The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(18)
“Did you notice the amusement park from the ferry?” he asks, handing me the cup without missing a beat.
“I … meant to ask about that,” I say, mystified by the stealth move I just witnessed.
“Cedar Point has been around … I don’t know … a long time,” he says. “It started out as a bathing beach in the 1800s, but now they regularly break world records with their roller coasters.”
“Do they have rides for tiny kids like Maisie?”
His expression turns inscrutable and … what just happened? He clears his throat. “Yeah, uh—they do. Even a little roller coaster with a Woodstock theme.”
“Oh my gosh, she would love that!”
Mason doesn’t respond. The Bubble-Wrapped awkwardness closes in again, and we drive the rest of the way to Sandusky in silence.
* * *
At the home improvement store, Mason rushes into the building before I even have Maisie unbuckled from her car seat. I don’t need any hardware, but I let her help me choose a couple of plants for my new bedroom. When we return to the truck with a snake plant and a golden pothos—both common outdoor plants in Florida—Mason is already waiting in the cab. Listening to a beer podcast.
Our next stop is Target, where I buy a small TV, some new bedding and rugs, along with a waterproof mattress pad for Maisie’s bed and a couple of new toys from the dollar section to distract her on our return to the island. Mason helps me load my purchases into the truck, but he’s detached and polite. Like the stranger he is.
Finally we go to the grocery store. Mason separates from us almost immediately with his own cart. Maisie, who is starting to get tired of riding around in shopping carts, refuses a free apple that the store has on offer for children. She tries to grab a tin of Altoids and a package of emery boards in the checkout line, and when I won’t let her have a Moana balloon, she bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry to ask,” I say, over a wailing child, as I wheel the cart toward the pickup. Mason’s groceries are already neatly stowed. “But is there somewhere I can take her to blow off a little steam?”
He scratches the back of his neck and it looks like he wants to refuse. Instead he says, “I have an idea.”
Mason takes us to a small park in downtown Sandusky that’s right beside the water. There are no other children at the playground, but Maisie rushes happily toward the swings, screaming, “Push me, Mama! Push me!”
“Be right back,” Mason mutters, but I don’t pay attention to which direction he stalks off in because Maisie’s meltdown is over.
Across the bay, roller coasters rise out of the trees. A freighter steams toward the mouth of the lake and seagulls catch rides on the breeze. Downtown Sandusky is old and charming, with restaurants and wide sidewalks where they probably have outdoor dining in the summer. Cars drive past frequently, but unlike at home, it’s not an incessant, noisy flow.
Dad took a job with an insurance company in Fort Lauderdale after he was discharged from the army. Mom told me later that she always thought the city felt soulless. But after he walked out, the rest of us were too settled to move. We already had friends and Anna was on a rec league soccer team for little kids. Later, I was first clarinet in the marching band. Anna made the JV soccer team. Mom got promoted at the bank. I met Brian. Anna lost Ben. Noisy, fast-paced Fort Lauderdale was home. But now that I’m getting used to the quiet, I’ve never slept as soundly as I do on Kelleys Island.
Maisie has moved over to the slide when Mason returns, carrying a stack of Styrofoam takeaway boxes, a couple cans of soda, and a carton of milk balanced on top. I grab the drinks, and he spreads the boxes on a nearby picnic table, identifying the contents as he points to each.
“Fries. Fish. And a hot dog for Maisie, in case she’s not a fan of fish.”
He opens one of the boxes to reveal a pile of thickly breaded, deep-fried butterflied fillets. “Lake Erie yellow perch is a local delicacy. Best in the world.”
“That’s a bold claim to make. Especially to a girl from Florida.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I stand behind it.”
I reach for a piece of fish, then take a bite. Inside, it’s firm, yet flaky. It’s not meaty like mahi or tuna, but it doesn’t fall apart like tilapia or pompano. The taste is a little sweet and very mild. “Wow. Okay, so … you might have a case. This is incredible.”
“We’re lucky it’s early in the season.” Mason picks up a plastic knife and cuts Maisie’s hot dog into three smaller sections. The motion seems practiced. Experienced. “In the summer, the line for perch is out the door.”
“I want ketchup,” Maisie says.
Mason tears open a packet and squeezes the ketchup on only one section of hot dog. Somehow this man understands that a toddler at a playground is unlikely to eat more than a few bites of anything—and uneaten buns covered in ketchup are soggy and undesirable.
“Do you have kids?”
His hands go still. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re really good with Maisie,” I say. “And because every time I mention kids, you get this deer-in-the-headlights look.”
He looks beyond me. “Yeah.” He blinks. “I did.”
“Divorce?”
“No.” His voice is quiet, low. For the longest time, that’s all he says, and I wonder if he’s going to elaborate. Finally he clears his throat. “I, uh—I’m going to wait in the truck until you two have had enough playground time. Stay as long as you like.” He gets up from the picnic table and grabs a can of Pepsi before walking away.