Cocking his head at her, Cass gives her his best smile. “Thank you.”
He chugs the iced tea. I watch the long line of his throat, look away, wipe my fingers on my cut-offs. My palms are actually damp. Fantastic.
“Perhaps a refill for him, Gwen? Now, dear boy, why are you here? If it is in regard to the bills, those all go to my son Henry.”
“It’s not that,” Cass says swiftly. “I’m here to boil your lobsters.”
My head whips around sharply.
“We’ve been looking to expand our list of services,” he continues, calm and reasonable. “Competitive times and all that.”
His eyes cut to mine and then away again.
“Really?” Mrs. Ellington moves closer, as though he’s a mag-net with an irresistible pull. “How so?”
“Well . . . um, seems as though the yard boy usually just mows and weeds. And”—Cass takes a long slug of iced tea—“I think . . . there’s room for more. Dog walking. Grocery runs.
Um . . .” He looks up briefly at the ceiling as though reading words off it. “Swimming lessons.”
“Enterprising!” Mrs. Ellington exclaims.
Cass tosses her another smile, and then continues. “When I saw Gwen here heading over with your, uh, dinner, I thought it might be a good time to show you my technique.”
“You have a technique?” Mrs. Ellington clasps her hands under her chin, a happy child at a birthday party. “How accom-plished! I wasn’t aware there was any such thing with regard to lobsters.”
“Technique might not be the right word,” Cass says.
“Where’s your lobster pot?” He asks this with total assurance, like every kitchen in New England has such a thing. But yes, Mrs. Ellington does, the exact same huge, spattered black-and-white enamelware one we have at home. He pulls it out of the cabinet she opened for him and takes it to the sink, totally at home, practically toeing off his shoes and kicking back on the couch.
“You know,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, “I can do this. You don’t need to—”
“Sure you can, Gwen. But I’m here.”
I think my eyes actually bug out. Him being here is exactly the problem. But this is still sort of a job interview; it’s not like I can arm-wrestle him for the lobsters.
He fills the pot with cold water and sets it on the stove, turning the gas up high, talking rapidly all the while. “Technique implies finesse—or skill. This isn’t really that. It’s just . . .” He fiddles with the knob, concentrating on lowering the flame.
“Some people get bothered by the idea of cooking something alive, you know. Plus, lobsters can make that screaming sound—I’ve heard it doesn’t really mean anything, and their nervous systems aren’t well-developed enough to feel pain— their brains are the size of a ballpoint pen tip, but . . . it can still bother some people.”
Oh, yes, thanks for rescuing me, Cass. I’m just so squeamish.
I don’t want to kill lobsters. But I can.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Ellington says. “I always made a point of leaving the kitchen when Cook boiled lobsters. Or chopped the heads off fish.” She shudders reminiscently.
Cass flashes that melting smile at her again. All charm—the kind that pulls you in as surely as a hand in yours, and can hold you back just as firmly, leaving you wondering which is real, which Cass is true. As I think this, he glances over at me, straight into my eyes this time, and I’m taken aback by the expression in his. Readable for once, not guarded the way it’s been since March.
Direct.
Deliberate.
Challenging.
I turn away, open the refrigerator, take out the bag of lobsters, pulling it close to my chest. He reaches for it and I hold on tighter. He pulls, gently, looking at me quizzically to see if I really will challenge him for possession of a bag of shellfish.
I let go.
“Thanks, Gwen.” His voice is casual. “So, yeah, some people put the lobsters in the freezer for a while to numb them out.
But that doesn’t seem all that much more humane than the heat, does it?”
He disentangles Grandpa Ben’s rope-mesh sack and sets the wrinkled brown paper bag that was inside it on the table. One huge claw immediately gropes out, clunking on the wooden island. Despite a stint in the Sub-Zero, Lobster A has not lost its mighty will-to-live.
“They say,” Cass continues, dipping his hand into the bag, “that if you kill the lobster too far ahead of time, it gets all tough and then it’s no good for eating.”
He twists Lobster A right and left to avoid its clinging claws.
“Look away, Gwen.”
I’m not used to the note of command in that laid-back voice and instantly fix my gaze out the window on the beach plum’s fuchsia blossoms, then shake myself. “I can handle this,” I repeat to Cass. Then, trying to sound brisk and casual: “It’s in my blood, remember?”
“There,” he says, ignoring me. “Just a quick knife to the brain and then into the very hot water. No time to feel a thing.”
Mrs. Ellington claps her hands. “That does relieve my mind.
It seems to work. No waving claws. None of that awful sound.”
“I’m done now, Gwen. You can look.” It’s an aside. Quiet, not mocking.
“I am looking,” I mutter, feeling suddenly adrift.
“These guys are, what, one-and-a-half-pounders? So four-teen minutes or so.” He reaches for the egg-shaped timer on the stovetop, deftly twists it. “I can stay and take ’em out if you like.”
I clear my throat. “You can go. I’m fine. I’ll take it from here.”
“You are a marvel, young man!” says Mrs. Ellington. “I am delighted by Seashell Services’ new policy. Dare I hope you also clean fish?”
“I do whatever needs doing.” Cass flicks me a quick glance, then grins at her again, that wide, slightly lopsided smile that creases the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was the best I’ve ever had. See you later, Mrs. Ellington.”
He crumples the soggy brown lobster bag and tosses it to the trash can. It bounces off the side. Without looking at us, he scoops it up, drops it directly in, then turns down the hall.
His “Bye Gwen” is so quiet it’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.