The Rattled Bones(35)

Gram removes the bread from the oven and nods toward the boiling water on the stove. “Bugs are ready.”

I grab two potholders and sidle up to the large soup pot just as Sam joins us in the kitchen. “I’d love to help with that if you’ll let me.”

It’s not a Here, let me get that or an I’ve got this. It’s an offer of assistance, but not because he’s a man asserting his strength. He asks because he’s a guest and wants to help. I don’t miss how Gram’s eyebrows raise at this same realization. I pull the pot holders from my hands and pass them to Sam.

“Great. Just drain the water in the sink.”

“Slowly,” Gram warns as she slices through the tender top crust of fresh-baked oatmeal bread. “It’s boiling.”

“Trust me, I’m all about the slow.” Sam carries the pot to the sink and empties the water in a smooth, steady flow.

I pull out the steaming lobsters left at the bottom, their shells bright red now, their claws still bound by the thick blue elastic band we applied after pulling them from the sea.

Sam brings the platter of lobsters to the table, places them in front of Gram. “Can I get anything else?”

“Nonsense.” Gram waves him to his seat. “The food’s getting cold waiting on all your politeness.” I love the hint of a smile that seeps out with Gram’s words.

Sam takes his seat, Dad’s seat. Sam is smaller than Dad, with slimmer shoulders and a quieter voice. My dad filled a room with his laughter and his bulk.

Sam spreads his napkin across his lap and scoops roasted potatoes and garden snap peas onto his plate. When he adds an ear of corn, he inhales the steam. “Is that sage?”

Gram nudges my hand, clearly approving. “Nothing better to season early corn than sage butter.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Murphy.”

“Don’t ya ‘Mrs. Murphy’ me, young man. I’m Gram in this house, and if you’re in this house, then I’m Gram to ya, too.”

Sam smiles a grateful grin. “That just might be the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Well, then, son, you’ve lived a boring life and ya need to get out more.”

“Gram!”

“No.” Sam laughs. “She’s right. I do need to get out more. Don’t we all?”

Gram gives him an admiring nod. “Tell that to Rilla here.”

“Something tells me Rilla makes her own choices.”

I feel a blush rise in me, the way its heat is stirred by his compliment.

“Eat up,” Gram orders. We do. As Sam and I eat to calm the hunger born from a long day at sea, Gram exercises her expert interrogation. She asks the questions behind the questions. She never asks outright if Sam can handle himself on a boat, if she can trust him with my life. Instead she asks if he has siblings (a brother), if he’s close with him (very). How he feels about being so far from the desert and the friends he’s known all his life. Gram is unearthing his morality. His core. Because all the boat stuff can be learned. Gram is trying to determine if Sam is someone who will have my back if there’s danger. Someone to trust, rely on, in good and bad weather. Sam answers every question with grace, and to Gram’s credit, she makes it all seem like good, wholesome conversation instead of her intent fact-finding mission.

“Can I ask you something now?” Sam says to Gram as he sets a bright red lobster onto his plate, removes the blue claw bands with his fork after watching me do the same. “How do I do this?” He taps his fork against the shell.

“Do what, now? Eat a lobster?”

“Yes. Exactly that. Fresh seafood isn’t exactly a staple in the desert.”

Gram lets out a laugh so loud and quick that her head jolts back. “Rilla, we’ve got ourselves an honest-to-goodness landlubber at our table.”

“Maybe so,” Sam says, his smile as bright as Gram’s. “But I’m a big fan of the lobster, and I’d be a bigger fan of it being in my stomach. The question is, how does one make that happen?”

Gram leans forward, squints her eyes at Sam. “You’re a funny one, Sam Taylor.” She sits back, stares at him. “I like funny.”

Sam’s smile has actual wattage.

“Want some help?” I ask.

“I would be very grateful for some help.”

“Follow my lead.” I grab my second lobster from the serving dish and crack the body from the tail, letting the hot water drip into the bowl, over my fingers. Sam copies me. He mimics every move I make as I extract the meat from the lobster, and it feels oddly intimate. Gram watches my wrist, the bright white bandage there.

After dinner, Sam gives Gram a hug and Gram gives Sam a heaping plate of leftovers and a whole loaf of fresh oat bread. Sam and I walk down to the Rilla Brae. The light is leaving the sky, but a deep blue still clings to the horizon, even as it’s determined to turn black.

When we reach the dock, Sam says, “I didn’t realize you could see Malaga from your house.” His expression tells me there’s something he’s not saying.

“I’ve got a bird’s-eye view from my bedroom window.”

“Is that your clever way of saying that you’re spying on me?”

I push at his shoulder with mine and he laughs.