Angie closed her eyes and listened until the song was over. It must be a sign, she thought. Deacon was here with her. She looked over at the passenger seat-empty, but maybe not. She wiped at her eyes, checked the road behind her, and took off. She hoped she wasn’t the only person in the world ever to believe the car radio was trying to tell her something.


A bell jingled when Angie walked into the simple shack that was the fish market. A sign above the refrigerated cases read, Anyone who asks if the fish is fresh has to go to the end of the line. Angie gazed longingly at the thick, meaty swordfish steaks, the ruby-red tuna, the jumbo shrimp, the delicate cod fillets, the pile of cherrystone clams, the black, glossy shells of the mussels. There were cartons of smoked bluefish pâté and homemade guacamole; there were marinades, sauces, rubs, and compound butters.

The girl behind the counter smiled at Angie, revealing deep dimples. Angie remembered this girl, but she hoped the girl didn’t recognize her. Angie had always loved coming back to Nantucket summer after summer and being remembered by people just like this. Hey, you’re back! How was your winter? But, under the circumstances, such a conversation would be nearly unbearable. If Bill Sandole himself had come out to the front, there would have been hugs and tears and I’m sorry for your loss-all of which Angie wanted to avoid.

She was relieved when the girl simply asked, “What can I get you?”

“Everything,” Angie said.


She walked out of the fish market with three dozen cherrystones, two dozen mussels, a pound of pearly-white sea scallops that the dimpled girl assured her had been sitting on the ocean floor the day before, and four bottles of clam juice. And a container of smoked bluefish pâté, because Angie couldn’t resist.

Next, it was off to the market at Bartlett’s Ocean View Farm, set amidst patchwork fields of corn and a particularly winsome field of flowers-gladiolas, cosmos, snapdragons, sunflowers, lilies. Angie slowed the truck down and feasted her eyes on the colors. She wanted to lie down in between the rows and never get up.

Inside the market, Angie was greeted by tall, galvanized buckets filled with cut flowers and an old tractor bed that had been repurposed as a table and now supported tall stacks of homemade pies-peach, blueberry, fruit of the forest. There was a refrigerator case filled with fresh salads, fried chicken, and one-serving portions of chocolate mousse and tiramisu. Angie wandered over to the produce. There were heads of romaine, chicory, radicchio, endive, and trays of herbs-basil, dill, mint-that filled the air with their fragrance. Angie chose dill, chives, parsley, and three heads of tender butter lettuce. She selected a bulb of garlic and two sweet onions.

At the Board Room, night after night, Deacon and Angie had dutifully marched out to the dining room to greet VIPs and to congratulate the people who were celebrating-college graduations, fiftieth birthdays, twenty-fifth anniversaries, retirements, engagements, a new baby, a first grandchild, a promotion, a book deal, a bon voyage. But one night, Joel had come into the kitchen and said to Angie, “There’s a woman in the dining room with her daughter. The daughter said this is her mother’s first meal out since her husband of fifty-two years died. She was wondering if you and Deacon would come out and say hello.”

Deacon and Angie had met the woman, a well-heeled, silver-haired woman of about eighty who wore a raspberry-colored dress and a pearl brooch. Both Deacon and Angie had embraced her. A few tears were shed by the woman, Rosemary, and her daughter, Kendall, who explained that Martin, the husband and father, had died three months earlier of congestive heart failure, and for his wife, dark times had followed. But then, about a week earlier, Rosemary had woken up and decided that she was ready to eat a fine meal. She had wanted dinner at the Board Room. It marked her return to the world of the living, she said.

Deacon had kissed Rosemary’s cheek and said, “Welcome back.”

Angie remembered thinking how good it had felt to know she was cooking not only for people in their high moments but also for people who were trying to climb out of their low moments.

That was what Angie would do tonight.


Wikipedia: Belinda Rowe, Actress

Early Life: Belinda Marjorie Rowe was born on September 30, 1964, in Iowa City, Iowa, to parents Calvin and Anne Rowe. Calvin Rowe was a pilot for the United States Post Office, and Anne was a homemaker. Belinda attended Iowa City High School, where she was a cheerleader and held a part-time job at Pearson’s Drug Store on Linn Street.

In 1982, Miss Rowe moved from Iowa City to Los Angeles, California. Within a week of moving, Miss Rowe did a screen test for the director Donald Disraeli and was cast as the lead, Maggie Burns, in the movie Brilliant Disguise, about a midwestern girl who runs away from home and hitchhikes to Los Angeles to be in the movies.

“It was basically my life story,” Miss Rowe told reporters at the movie’s premiere. “I left Iowa, and I never looked back. I became someone else entirely.”


Miss Rowe has also starred in Charming Joe, Sophomore Slump, Daniella and Charlie, Excuses Excuses, Drought, Dire Emergency, Between the Pipes-for which she was nominated for Best Supporting Actress-Gypsy Red, Macbeth, Cleopatra on the Nile-for which she was nominated for Best Actress-The Prairie Sisters, The Delta-for which she won the Oscar for Best Actress-Cryin’ to the Devil, Drama Queen, Drama Queen 2, and Bet On It. She guest starred in two seasons of High Street and appeared as Miss Kit Kat in the HBO series Boarding, for which she won the Emmy for Best Actress. Miss Rowe has been the spokesperson for Lululemon since 2006.


Personal Life: Belinda Rowe married Chef Deacon Thorpe in a private ceremony in Beverly Hills in 1990. The couple adopted a daughter, Angela Thorpe, in Australia in 1990. Miss Rowe divorced Thorpe in 2005 and wed Kentucky horse trainer Robert Percil in 2006. The couple has two daughters, Mary and Laura, and they reside in Louisville, Kentucky.

BELINDA

Belinda was hiding in the dim, ascetic cell of Clara’s room when she heard the little girl calling for her. Ellery. Or rather, Ellery was calling out for “Miss Kit Kat.” Belinda considered ignoring her, knowing full well that Ellery wouldn’t dare enter Clara’s room; Deacon had taught all his children to be afraid of it. But Ellery’s voice was clear and sweet, and Belinda missed her own girls-desperately, viscerally-and so Belinda emerged.

“Miss Kit Kat, at your service,” she said, clapping her hands in the crisp, efficient way that Belinda had created for her character, a gesture that meant: Let’s go, girls! Grin and bear it!

The smile on the child’s face was priceless. Sometimes, Belinda thought, it felt good to just be nice.

“If you’d like,” Belinda said, “I can do your hair like Ashland’s on the show.”

“In a double diagonal fishtail braid?” Ellery asked.

“Yes indeed,” Belinda said. “Chop, chop! Let’s find a brush.”


It took the better part of an hour, but in the end, Ellery’s braid didn’t look half-bad.

“I’m finished,” Belinda announced. Back in the last season of filming Boarding, Belinda had asked the show’s stylist, Turquoise, to show her how to do the braids, thinking she would try the style out on Mary and Laura. But the girls were no-nonsense, like their father. They wore their jodhpurs to bed, practically, and were so eager to be on horseback that they couldn’t be bothered with anything more complicated than a ponytail. It was almost as if Belinda had brought the wrong children home from the hospital. She had suffered through tomboy Angie and now had to endure the horsiness of Mary and Laura. Was it any wonder that Belinda was so enjoying this time with girly-girl Ellery in her silver, sparkly dress? Belinda knew that neither of her daughters would be caught dead in such a dress. Belinda cut the hanger straps from her black Stella McCartney and used them to tie up the loose ends of Ellery’s braids. She pulled out her silver hand mirror and showed Ellery the final result.

Ellery clapped her hands in delight. She grabbed Belinda around the middle. “Oh, thank you, Miss Kit Kat!”

“You’re quite welcome,” Belinda said. It was slightly disconcerting the way Ellery seemed to believe that Belinda was Miss Kit Kat. The girl was nine years old. Could she handle learning that the woman she thought was Miss Kit Kat was actually the actress Belinda Rowe, who had been married to her father before her mother was? Could she handle knowing that Scarlett had once worked for Belinda as Angie’s nanny?

No, probably not. Belinda smiled at Ellery in the mirror. Such a pretty little girl, more Scarlett than Deacon, but that might change as she got older. Belinda envied the child for being able to sustain an attitude of make-believe. If she wanted Belinda to be Miss Kit Kat, then Belinda would be Miss Kit Kat. It would be less painful or complicated than being Belinda Rowe, especially under the present circumstances.

“Shall we go look at the dollhouse in Angie’s room?” Belinda asked. She had always thought of the dollhouse as Angie’s, but for all she knew, it had passed to Ellery in recent years.

“I’m not allowed,” Ellery said. “I’m not old enough.”

“Oh, but you are this summer,” Belinda said, and she led Ellery by the hand down the hall.

Belinda looked on as Ellery took all the fancy, delicate furniture out of the house to rearrange it. There was the canopy bed, its mattress the size of a playing card, and the porcelain claw-foot tub and the Venetian double-globed lamp. Belinda could remember sitting in this exact spot watching Angie play with the house-although back then, Belinda always had a script in her lap and looked up only when Angie implored her. Mama, look at this! However, Belinda had paid Nailor, the old caretaker, to keep the house in climate-controlled storage for the winter. And look-the house had lasted!