him just as someone taps his shoulder.
“Jason,” Trent says, standing behind him. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Jason squeezes Maris’ hand, then gets up and follows Trent back into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” Jason asks Trent while maneuvering around Carol carrying the tray of hush puppies to the dining room, and moving past Paige holding the side door open for Rob—who’s bringing in a platter of fresh-grilled eggplant slices. Not to mention the bride and groom giving good-bye hugs to Jerry and his wife in a small crowd on the patio. Jason follows Trent to a far—and empty—corner of the kitchen.
“Have to take off,” Trent tells Jason while downing a hush puppy he’d swiped. “Hitting the road to Cape Cod. For my wife’s family reunion I mentioned?”
“Yeah, sure. Glad you made it for the festivities, though.”
“Me, too.” Trent glances past Jason. “But I’m sad to miss the party.”
Jason hitches his head to the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the island. “If that’s any indication, Trent, the night’s just beginning.”
