Trouble Island Read online

  They were all staring at us.

  “Um,” I said, looking at the collection of largely gray-haired men and women sitting around a narrow sandwich bar and at two picnic-style tables. None of them looked happy about our arrival. “Is there a bathroom in here?”

  Silently, five or six of them pointed to the back of the store. I nodded my thanks, and Frank and I plowed in that direction, relieved to find an empty men’s room behind the beer fridge.

  “What was that?” Frank asked as we went about our business.

  “I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “Maybe it’s what Colton was getting at—the locals don’t like outsiders?”

  “I thought that was on the island. And how do they know we’re outsiders?”

  I snorted. I didn’t often get the opportunity to explain logic to my oh-so-rational brother. “Frank, look at the size of this town. How many people do you think live here?”

  “Oh.” He sighed. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing,” I replied, going over to the sink to wash my hands, “but I’m starving. I’m ordering a lobster roll.”

  Maybe I was imagining it, but the tension seemed just a bit lighter as we walked over to the lunch counter. Still, I felt every eye on me as I got the attention of the clerk, a big older guy with bushy gray eyebrows wearing a red plaid flannel shirt. “Uh, hi.”

  He leaned an elbow on the counter but didn’t say anything—he just nodded.

  When I get nervous, I tend to get kind of chatty, and this time was no exception. “I’m Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank. We’re visiting the area, and wow, this place is so beautiful! You are all so lucky, getting to take this in every day.” I gestured to the back of the store, hoping he’d get that I was talking about the harbor beyond.

  Everyone else in the store was silent, listening, but only the clerk nodded. He raised an eyebrow. “Ayuh. Some of us wonder why you’d live anywhere else.”

  I heard some chuckles behind me and let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, seriously.”

  The laughter died down, and the silence grew uncomfortable again. The clerk nodded again, like he was encouraging a small child. “Did you want somethin’?”

  “Yes!” I cried, suddenly remembering my mission. “Can I get three lobster rolls to go, please? One with extra butter?”

  He frowned. “Extra butter? All right. Anything else?”

  I shook my head. “That’s it. Thanks.” As the clerk turned and got out three old-fashioned hot dog rolls, then buttered the sides and slid them on the grill, I could feel the stares of the other customers. I worried that I’d start blurting out more random info any minute. Do these people want to hear about my midterms?

  “You staying at the Plucky Seal?” the clerk asked suddenly, flipping the hot dog buns to grill the other side. “Abigail didn’t mention you.”

  “Oh, no,” Frank said. He was standing awkwardly about five feet behind me, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he does when he’s feeling out of his element. “We’re, ah, we’re about to head for Rubble Island. I hear it’s really—”

  The clerk whirled around, nearly flapping the tail of his flannel shirt onto the grill. “Rubble Island?” he asked curiously. “What takes you out there? The ferry won’t be leaving until the morning.”

  “Actually,” I said, “we’re going by private boat.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” he said.

  “I mean, we’re not paying for it,” I blurted. “We’re actually here with Colton Sparks. Do you know him? He’s the YUM! Network guy. You know—‘I’m sorry, your cooking is a massive failure, and you’re CUT!’ Zzzzzzing.” I sliced my hand through the air like the graphic of a knife that always accompanied the famous tagline.

  The clerk stared at me, zero warmth on his face. “I know who Colton Sparks is,” he replied in a growl, then spun around, pulled a big plastic container of seafood out of a small fridge, and began piling up the hot dog rolls with lobster meat. When he was done, he made a big show of turning back around to me, scowling, and dribbling extra melted butter from a small ceramic pitcher onto the last one. “Like that?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, somehow feeling ashamed. “That’s, uh… fine.”

  He wrapped each roll in waxed paper, took my cash, then pushed them across the counter without another word.

  “Thanks,” I said, but he’d already turned back to the grill to clean it.

  Every eye in the store still seemed to be on me, but the mood had changed. Whereas the locals had originally seemed curious—with maybe a touch of bemusement—now it felt like their expressions were outright hostile. Several people were scowling, and as I made my way back to Frank, a few of them huffed before turning away.

  I was almost at the door, already looking forward to getting out of the place, when the clerk’s voice suddenly boomed toward me again: “That Colton Sparks… is he out there now?”

  I hesitated, then glanced at Frank. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to do either. Colton was a celebrity, and I didn’t want to put him in a weird position by announcing his location to a packed café. He probably got approached by people he didn’t really want to talk to all day long. But at the same time, I couldn’t really deny Colton was there, since I’d just said we were getting on his boat.

  “Um, yeah,” I finally said.

  The clerk straightened up like a toy soldier and threw down the rag he’d been using to clean. He marched out from behind the counter, past us, and onto the main street, and then toward the pier.

  “Uh-oh,” Frank muttered.

  “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  Frank nodded past me. “Only one way to find out.” Right. I darted out the door and ran after the clerk, Frank hot on my heels. Behind us, some of the customers from the general store were following a little more slowly.

  We rounded the building just in time to see the clerk running to the end of the pier where the yacht was docked. Colton, Gemma, and Aunt Trudy were all sitting on a narrow plastic chest, chatting and laughing.

  The clerk ran right up to them and poked his finger into Colton’s stunned face. I caught up just in time to hear him growl, “You’re not welcome here!”

  Shock—even fear—flickered in Colton’s eyes, but it lasted less than a second. He stood up, jutting his chin into the air, and looked down his nose at the man. “That’s fine. We’re just leaving.” He gestured to Gemma and Aunt Trudy, who hurriedly got up, grabbed their things, and started down the gangplank to the boat.

  “Not fast enough,” the clerk replied. “You know, I got some good friends on Rubble Island. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be welcome there, either.”

  Colton rolled his eyes and huffed. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not in charge, then.” He glanced in our direction. “Get on the boat, boys.”

  I wasn’t about to argue. Frank and I scurried down the gangplank. As soon as our feet hit the deck, we heard the yacht’s engine start up. Colton was right behind us. A deckhand, a guy not much older than Frank, appeared from the cabin and pulled the gangplank back onto the boat. We exchanged a nod, but my attention quickly cut back to the man on the pier.

  As we pulled away, he reared back and spit in our direction, and the other general store customers who’d followed us onto the pier cheered.

  The boat was moving faster now, and soon the pier and then the whole harbor retreated into miniature. Still, no one aboard said anything. I looked from Frank to Aunt Trudy: What the—?

  “Well,” Colton said as the yacht charged toward the open ocean, “I guess he was a Paolo Vasquez fan.”

  We all laughed uncomfortably. Paolo Vasquez was the host of Spice Roulette, the second-most-popular show on the YUM! Network. He and Colton had a rivalry that always seemed kind of staged to me.

  I looked over at Frank. We locked eyes, and I could tell my brother was thinking the same thing I was: That seemed a lot more personal than just not being a fan.

  3 WELCOME
TO RUBBLE ISLAND

  FRANK

  WOW,” AUNT TRUDY MURMURED APPRECIATIVELY as the yacht sailed past Heron Rock and Seal Rock, the two tiny islands that Gemma had said marked the entrance to Rubble Island’s harbor. “I knew it would be beautiful, but I couldn’t have imagined this.”

  Each of the smaller islands was made up of granite cliffs fringed by long wild grass, with tiny spruce forests rising from the rock. The sun was dipping low in the sky—Gemma explained that sunset here was about half an hour earlier than we were used to—and it cast a gorgeous pinky-gold light over the islands and the rolling sea. The sky was a vibrant violet blue, with a few silver-tinged puffy clouds.

  “This is pretty special,” Joe agreed. “I can see why people make the effort to come out here.”

  Once we were past Heron and Seal Rocks, Rubble Island spread out before us. It was small—about five square miles, Colton had said—rocky and forested on one half and full of grassy fields on the other. As we drew closer to the pier, we could see sheep and goats grazing. The island’s many hills were dotted with modest wooden houses, some more like cabins than year-round dwellings. There was also a lighthouse poking out from a high rise and a small, clearly old, white schoolhouse a little farther along.

  The Sea Spray Inn took up most of the land facing the pier. Gemma had told us it dated back to the early 1900s. It was long and rectangular, with weathered gray wood shingles, multipaned rectangular windows, and a gabled roof. Two blocky outbuildings, both made of the same weathered wood, sat to the right of the main building. It looked like there was a tiny porch on the very top of the main building’s roof. I remembered from my research it was called a widow’s walk. The wife of a sailor might have stood up there, looking hopefully for his ship to return to port. Even from a distance, I could see some tables set up on the inn’s wide covered porch.

  “Does it look small to you?” Joe whispered, sidling up beside me at the deck’s railing.

  “The restaurant, the Salty Duck?” I asked, and he nodded. “Kind of. It’s a weird place to hold this big awards presentation.”

  Someone cleared his throat right behind us, and I started. Colton was gazing at the inn and restaurant. “Actually, the Salty Duck’s chef, Polly Hopkins, is a close friend and a pioneer in farm-to-table dining. I know the chefs coming for the Golden Claw Awards will fall in love with Rubble Island, just like I have!”

  Before we could respond, he walked over to where the deckhand we’d seen before was setting up the gangplank. It looked like we were almost ready to disembark.

  I took a deep breath of fresh sea air as I stepped onto the fishing pier. A few fishermen in waterproof overalls were unloading their boats onto a pickup truck nearby, but they took one glance at our group, scowled, and looked away.

  I nudged Joe. “Did you see that?”

  “How they just kind of scowled at us? Yeah.”

  “Do you think we’re going to be seen as the enemy here? Like, how much can one island hate a celebrity chef? I know some people say Who Gets Cut? is rigged, but…”

  “It’s not rigged,” Joe replied. “It’s just that anyone who tries to sous vide anything gets bounced. But really, they should know better.”

  Aunt Trudy clucked behind him. “So true, Joe. Sous vide is the worst. What you gain in flavor, you lose in texture.”

  One of the fishermen seemed to overhear and glared at us.

  “You saw that, right?” I hissed at Joe.

  “Yep.”

  As we left the pier, I could feel the eyes of the fishermen on us. And I couldn’t help wondering whether their chilly reception had something to do with what the cashier had said (and spat) in East Harbor. Was anyone happy to see Colton Sparks on Rubble Island?

  As we caught up to Colton, we could hear him complaining again. “Where’s my truck?”

  “Wait, I thought cars weren’t allowed on the island,” I said before I thought better of it. Colton looked at me like he’d been unpleasantly reminded that I could talk. “I mean, the fishermen have one. But—I thought—”

  “There are very few cars on the island,” Colton agreed. “And they’re very strict about who can own one. In fact, you have to have a disability to even bring a golf cart here. Someone was supposed to bring a truck to the pier for us to unload our things. Clearly, they forgot.”

  I glanced up at the inn, then back at the yacht. The crew had already brought up several coolers and a pallet of ingredients. It didn’t seem like stuff we could easily hoof up the hill. “Uhhh…”

  “It’s fine,” Colton said crisply. “We’ll just have to walk to the inn to remind them. For now, you boys and Trudy should carry your luggage.”

  I glanced at Joe. Good thing we packed light. That “How to Plan a Capsule Wardrobe for Your Vacation to a Remote New England Island” pin that Joe had found on Pinterest had really helped. I grabbed Aunt Trudy’s roller suitcase and nodded her on. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”

  The gravel road that led up the hill to the inn was mostly deserted, but a few people were standing around in front of what looked like a coffee shop. An older woman was perusing flyers at a wooden bulletin board next to the ferry ticket office. Maybe I was just getting paranoid, but I swore I could feel their unfriendly eyes on us as we passed by. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been on a vacation where everyone at the destination hated me. That seemed like a bad marketing plan on the part of the resort.

  At the top of the hill, we turned right onto a dirt path that led through a pretty rock garden up to the wide covered porch. Double doors framed by windows were labeled RECEPTION. “Jacques? Are you there?” Colton called as he led the way inside.

  As we all trooped into the elegant lobby, I took in dark hardwood floors, cream-colored walls, and an old-fashioned reception desk that looked like it might have been there since the early 1900s. A tall, thin, middle-aged man with dark hair and a neat beard strode in from an adjoining room. “Colton!” he cried warmly.

  Colton moved forward and embraced the man. When they parted, he turned to introduce us. “Everyone, this is my dear friend, and the owner of the Sea Spray Inn, Jacques Lemont.”

  “Welcome, welcome.” As Jacques spoke, I could hear the shadow of a French accent. And then I noticed that the lobby smelled amazing—like roasted meat, garlic, and delicate spices. My stomach growled. The lobster roll had been tasty, but the sea had tossed us back and forth so much on the ride over, it had been hard to enjoy it.

  Jacques looked at us, smiling. “Gemma, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Same to you,” she replied with a smile. “We’re all very happy to be here. Let me introduce…”

  Gemma went around the room. If the innkeeper was surprised that Joe and I had been added to the guest list, he showed no hint of it. “I’m so pleased you all could make it and that you’ll have the opportunity to see some of the island. Please join me in the Salty Duck for dinner.”

  He opened a glass-paned door that led into an adjoining room. Inside, we found a cozy dark-walled dining room with heavy wood furniture and a blazing fireplace on the far wall. Spring had yet to take the chill out of the air, so the warmth felt amazing.

  “This place is so lovely!” Aunt Trudy said, looking around appreciatively.

  “Thank you so much,” a voice called, and then suddenly a door on the wall with the fireplace swung open and an older woman stepped out, smiling. She had warm hazel eyes and steel-gray hair cut into a straight bob. “I’m Polly. Welcome to the Salty Duck! Oh, Colton!” She ran forward and embraced him warmly. “Where is she? Where is your assistant chef who won the contest?”

  Colton leaned back and introduced Aunt Trudy. “She simply blew me away with her recipe for crab lasagna,” he explained. “And I knew after speaking to her on the phone that I had a true gourmet on my hands.”

  Aunt Trudy blushed. “Oh, you,” she said, swatting at Colton, but he only chuckled. “You’ll see,” she said, turning to Polly. “When we’re all working together in the kit
chen, I’m going to have a hard time living up to that introduction! I’m really just a humble home chef who loves food.”

  Polly nodded. “I don’t doubt it, but I know how hard it is to impress Colton. And from what I’ve heard, you really impressed him.” She paused. “Although I’m afraid I won’t be in the kitchen with you. I have a family obligation in Massachusetts that unfortunately can’t be postponed.… I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh,” our aunt said, looking from Polly to Colton. I could tell she was disappointed not to get to work with Polly, but she seemed to also be mentally calculating how much help they’d have in the kitchen. So far, it was Colton and Aunt Trudy… plus an undetermined number of local helpers. Would there really be enough hands to pull this meal off?

  “The good news,” said Polly, “is that while I’m gone, you two will have full run of the kitchen! Let me show you.”

  She led us through the swinging door and into her beautiful, state-of-the-art kitchen. Aunt Trudy excitedly pointed out every expensive accessory and every unusual feature of the ovens, though most of it went over Joe’s and my heads. It was clear that, help or no, she was going to be very, very happy here.

  “You must be starving,” Jacques finally said. “Let’s eat!”

  * * *

  A few hours later I discreetly reached down and unbuttoned my pants as I settled back in my chair. My flannel shirt provided sufficient cover, and I was stuffed. Pomegranate salad with oranges and blue cheese, butternut squash bisque, roast lamb with goat cheese, mashed potatoes and fennel, and a chocolate cherry torte for dessert. The meal had been truly amazing.

  As everyone sighed appreciatively, Polly rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Would you believe most of what you just consumed was grown here on Rubble Island?”

  “It was?” Joe asked. “That’s impressive. But how?”