As I climbed the stairs, I looked up toward the main house. The entire back of it was lined with bay windows—making the most of those views. I tried to see if anyone was inside. I could barely see inside at all, the house dark.
But there was a red sports car in the driveway, a Porsche, shiny and bright. It looked out of place on the gravel, too showy, which reminded me of when my father threw parties while we were growing up. Fancy cars would fill the driveway, squeeze in on every side of my father’s beat-up Volkswagen Bug. My father kept that car during his rise to fame, and my entire childhood. He never traded up—even though he could have, financially. It wasn’t about rules, he said. It was about loyalty.
When I got back to the guesthouse, I found Ethan sitting on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette. He was in his fisherman gear.
He motioned in my direction. “And she’s still here,” he said.
“Do you live here or something?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I live near the docks.”
“So what do you want?”
“I’m friendly with the people who live next door.” He paused. “The wife, really.”
“The celebrity no one will dare name?” I said.
He nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “The wife.”
He smiled, and then I understood what he meant. He was friends with the celebrity wife.
“Seriously?” I said. “And who smokes anymore?”
He motioned toward the Porsche. “Her husband came home unexpectedly. So I’m hiding out. The cigarette is just my cover.”
“I’m sure!”
He put the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, as though proving the point. “And besides, people have all kinds of arrangements. If anyone should know that . . .”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He looked up thoughtfully. “I’m sure that’s true,” he said.
I sat on the bottom step, too exhausted to figure out if he meant that, or if he was still making fun. “Sammy went inside?”
“Safe and sound.”
I must have made a face, the stench of the fish coming off of him strongly.
“Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to shower yet.”
“There are worse things,” I said.
He smiled. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since we met,” he said. “Thank you.”
“So what do you fish, anyway?”
“Today? Swordfish. But it depends. I’m part of a seafarers’ collective out here with Thomas. We fish sustainably, so that kind of dictates how it goes.”
He leaned in.
“Sustainably means fresh caught, local fish. Not a lot of food miles, softened carbon footprint.”
“I know what it means.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how deep the fraud went. If they taught you anything.”
I ignored him. “How’s Thomas doing? Rain didn’t want to talk about it.”
“He’ll be fine. But he’s not going on the water anytime soon. So my summer just got a little more complicated.”
“I’m sure you can rally up the fish on your own.”
“I’m guessing that’s true.” He tilted his head and considered. “Are you looking for some work? While you’re here?”
“I can’t smell like you.”
He smirked. “I wasn’t offering you a job. I just happen to know that the first bait shop on the harbor is looking for extra help. I could probably get you some work at the cash register.”
I laughed loudly.
“I know it’s not sexy, but . . .”
“You think?”
He put up his hands in surrender. “I was saying that I would put in a good word. That’s all.”
We heard a door slam and both looked up to see his girlfriend’s husband walk out the front door and head to his red sports car. He was tall and handsome, in a pretty-boy kind of way. Tall and a little too thin. City slick.
He looked over at us on the steps. “Ethan! I thought that was you,” he said.
Ethan waved. “Hey there, Henry. Did you just get into town?”
“I ’coptered in a couple of hours ago,” he said. Then he turned toward me. “You look familiar.”
My heartbeat sped up, and I tried to act casual. “I don’t think so,” I said.
Ethan pointed. “Sunshine Mackenzie née Stephens, the TV chef who was just hacked.”
I forced a smile, elbowing Ethan in his side.
“Oh, sorry, the internet chef who was just hacked. Never quite made it to TV. Though there is a great billboard over in Sag.”
Henry smiled back. “That’s right! I think my wife is a fan of yours. And I know we have your cookbook.”
“She’s not,” Ethan whispered, and continued waving. “And they don’t.”
“Are we going to see you later, buddy?” Henry called out. “Maybe get a little surf in?”
“Definitely,” Ethan said.
Henry gave him the thumbs-up sign.
Then he disappeared into his car and peeled out.
After he was gone, I looked at Ethan, who shrugged. “I’ve provided them with fish for some dinner parties, so he knows we’re friendly,” he said. “He just doesn’t know how friendly.”
“That’s lovely,” I said. “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?”
“Please, in front of the guy who used ‘helicopter’ as a verb?”
“I’m trying to keep a low profile. Until I can pretend this never happened.”
He considered. “No offense, but isn’t pretending how you got into this mess? If you ask me . . .”
“I didn’t.”
“Seems to me that you probably should stop pretending.”
He got up and headed toward the house, the one where I grew up, which now belonged to his celebrity girlfriend.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the job at the fish shop,” he called out as he walked away. “I’ll put in a good word.”
“And why would you do that?”
He turned. “I don’t know. ’Cause I can.”
“Yeah, where I come from, people don’t just do nice things for each other.”
He smiled, motioned around himself. “This is where you come from.”
21
The truth was that I did need a job.
I needed a specific job—and it was why I had acquiesced to coming to Montauk. I needed a job that would start me on the road to redemption: a new show, a new crack at the whole thing. I was already formulating a plan in my mind. A new story, if you will. Sunshine returns to her childhood home to embrace who she really is, and in the process learns to cook, and for real this time. But not just from anyone. From a master chef. From the master chef of the Hamptons.
It would be the first step in getting it all back. The cookbooks, the show.
I already had the feel of the new show worked out. It would be elegant, real, beachy, earthy, and wish-fulfilling. We’d shoot it in a kitchen that looked out onto the Atlantic Ocean, with fresh fish on the counter, a centerpiece of lemons and white seashells.
I would emerge as a pared-down version of myself, tanned and happy and more effortlessly graceful than before. All that would be needed was a quick mea culpa that when you surround yourself with the wrong people, you can become wrong yourself.
But now I had surrounded myself with everyone right—my family, my old friends, and an extraordinary chef, my new friend, who anointed me as his protégé. And I couldn’t wait to share new, homespun and delicious recipes from the sea.