Free Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) by Jenny O'connell Page A

brother—or someone who once saw me eat raw cookie dough I’d dropped on Mona’s kitchen floor—but as Henry, the guy Mona’s Whittier friends saw. But I couldn’t see it. He really didn’t look any different than the guy I used to see at school. The thing was, even though he looked the same to me, it was hard to see him the way I used to. All of a sudden I was looking at him and thinking, Is Henry hot? Did he really look that great at the beach? It was like eating a bowl of cereal and then all of a sudden having somebody ask, “Does this milk taste funny?” Even though you’ve already finished half a bowl, and you know the milk tasted perfectly fine, all of a sudden you can’t stop wondering, Does this milk taste funny?
    Henry wasn’t exactly a dairy product, but the same principle applied.
    But as I watched him, hoping to identify what it was thoseother girls saw, I couldn’t see anything remotely different about Henry. He could have been any island guy. With him standing in the grocery store in cargo shorts and a blue T-shirt, it was hard to imagine him being anything else.
    â€œReady?” he asked, catching me looking at him.
    I nodded and together we walked out of the store.
    â€œYou want a ride back to work?”
    I didn’t really feel like walking back and was about to answer yes when I shook my head instead. I imagined riding in the front of the shiny black Range Rover with Henry, or worse, Malcolm’s Porsche. And then I pictured how ridiculous I’d look getting out of the car and walking into the kitchen to put on my apron and take breakfast orders.
    â€œThat’s okay. I can walk.”
    Henry didn’t try to convince me. Instead, he said good-bye and walked through the parking lot to his car. Only it wasn’t the SUV or the sports car. It was Poppy’s faded green pickup truck, the tip of a fishing rod poking over the tailgate in back. And I could almost imagine for a minute that he was the same old Henry I’d known since forever, if I didn’t know that he was heading out toward Katama to a six-bedroom house overlooking the waves of South Beach, with a Portuguese maid waiting to clean his fish.
    Shelby didn’t serve. She stayed in the kitchen orchestrating the behind-the-scenes activities, making sure everything that left the kitchen wasn’t just cooked perfectly, but looked like something you’d see in a magazine.
    She remembered every order, every special request for hollandaise sauce on the side or blueberry pancakes without the blueberries.
    The two hours we served breakfast flew by as I shadowed Camille, one of the college girls, and learned how to take and serve orders. Because breakfast was included in the guests’ room rate, there was no calculating checks at the end of a meal, just a tip left behind next to the plate of soft butter and jellies.
    Before I could even glance up at the grandfather clock by the front door, it was ten o’clock and breakfast hours were over.
    The dishes were washed, the tables cleared and set up for tomorrow morning, and we were all putting away the pots and pans and plates when Wendy came into the kitchen to hand out our tasks for the rest of the day.
    â€œKendra, while everyone else takes care of planning guest activities and special requests, I was thinking you could help Shelby with the lunch orders. How’s that sound?” Wendy asked, and I couldn’t help but think it sounded a lot like what I’d thought I’d gotten out of when I told Lexi I wouldn’t be working at the deli.
    But instead of relaying that thought, I told her, “Sounds good.”
    â€œGreat.” Wendy agreed. “Shelby will tell you what you need to do.”
    The rest of the servers threw their aprons into the hamper by the door and followed Wendy out of the kitchen.
    And then I was alone with Shelby, who didn’t seem in any rush to begin telling me what to do.