Read Online Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) by Leila Howland - Free Book Online Page A

attached to the island’s most exclusive beach club, the Wampanoag Club, or the Wamp, as everyone who knew better called it. People were on the waitlist for twenty-five years or more to get in, and I could see why. With its graceful shingles, welcoming porch, combed beach, and cozy cabanas, it was the perfect picture of a classic New England summer. Even from the outside there was a casual elegance that filled you with a sense that this could be your home in some alternate universe where you were so rich you could fling fistfuls of money at the sunset as part of your evening prayers.
    The inside was pure Nantucket. The opposite of the Russian Tea Room, there was nothing opulent about this place, unless you counted the ruby-pink beach roses on every table, or the sapphire-bright hydrangea blooms on the hostess stand. The wooden floors were white. Brightly painted oars hung on the pale blue-gray walls. In the middle of the room was a smooth, gleaming bar, and beyond that a giant wraparound porch, protected from the elements by sheets of canvas-trimmed plastic, secured to the frame like sails to a mast. There was a jar on the hostess’s stand labeled OPERATION SMILE. PLEASE DONATE . I picked up a menu. The least expensive thing was a twenty-three-dollar artisanal grilled cheese.
    “Hello?” I asked, and when no one answered, I stepped out on the porch, which faced the Nantucket sound in three directions. It couldn’t be denied that it was a beautiful place, even on a foggy day like today. With the exception of perfectly spaced-out yellow and blue beach umbrellas, all slanted at the same angle, the view was identical to the one at Steps Beach, where Zack and I had spent so much time together last summer. Don’t think of Zack, I told myself. Don’t. He doesn’t deserve it.
    “A million-dollar view, right?” I turned to see a small, sinewy woman my mom’s age with bright blue hair framing eyes so brown they were black. Bright blue hair is not something you see every day on Nantucket. “What can I do for you? We aren’t open until noon.”
    “Actually, I’m looking for a job. My name is Cricket Thompson.” I winced. I was hoping she wouldn’t be able to place me, but people don’t forget a name like mine.
    “I already interviewed you, didn’t I? Yeah, I remember. You bombed the wine test. Like”—she made explosion sounds with the accompanying hand gestures—“bombed.”
    “Charlie from Three Ships sent me,” I said. “He thought I’d be a good fit.”
    “Is that so?” She pushed her glasses up on her head like a headband. “You didn’t tell me you knew Charlie.”
    “And I’ve been studying. Ask me anything.” Please, make it easy.
    “Okay. What would you recommend with a lobster roll?”
    “Pinot grigio, to cut through the richness.” I was ready for that one. On Nantucket, lobster rolls were as ubiquitous as sand.
    “Good.” She drummed her fingers on the bar. “How about the roasted-pig confit?”
    “A French pinot.” According to Wine Made Simple , French pinot was almost always a good choice.
    “Well done. You have been studying. One more.” Don’t let me down, Wine Made Simple. “Hamachi crudo, our most popular dish this summer.”
    What the hell was hamachi crudo? I swallowed, and remembered that the book said that when in doubt, the best wine to order was simply one you enjoyed, no matter the dish. The best drink I’d ever had was champagne, last summer, on the Fourth of July, in a little rowboat with Zack.
    “Dom Perignon,” I said.
    Karla’s face opened up in a smile. “Best answer yet.”
    “I know I can do this. I really think you should give me a chance. I’m an athlete, so I’m used to working under pressure.”
    “An athlete, huh?”
    “I’m playing lacrosse at Brown in the fall.”
    “All right, Cricket Thompson, I’ll give you a shot.”
    “Yay!” I actually jumped.
    “Calm down. We’ll give it a week. See how it goes.”
    “Thank you so