Danielle Douglas
CHAPTER 2 - 1970
1970
Jenna stretches the cord of her desktop phone to the max. Leaning against the door jamb of the contemporary restaurant’s back office, she gazes up at Boston’s illuminated sky, barely able to see the stars. She speaks quickly, unable to get the words out fast enough.
“You should see it, Molly; you’re going to love it. It’s beautiful. I’ve put so much time into the décor and the food. The food is spectacular—nothing like Boston has ever seen before. People come in daily asking when we’re going to be open.” Holding the phone receiver tightly to her ear, she adds, “Yes, I’ll be careful. You don’t have to worry. My grandmother made me tough.”
A crash in the front dining room makes her spin toward the interior of the office. She catches the corded desk phone just before it hits the floor and shatters into a million pieces. “I have to go, Molly—someone’s here. I love you.” Jenna slams the phone down, runs her fingers through her dirty blonde hair, pinches her cheeks to give them some color, and heads out to the main dining area.
She halts abruptly as she enters the dining room. Chaos greets her—hanging plants ripped from their pots, dirt strewn all over the floor, shattered pendant lights dangling by their wires, and "DYKE" spray-painted in black across the mirrored walls. Jenna gasps as a brick crashes through the front glass window, further scarring the stunning chic avocado green and rust décor. Every muscle in her body tenses as she dives for cover behind a restaurant booth.
Breathing heavily, Jenna bolts upright, struggling to pull herself from the nightmare. Molly rolls over and gently rubs her back.
“Same bad dream?” Molly asks.
Jenna’s hands tremble as she pulls the covers around her petite frame. “Yes, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time, it’s so weird.”
Molly, her eyelids too heavy to open, mumbles, “You’re just nervous about the beginning of the season. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be great, just like last year.” Molly’s arm reaches behind her and grabs this year’s Cape Cod restaurant guide pamphlet from her nightstand and slaps it onto Jenna’s blanketed lap. “Here, I got you this last night, open to page 20, read it out loud.”
Jenna smirks and diligently opens the thin pages of the restaurant guide. She scans down to the middle of the page where she sees the listing for her restaurant. She clears her throat and begins to read, “Jenna’s Joint - Savor the Flavor of the Cape. Vacationers will be lucky to get a taste of these delectable ingredients again this summer including seasonal vegetables, Cape Cod cranberries and locally sourced seafood prepared by lifelong Cape Codder Jenna Rhymes. Don’t be dissuaded by the long lines; the wait will be worth it.” Jenna closes the pamphlet and stares at the merchant ship donning its cover representing for her much more than a symbol of the early mariner history of her hometown. “I know the restaurant will be great, just like it is every year, but I don’t know. I want to be able to compete with the executive chefs of the top restaurants in the world.”
Mol answers Jenna’s concerns with grumbling snores. Not wanting to wake her, Jenna climbs slowly out of their rattan bed, throws on some faded jeans and a long sleeve crew neck t-shirt and enters the kitchen of their quaint two-bedroom cape house. She grabs her car keys off the Formica countertop. The green dune grass lining the clam shell driveway dances endlessly in the wind.
Jenna quickly hops into her 1965 classic Jeep Wagoneer with wood-grain side panels before the brisk weather penetrates through her thin clothing. She mumbles, “Shoulda grabbed a jacket.”
She drives to the place where she finds the most comfort—the sea - and sits on the hard-packed sand left by the receding tide. The blue ocean reflects in her hazel eyes, and the whitecaps created by the 20-knot breeze accentuate the crashing waves on the shore. The ocean is alive, and its power heals her from the violent destruction of her recurrent dream. She knows fear is holding her back. She is unsure why. Perhaps it is the daunting thought of going somewhere new, or maybe it is the feeling of insecurity which was set long ago by her dysfunctional relationship with her mother. Either way, the smell of salt from the ocean air calms her. She is happy to sit and enjoy this moment of complete peace.
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Reluctantly, Jenna pulls her Wagoneer into the asphalt parking lot of the 1950s strip mall. She gets out of the car and walks toward the restaurant door. She tries a couple of keys on her keychain before finally finding the right one. She flips on the lights of her cozy restaurant dining area lined with pine wainscoting. “Well, I didn’t think I’d be back again this year,” she announces to an empty room. Smacking the palm of her hand against the wall, she declares, “You’re hardly one of the top ten restaurants in the world, but you’ll do for now.”
Jenna never adopted the newer, fancier techniques she’d seen in contemporary cooking magazines. Sauces and foams would be lost on the hungry families and fishermen who just need something hearty to sustain them while doing more exciting things than eating. Hers is “home cooking.” The doors have stayed open through years of loyal customers and new patrons. Every summer, the same families return for generations, and tourists arrive early to pack their bags with food for fishing trips, beach visits, and bike rides. There was no need to change. Jenna glances at the black-and-white photo of her grandmother hanging on the wall. The resemblance is uncanny, and Jenna always felt that her grandmother was guiding her through life. Jenna brings her face closer to the photograph, examining every grainy detail. In the image, her grandmother stands tall, her back straight, holding onto the mast of a merchant ship—exemplifying her role as the Cape’s best navigator. “Yeah, I know. Press on. It’s a good thing I have someone up there on my side.”