Free Clammed Up by Barbara Ross Page B

hear the slight vibrato that meant I wasn’t being entirely successful.
    “It’s not a question of blame, Julia. It’s not your fault when there’s a nor’easter and you lose three days to stormy weather. And it’s not your fault when lobster hits six dollars a pound wholesale. And I’m sure this . . . this . . . death . . . is not your fault, either.”
    Why did he make it sound like that was a question?
    “It’s just that, as you know, you have a razor thin margin of error. Of course, if it were up to me . . .” he continued, secure in the knowledge it absolutely was not.
    My father had dealt with First Busman’s Bank from the day he’d set up the business. They’d supplied the initial loan, and in our family we were brought up to be loyal to First Bus. But in the past decade they’d been bought by a regional bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank that was swallowed up by a bigger bank still, like so many fish. A European financial conglomerate now owned First Bus. I was sure no one at corporate headquarters in Madrid could find Busman’s Harbor on a map if they had a gun to their head. Something I admit, I’d occasionally fantasized about. Whenever we talked, Bob made it clear he had to answer to his corporate masters on the loan committee and their problems around the globe meant they could care less about the loss of fifty seasonal jobs in coastal Maine.
    “I get it, Bob,” I said, and I did. “Thanks for your concern.”
    I ended the call before it could go any further, my buoyant mood shot to pieces. As I’d reassured Bob, I knew the numbers—how much we had to clear every day and every week until Columbus Day—as well as I knew my own name. I also knew the consequences of failing. The Snowden Family Clambake would shut down. We’d lose the Jacquie II . Fifty people including Sonny and Livvie, Etienne and Gabrielle would lose their livelihoods. Most likely, they’d have to move out of town to get work. I’d put the money I’d saved from my years in venture capital into the business when we’d renegotiated the loan. So I was all in, too.
    Worst of all, if the loan was called, my mother would lose her house in town with all its memories, the place where’d she’d lived her entire married life and raised her family. And we’d lose Morrow Island. Though Mom hadn’t been on the island since Dad died, I thought, somehow, losing it would kill her, or at least change her profoundly and not for the better. I had the same compulsion my father did when he founded the clambake—to keep Morrow Island for my mother. It was a part of her and she was a part of it. The two could not be separated.
    By the time I finished the phone call and the black thoughts that came from it, I’d reached our little ticket booth. Livvie was already hard at work, selling seats for the dinner cruise and handing out will-call tickets to the Internet purchasers for lunch. I stood for a moment, absorbing the bustle of the town dock, the heat of the sun on my face, and the excited chatter of our passengers. My mood began to shift back. It was the first day of clambake season!

    I stood on the quay, collecting tickets as the passengers climbed the gangplank. The sun cast everything in the flat, bright light that brought so many artists to Maine. The crowd seemed like the usual mix of sunblock-slathered tourists, with a tilt heavier to retirees than families because many schools in the northeast were still in session. Most passengers had heeded the warning on our Web site to bring layers of warm clothing. No matter how toasty it felt in the harbor, once we motored out of its protective arms into the North Atlantic, the weather would turn cool and breezy. In every crowd, there was at least one family who dressed not like they were traveling on a wild ocean to get to a rustic island, but like they were going on a Disney ride with the same theme. We kept blankets aboard the Jacquie II for the midriff-baring teens and