B. Haywood - Town in a Lobster Stew

She pulled the Jeep into a coveted parking spot right in front of the offices of the Cape Crier and across the street from Stone & Milbury, the insurance agency where her best friend Maggie Tremont worked. She thought of stopping in briefly to say hi to Maggie but decided she had to check something first. So she pushed through a wood and glass door, identified as number 21B, and dashed up a set of well-worn wooden stairs to the second floor, where she entered the rabbit-warren collection of offices that housed the meager staff of the Cape Crier .

She found the editor, Ben Clayton, in his office, sleeves rolled up, hair uncombed, staring intently at a computer screen, and stabbing at the keyboard as he swore softly under his breath.

“Hi, Ben.”

“Oh, hi, Candy. I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to her and back to his computer screen, but he didn’t stop typing. His fingers continued to move rapidly over the keys as he got his last few thoughts down before being pulled away into a conversation.

Candy was used to the maneuver. She’d seen it before. It was simply his way of multitasking.

“So how’d the interview with Wilma Mae go?” he asked.

“It was... revealing, to say the least. She has plenty of stories to tell, that’s for sure. First we had tea, and then we talked about all sorts of things.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, her collection of ketchup bottles, for one thing. And Cornelius Roberts Pruitt, Helen’s father, who was quite a randy fellow, as it turns out. And Wilma Mae’s famous lobster stew recipe. And a secret compartment in the upstairs bedroom of her house, created by some architect named Mulroy. And, oh yeah, it sounds like we might have a recipe thief around town — possibly someone who’s trying to rig the Lobster Stew Cook-off.” She paused and smiled at him. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

Ben whistled. He stopped typing, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked up at her. “Okay, you had me at ketchup. Wow, it sounds like you had a great interview. What’s this about a recipe thief? And someone rigging the cook-off? That sounds pretty big. You got a story here?”

“Could be,” Candy said, tilting her head thoughtfully to one side, “or maybe it’s just a case of a misplaced ledger. I’m not sure which, but I’m going to check it out, see if it leads anywhere. Hey, what have you heard lately about Wanda Boyle?”

“Wanda?” Ben made a face as if he had tasted something particularly nasty, and shrugged. “Just the usual, I guess. She’s got her fingers in about every pie in Cape these days. She was doing some political canvassing last week — either for or against global warming, I can’t remember which. Not sure it matters much, as long as she gets her name in the paper. She’s been collecting clothes and books for the thrift sale at the Unitarian church — helps put a little shine on her image, I guess. I think she’s in charge of the graduation committee at the high school. She’s both a comanager and an entrant in the Lobster Stew Cook-off — I’m not quite sure how she’s going to pull that one off. Seems like a conflict of interest to me. Why doesn’t she just go for the trifecta and judge it too? Then she can make sure she wins the whole kielbasa, which is one of her lifelong goals. And, oh yeah, I think she’s trying to get together an all-female version of a barbershop quartet. She’s obviously going to sing the low part.”

He paused, his brow furrowing in concern. “So what’s up? Is she giving you trouble again?”

Candy waved a hand. “Naw, nothing like that. I was just wondering what you’d heard.”

Ben shrugged. “It’s always the same with her. Wanda this, Wanda that.” Another pause. “Are you doing research? Is she going to be in your next column?”

Candy sighed. “She’s in every column. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”

“You got that right. I guess every town needs a busybody. At least it keeps things interesting.”

“That’s for sure.” Candy indicated the computer screen. “So how’s the next issue coming?”

He ran a hand across his rugged face as his gaze returned to the glowing screen in front of him. “It’s coming. The busy season’s upon us.”

“It sure is.” She tapped the doorway with her hand. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

She had just started down the hall when she heard Ben call after her, “Hey, are we still on for Friday night?”

She stopped, retraced her steps, and popped her head back into his office. “We are, as long as it’s something a little more upscale than Duffy’s Main Street Diner, please.”

He grinned at her, but she saw a tiredness around his eyes. “I’ve heard there’s a new Italian place up on Route 1. They actually have tablecloths. And the antipasto’s supposed to be pretty good too. I thought we might try it.”

“Mmm, I love Italian. Sounds good to me.”

“Who knows,” Ben said as his fingers starting moving over the keyboard again, “I might even spring for a bottle of Chianti. Maybe even two.”

Candy laughed. “Mr. Moneybags, huh? Okay, you’re on.”

As she started off again, her smile lingered. After they met last summer, it had taken Ben nearly six months to ask her out. Early on, they had chatted over coffee, rubbed elbows in the office, and occasionally grabbed lunch together, but nothing more than that. Ben had always maintained a respectful professional distance.

Candy didn’t mind that he took his time. She had simply enjoyed having someone else her age, and single like her, to talk to. But eventually his tone had changed. He became more playful, more willing to joke with her, and as he had lightened up she had sensed his interest in her.

She had expected him to ask her out on a date around Christmas or New Year’s, but he waited until Valentine’s Day. They had a wonderful dinner together that night, and had been going out together ever since, though usually just a few times a month, due to their busy schedules and all.

As they started dating, she began to find out more about him. After graduating from Boston University with a degree in journalism, Ben started working for a newsweekly and spent most of the next decade and a half overseas, primarily in Africa and the Middle East, but also in Europe and Asia, traveling from one assignment — and one conflict — to another. He had been married twice, but both had been brief — three years to a British woman whom he’d met in Africa, less than eighteen months to an American journalist based out of Spain. He had no children. Coming back to the United States, he had sought a less stressful job, one where he could settle in for a while and focus on local news. A college friend of his, whose father owned a few weeklies in New England, suggested the job at the Cape Crier . After visiting the town and giving it some thought, he had taken the job, expecting to stay a year or two. He was now in his fourth year as editor.

He was, in many ways, a unique type of a person, Candy thought as she walked along the dark hallway toward her office. Perhaps that’s why he fit in so well here in Cape Willington, where everyone was a little different. Educated and well traveled, he was also essentially a loner, who preferred to live alone, fish alone, hike alone, and work alone. He had varied interests — William Faulkner was an idol of his, as were Ian Fleming and Max Ernst, the British surrealist. He liked to listen to Texas blues music and watch college football, and he loved English soccer. Manchester United was his team. He apparently knew how to play cricket, though Candy had never witnessed him doing so. But he had talked about it a few times over dinner, trying to explain the complex rules of the game to her. She had always found it too confusing, but she still liked listening to him explain it. He had a few close friends who called or visited him from time to time — mostly college buddies and colleagues from his years overseas. But he hadn’t sought out many friends here in Cape — he simply didn’t seem to need them. Candy often spotted him alone, sitting at the back of some coffee shop or café along Ocean Avenue or Main Street, eating a pastrami on rye or sipping at a cup of coffee while reading the Columbia Journalism Review or Sports Illustrated .