Chapter 8: A Place at the Table
2379 Words
By Saturday evening, half of Puerto Espera knew Marco.
This was not entirely his fault.
Some of it was Cami's.
“Stop telling people I found him on the beach.”
“But you did.”
“I know.”
“So what's the problem?”
“The phrasing.”
Beside her, Marco carried a bowl large enough to bathe a small child in.
“I personally like washed ashore.”
“No one asked you.”
“It has drama.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Exactly. Mystery.”
I took the bowl from him.
He looked offended.
“I had that.”
“You were holding it with one hand.”
“I have two.”
“The other one has beer.”
He lifted the bottle.
“One beer.”
“One hand.”
“I'm beginning to think you don't respect my abilities.”
“I respect gravity.”
Cami pushed open the gate.
“Can you two argue inside? Mama already thinks I'm late.”
“You are late.”
“I brought food.”
“That doesn't alter time.”
“It does in this house.”
She disappeared inside.
Marco looked at me.
“Are we actually late?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“I said she was late.”
“You're frightening sometimes.”
“So I've been told.”
“By who?”
I walked through the gate.
“People.”
Behind me, Marco muttered, “Administration.”
I nearly smiled.
---
The Laurent house had been expanded so many times I doubted anyone remembered its original shape.
Bougainvillea climbed one wall. Laundry moved above the courtyard. Warm bulbs hung between a mango tree and the veranda, and a little household ward of knotted red cord and sea glass rested beside the kitchen door, polished by years of passing hands.
Two tables had been pushed together beneath the tree.
Thirteen people were already there.
Marco stopped.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You said dinner.”
“This is dinner.”
“This is a wedding.”
Cami heard him.
“It's Saturday.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It does here.”
Mrs. Laurent appeared carrying grilled fish.
“Lucy!”
I barely set the bowl down before she hugged me.
Hard.
“You came.”
“You invited me.”
“You always say maybe.”
“That isn't the same as no.”
“It is when you say it.”
Behind me, Marco made a quiet sound.
I looked over my shoulder.
He looked away.
Mrs. Laurent noticed him.
“Oh.”
Cami appeared beside her.
“Mama, Marco. Marco, my mother.”
Mrs. Laurent examined him thoroughly.
“You are the beach boy.”
Marco's mouth opened.
I looked at Cami.
She smiled.
“I've been called worse,” Marco said.
“Have you?”
“I don't remember.”
Half a second of silence.
Then Mrs. Laurent laughed.
Marco followed.
The tension vanished.
She took his arm.
“Come. Sit.”
“I can help.”
“You can sit.”
“I'm actually pretty good at—”
“Sit.”
Marco looked at me as she led him away.
I lifted one hand.
Good luck.
His expression betrayed me.
---
Dinner took another forty minutes to become dinner.
Apparently this was normal.
People arrived, left, returned with other people. Someone brought rice. Someone else brought noodles.
Nico arrived with ice and drinks.
He spotted us and grinned.
“Hey.”
Then he noticed Marco.
More specifically, his shirt.
“Still wearing my shirt?”
“It was clean.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You brought it up.”
“Because it's funny.”
“Why?”
Nico considered that.
“No idea.”
He laughed and briefly slung an arm around my shoulders.
“Water or beer?”
“Water.”
“You're on vacation.”
“I know.”
“That was my entire argument.”
“It wasn't persuasive.”
He wandered off.
Marco watched him.
Then looked at me.
I waited.
Nothing.
Cami lasted four seconds.
“So, Marco—”
“No.”
She blinked. “I haven't said anything.”
“You had a face.”
“What face?”
“That face.”
“I have one face.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“Lucy.”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Marco looked between us.
“Am I the only person who doesn't?”
“Yes,” we said.
He sighed.
“I hate this island.”
“No, you don't,” Cami said.
Marco looked around.
At the food.
The family.
Mrs. Laurent ordering three grown men out of her kitchen.
His smile remained, but his fingers stilled around his bottle.
“No,” he admitted. “I really don't.”
---
By the time we sat, the table was crowded with grilled fish, chicken, pancit, rice, vegetables, pork skewers, soup and several dishes I couldn't identify.
Marco tried all of them.
Obviously.
Nico watched his plate accumulate.
“Where does it go?”
Marco paused.
“What?”
“The food.”
“Inside me?”
“You've been eating since you arrived.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Dinner.”
Mrs. Laurent reached across Nico and put more chicken on Marco's plate.
“There.”
Marco looked delighted.
Nico looked betrayed.
“Mama.”
“He needs food.”
“I need food.”
“You live here.”
“That doesn't make me less hungry.”
“It makes you less interesting.”
The table erupted.
Then Marco stopped chewing.
I noticed because Marco rarely stopped chewing.
He stared at a bowl of stew.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Nico reached for it.
Marco caught his wrist.
Everyone nearby went still.
He released him immediately.
“Sorry.”
“What?”
Marco pointed toward the stew.
“Does that have peanuts?”
Mrs. Laurent nodded.
“Yes.”
Marco stared at the bowl.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I smelled it.”
Nico leaned closer.
“I smell meat.”
“There's peanut.”
“Anything else?” Mrs. Laurent asked.
Marco hesitated.
Then leaned toward the bowl.
“Something toasted.”
“Rice.”
His eyes lifted.
“Ground rice?”
Mrs. Laurent smiled.
“Yes. My mother taught me. We toast it first.”
Marco went very still.
“Right.”
Not recognition.
Something close enough to hurt.
Nico broke the silence.
“So you're a doctor and a chef.”
“We don't know I'm a doctor.”
“You knew the foot thing.”
“Dorsalis pedis.”
“That.”
“And I'm not a chef.”
“You identified toasted rice by smell.”
Mrs. Laurent smiled.
“Maybe you cook.”
Marco looked down.
“Maybe.”
“Or someone around you did,” I said.
His gaze found mine.
“Familiarity isn't always profession.”
He considered that.
“Right.”
The tension eased.
Barely.
Then Mrs. Laurent offered him more rice.
He said yes.
Obviously.
---
Later, Marco reached for the chicken platter.
Empty.
He looked genuinely wounded.
Without thinking, I moved half of mine onto his plate.
Marco looked down.
Then at me.
I realized what I'd done.
“Eat.”
His mouth curved.
“You didn't want it?”
“No.”
I had.
Not enough to matter.
“Thanks.”
Across the table, Cami was watching me.
I ignored her.
A few minutes later, someone asked Marco where he was from.
His smile changed.
“I don't know.”
Cami stepped in before the awkwardness could settle.
“He's from the ocean.”
Marco looked at her.
“Apparently.”
“Cala Verde specifically.”
“Do I get citizenship?”
“After thirty days.”
“Is that a real rule?”
“No,” I said.
Marco turned toward me.
“You can't know that.”
“I know Cami.”
“Same thing.”
Everyone laughed.
The conversation moved on.
Cami had seen the awkwardness before it landed and stepped into it.
Marco noticed too.
Small things.
People were mostly made of them.
---
After dinner, Nico produced cards.
I stood immediately.
“No.”
Marco looked up.
“You don't even know the game.”
“I know Cami.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she demanded.
“Experience.”
Marco caught my wrist.
Barely.
His fingers released almost immediately.
“Stay.”
No joke.
Just the word.
I looked at him.
Then at the empty chair beside him.
The cottage was quiet.
My book was waiting.
No one would care if I left.
The thought arrived automatically.
Old.
Familiar.
Except Marco had one hand resting on the chair, waiting.
Cami shuffled the cards.
Mrs. Laurent cut fruit.
Everyone simply assumed I would sit.
So I did.
Marco pushed the chair in with his foot.
“Excellent.”
“This is temporary.”
“The card game?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was worried you'd committed to a league.”
I kicked him beneath the table.
He grinned.
I lost the first game.
This was unacceptable.
“You cheated.”
Cami gasped.
“Lucy.”
“You did.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
Her smile vanished.
“Wait.”
I held out my hand.
“The card beneath your thigh.”
Nico screamed when she stood and revealed it.
“I KNEW IT.”
“It fell!”
“You put it there!”
“Mama!”
Mrs. Laurent didn't look up.
“Stop cheating.”
Marco was laughing hard enough to bend over the table.
I took the card.
“Disqualified.”
“You don't make the rules.”
“I do now. I'm the only trustworthy person here.”
Marco straightened.
“Excuse me.”
“You stole mango from my plate this morning.”
“That was domestic.”
Silence.
Marco blinked.
Nico slowly turned toward him.
Cami became perfectly still.
I looked at Marco.
He looked at me.
“Food-related,” he corrected.
“Mm.”
“That's what I meant.”
“Of course.”
His ears turned pink.
Interesting.
---
It was nearly eleven when we left.
Puerto Espera had quieted beneath the dark. Rigging tapped against distant masts. Music drifted from the waterfront.
Marco walked beside me.
For once, he wasn't talking.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
A few steps later—
“That was nice.”
“Yes.”
“I kept thinking I should remember something.”
“The food?”
“Everything. The table. Everyone talking over each other. Someone yelling from the kitchen.”
His hands came from his pockets.
“Not like the rope. That was certain.”
“And tonight?”
He took his time.
“Comfortable.”
I looked at him.
“Like I knew what a table like that was supposed to feel like.”
Something moved through my chest.
“That might be good.”
“Yeah.”
Then, quieter—
“Do you have dinners like that?”
“No.”
“With your family?”
My steps didn't change.
“No.”
He glanced at me.
I appreciated that he didn't ask again.
A few seconds passed.
“My imaginary family is better than yours.”
I looked at him.
“Imaginary family?”
“Until evidence proves otherwise. They have a chef.”
“We don't know that.”
“Someone taught me about toasted rice.”
“That could have been anyone.”
“My imaginary brother is a chef.”
“You've invented a brother?”
“He's excellent.”
“What's his name?”
Marco thought.
“Chef.”
I laughed.
It escaped before I could stop it.
Marco stopped walking.
I made it three steps before noticing.
“What?”
“You laughed.”
“I laugh.”
“Not like that.”
His smile came slowly.
“You have a real laugh.”
“Everyone does.”
“Yours is rare.”
I started walking.
“Good night, Marco.”
“We're going to the same house.”
“Then be quiet on the way.”
He followed.
Of course he did.
---
Marco unlocked the cottage.
He had his own key now.
For practical reasons.
Only practical reasons.
Warm light spilled across the kitchen.
Two cups sat beside the sink.
His shoes went beneath the bench.
Mine beside them.
Marco opened the refrigerator.
“You just ate.”
“That was twenty minutes ago.”
“Go to bed.”
“I'm hungry.”
“You're impossible.”
He took out the rice.
I watched him move through the kitchen.
He knew where the plates were.
The spoons.
Which burner needed the knob turned slightly past the mark.
Five days.
Five days ago, he hadn't known where he was.
Now he knew where I kept the salt.
“You want some?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He put enough rice for two people into the pan.
I noticed.
I said nothing.
A few minutes later, a bowl appeared in front of me.
“You said you weren't hungry.”
“I'm not.”
“Okay.”
Marco sat opposite me.
I picked up the spoon.
He smiled into his bowl.
The police could call tomorrow.
His memories could return next week.
Someone could arrive and say his name in a way that proved they'd known it long before I did.
Everything about this was temporary.
The cottage.
The borrowed clothes.
The second toothbrush.
The key in Marco's pocket.
The place he'd taken at my table without either of us deciding when it became his.
I ate the rice.
Across from me, Marco reached for the chili.
I slid it toward him before he asked.
He paused.
Then took it.
Neither of us said anything.
For some reason, that felt more dangerous than if we had.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD