Page 23 of Love Always

I shake my head.

Claire sets the beer bottle between her knees and cups her hands to her mouth so her shout will carry. “Laurel!”

Out of the darkness, she comes, with Colleen by her side. She looks relaxed, and her smile is genuine. I couldn’t get near her all evening whether by design or poor luck. It doesn’t matter now because she’s headed straight toward us. This girl is killing me—every time I see her, my face flushes. Earlier, she bumped into me after coming in through the back screen door, after restocking the cooler with two beers in each hand. I watched through the kitchen window as she shoved them deep in ice. I made for the door to try and talk with her, but she stopped for conversation with the thousand-year-old woman just as I opened the screen. It caught her off balance and she’d laid a hand on my forearm, her icy fingers on my flesh made my cock stiffen.

Then with a laugh, she disappeared inside without even a glance in my direction.

“This man,” Claire says to her sister, pointing at me, “doesn’t know how to eat a lobster.”

When Laurel glances up at me, her face registers nothing except mild amusement. “Well, that, my friend, can be fixed.”

They make me sit down in a chair right next to the table with a crock of melted butter and glittering tools for hunting down the sweet lobster meat in every crevice possible.

I’m a street taco man myself, and we certainly didn’t eat Maine lobster on the ranch. As I watch her hands and listen to her perfunctory directions, it’s clear she’s helped many a newbie learn how to crack and eat lobster. About halfway through her demonstration I stop her. Yes, I wanted critical information but mostly I need the cardboard plate to stop jostling in my lap. She’s kneeling by the firelight and every time she turns the lobster over or picks it up or pushes the meat out with a fork I continued to stiffen.

I try to divert my own attention. “When do you actually eat the lobster?”

She stops for a moment. “What do you mean?”

For the first time Colleen speaks. “I think he wants to eat some now.”

There is a very nice pile ready to go on my plate and Claire had ladled out a little cup of butter.

“Laurel is a hoarder,” Claire explains. “She doesn’t touch her lobster until she has everything extracted and she has a nice, neat pile. Which is great if you have patience. Bryce would you like to explain how you eat your lobster?”

Bryce steps over and stares at the pile of lobster on my plate. “Okay that’s just sad.”

Laurel smiles “I’m showing him the proper way.” She looks at me. “Believe me patience pays off and you’ll thank me later.”

Bryce shakes his head. “I eat as fast as I can get it out of the shell. Like a machine.”

“Yeah, it’s disturbing to watch,” says Finn.

“This,” says Bryce, looking at the tidy pile on my plate, “is a waste of time.”

“I think you’re ready to go for it,” says Laurel. She leans back to a squat and then stands and brushes sand from her jeans. “You’re going to enjoy it. Oh,” she adds as she walks away, “be sure to put the shells in the big pan there.” With that, she and Colleen walk out to the water sipping beer and several more guests stop to chat.

Just as I’m finishing up and toss my plate in the fire, Jackson shouts from the house and makes his way down the sandy slope. It’s dark now and he is silhouetted against the lights of The Inn. Most everyone has returned to the porch and back yard for dessert and more drinks.

“Did the Proctors show up?” asks Finn.

“Yep, about an hour ago. I got a text confirmation and I got a visual. He’s with Mom and Dad till Sunday mid-afternoon. Mr. Proctor texted that he’d contact you an hour before they depart.”

“Perfect,” says Finn. “No more shop talk. Grab yourself some food, you just made it.”

“Is Nic here?”

Finn shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Claire rubs his shoulder. “That business partner of yours is so mysterious.”

Twenty minutes later after Jackson tosses his plate in the fire as well, the two of us head up to the dessert table. Party lights dance on thick wires the length of the porch. Though half the crowd has moved inside, many are still milling about on both front and back porches.

“Oh my God, what is this! Look at this spread,” says Jackson like a dorm-fed kid home from college on the weekend.

Chloe rises from a wicker armchair, clearly happy to give a tour of the dessert table.

“So that’s the crème brulée,” I say pointing to several individual ceramic pots with a thin sheath of shiny brown caramelized sugar on the top.