“I’m sorry, Carson,” George says. “You were warned. I knew you were lying to me when we talked last time. And, frankly, the nonsense with Brock Sheltingham didn’t help.”
“He asked me for a kiss.”
“I’m sure he did, but you should have ignored the guy instead of turning it into a public spectacle. This isn’t Vegas, Carson. This isn’t Coyote Ugly. It’s a family restaurant.”
“Don’t be grandiose. It’s a beach bar.”
“There are children around and those children have parents and your behavior was inappropriate and doing four shots in a row with customers is obviously unacceptable. I could maybe have looked the other way on that stuff in the name of fun and you showing Sheltingham who’s boss. But drugs on your shift? No. I told you I would fire you and I’m firing you.”
Carson nods to let George know she heard him, but she can’t accept this outcome. “I need this job, George.”
“Take some time, properly grieve your mother, clean up your act or tone it down, do what you need to do. I’ll give you a glowing recommendation in the fall and you’ll be able to work anywhere on Nantucket that you want, or you can go off-island. But you have to get your head on straight.” He sighs. “I like you, Carson. I want what’s best for my business but I also want what’s best for you.”
Carson stands up. She’s getting a hangover, and the coke has made her jittery. There’s a mounting wave of destructive energy inside of her that is telling her to burn this bridge. George says he gets it, but he doesn’t.
“I understand,” Carson says. “You should give my job to Jaime. She’d be great.” With that, Carson leaves the office and walks out of the Oystercatcher, swiping a bottle of Triple Eight vodka as she goes.
In her car, she checks her phone. Nothing from Zach. She sends him a text: Got fired.
Fired. She got fired. It’s so humiliating—and yet, she full-on deserved it. Only two hours earlier, she had considered calling in sick and thought that was the worst thing she could do.
Ha. Not even close.
Zach doesn’t respond so she takes a swig of the vodka, coughs, then calls Zach’s cell. She’s sent straight to voice mail. He’s blocked her. She’ll have to go over there.
It’s five thirty; he’ll be home from work but Pamela might be getting home soon. She works erratic hours—sometimes she stays late, sometimes she goes back to the office after dinner and works until midnight.
Can Carson reasonably go over there?
She drives down North Beach Street, one hand on the wheel, one hand on the neck of the vodka bottle, which she has nestled in the cupholder. Stalking is always a bad idea, she reminds herself.
She can’t believe she’s been fired. It doesn’t feel real. But yes, it is real, she’s out driving around at five thirty in the evening instead of taking drink orders, making people happy, ringing the dorky bell. Her identity is rapidly evaporating. She has lost her mother, lost her lover, lost her job. Who even is she?
She sees people walking into town with strollers, dogs, little kids, teenage kids. These are people who have their lives together enough to take a vacation. Carson feels tears welling, so she plays a game called What Could Be Worse? Well, she could be pulled over right now for driving under the influence, lose her license, go to jail—that would be worse. She needs to eat something! She can sign for food at the snack bar at the Field and Oar Club, get a grilled cheese, a hot dog, a peanut butter and jelly. She can pretend she’s ten years old and has just survived a sailing lesson.
When she pulls in to the club, she sees Pamela’s red Range Rover in the parking lot. She’s here, Carson thinks, probably playing tennis. Which means Zach will be at home alone.
Carson pulls out and leaves the Field and Oar behind.
She won’t park across the street at the horse barn; she’s at least that smart. Instead, she parks beyond Zach’s house at the far end of Gray Avenue. She runs back to Zach’s house and knocks on the front door, then decides she doesn’t need to knock so she swings the door open and calls out, “Zach!”
He comes shooting down the stairs. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I saw Pamela’s car at the club,” Carson says.
“Yes, she’s playing tennis with her mother. Why are you not at work?”
“I got fired,” Carson says and she starts to sob. She is so, so sad, so wounded, so adrift. The driver in the hit-and-run didn’t kill just Vivi. He killed their whole family.