over the entire restaurant for one moment of pristine humiliation. This time, Carson crouches down to clean the mess up herself, and when Jaime comes to help, Carson says, “Please don’t. This was my screwup.”
She loses precious minutes and by the time she’s at her post again, there’s a huge backup of orders. Jamey (boy) has been helping out by pulling drafts, but that’s all he knows how to do.
One customer at a time, Carson thinks. That’s the only way out of the weeds. The crowd will thin eventually.
Vodka cran, vodka soda, sauvignon blanc, dozen Wellfleets with extra horseradish.
Suddenly, the GM, Nikki, is behind Carson, smiling while gritting her teeth. “George wants to see you in his office after service.”
“It was an accident, Nikki.”
“Just passing on a message, Carson.”
Carson tries to focus—so many orders, so many faces, arms waving, hands thrusting money toward her in an attempt to get her attention. She tends to wait on men first, a terrible habit she’s trying hard to break, so she looks for women, and as she’s doing this, she sees Pamela Bonham Bridgeman standing at the end of the bar. Carson’s heart crashes to the ground just like the dropped tray because what can Carson think but that Pamela knows and has chosen to confront Carson at work, where it will hurt the most? Then Carson sees Willa beside Pamela and Willa is waving; she looks not exactly happy—none of them may ever look happy again—but she seems fine, normal-ish.
What are they doing here? Why are they together? Willa hates Pamela. Everyone hates Pamela.
Carson takes drink orders from every other female at the bar and then every man. When she can ignore her sister and her lover’s wife no longer, she says, “Ladies! Surprise, surprise. What can I get you?”
“Chardonnay with a side of ice,” Pamela says.
“Cranberry seltzer with lime,” Willa says.
“You guys eating?”
“There’s no room at the bar,” Willa says. “They told me it’s a ninety-minute wait for a table. Do you have any pull?”
Not tonight, Carson thinks. But she can’t resist showing off in front of Pamela so she approaches the hostess stand where Nikki is busy crushing people’s dreams and says, “It’s my sister’s first night out since my mom died. Any chance you can put her at table one?” Table one is the two-top closest to the dunes at sunset. It’s the best table at the Oystercatcher.
Nikki growls. “I shouldn’t, but I will. For her, though, not for you. The people are paying now. Tell her five minutes.”
Carson hustles back to the bar. “Five minutes,” she says, handing the chard, the ice, and the seltzer over the counter. “These drinks are on me.”
“Thank you!” Willa says—but Carson doesn’t care about Willa. She cares only about Pamela, who is gazing out over the beach, looking very alone among the sea of people. She accepts the chardonnay without a word and doesn’t even look at Carson.
I’m invisible to her, Carson thinks, and although she’s offended, she knows this is for the best.
After service, Carson heads down the hall, past the retail shop and the restrooms, to George’s office. The door is closed. Has she been saved? Is he gone for the night? Tomorrow, her drops will be forgotten. The service industry has a short memory, especially in a place like the Oystercatcher where there is never a quiet moment for reflection.
Carson knocks.
“Enter!”
Carson swears under her breath and opens the door. George is at his desk, which is meticulously organized—invoices on the left, order forms on the right, and in the center is a weekly calendar that shows the schedule, written, always, in pencil. Pencils are sharpened, kept points up in a mason jar. The computer behind the desk displays an old-school game of Tetris.
“Please sit down,” George says.
There’s a folding chair, known to the staff as the Hot Seat.
Carson feels she should remain standing but she’s been on her feet since three, so she gratefully collapses.
“Two drops tonight,” George says.
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t have an excuse. I wasn’t paying attention.”
George tsks under his breath. George is universally loved at the Oystercatcher and on Nantucket. He has worked in restaurants on the island for something like forty years, managing at both the Straight Wharf and the White Elephant and then running the grill at the Miacomet Golf Club for a few years before buying the Oystercatcher. Because George has worked as a barback, bartender, busser, and server, he makes an excellent boss. He’s a confirmed bachelor, a ladies’ man,