Todd dumped some of the oysters onto a towel he laid out on the sand, at least ten or twelve dozen worth.
“What do you think the chances are one of those oysters has a pearl inside the shell?”
“Not all oysters make pearls, and the ones that do make them very infrequently. The odds for the production of a natural pearl are about one in 10,000 oysters, at best. That’s why they are so amazing," Todd said.
"I didn't realize a pearl was so rare."
“When sand injures the oyster, the oyster responds by becoming a strong, resilient, beautiful pearl. It’s a pretty great metaphor, isn't it?” Todd said the lid of the cooler. He passed me a lemon wedge from inside along with an opened shell.
“I’m not the biggest fan. The couple of times I’ve had them, I typically coat just them in cocktail sauce—masks the taste.”
“Oh, you’ve been missing out, kid. Just a few drops of lemon can boost the brightness of an oyster without overwhelming it. I promise, these are worth giving oysters another try.”
There it was again, that word, kid. Yet somehow, the pet name sounded different coming out of Todd’s mouth than Sam’s. With Sam, the nickname always felt like a reminder that he was the more grown-up, stable, and settled one. I was the lowly freshman girl, the kid he’d plucked from obscurity and brought into the big league. With Todd, the phrase felt more like a term of endearment, his way of being playful and flirty with me. “Okay, okay. I’ll try it your way,” I conceded.
He stood up and came around behind me. He knelt and reached his arms over my shoulders, squeezing the lemon onto my plate of oysters.
“Everyone thinks you’re supposed to slurp down the oyster like a shot of tequila. Don’t,” he breathed into my ear. “All the oyster’s sweetness is in the body, so if you rush through it, you’ll miss half the experience.”
I picked up the half shell and let the meat slide into my mouth, savoring its salty richness.
“Mmmm, you were right, that’s amazing.”
“I told you. And now for the pièce de résistance, a beautiful Chablis,” he said, pouring two glasses of the French white wine. “Chablis is considered a classic pairing for oysters because of the ancient marine fossils and oyster shells found in the region’s limestone soil. I don’t know about all that, but I do happen to think it tastes pretty freakin’ phenomenal with fresh seafood.”
I took a small sip. “And now, so do I.”
Todd leaned back on his elbows, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
“So, now that I’ve told you my sordid tale, what’s yours?” he asked.
I set my glass down in the sand. “What do you mean?”
He arched his right eyebrow. “A breakup so devastating you had to escape to a Boot Camp for two weeks?”
“I get it, a breakup Boot Camp sounded completely insane to me too.”
He extended his arms. “And yet, here you are.”
“My fiancé was cheating on me. We were supposed to get married at the end of the summer.”
Todd’s eyes widened as he took another sip of the wine.
“He was my first love. Really, Sam was my first everything. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I kind of fell apart after our relationship ended. I am glad I decided to come to the Boot Camp, but the thing I’m starting to realize is that, even with all the therapy in the world, when a heart is as broken as mine, the pieces might never quite fit the way they did before.”
“And is that a bad thing?”
“You know, I’m not really sure.”
Todd pushed a stray hair behind my ear and topped off our glasses of wine.
“We should get going. I need to get the oysters on ice. Today was fun, though.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Bottoms up,” he said, clinking his glass into mine.
He threw back the rest of the Chablis and packed up our small picnic. We boarded the boat with our haul, no pearls but dozens of perfect Stump Sound oysters.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I got back from the oyster hunt, Zosia was waiting for me by the Retreat House Spa reception desk, reading a magazine. I called her name, and she looked up from her US Weekly.
“Can you believe the paparazzi managed to snap a picture of Emmy at surf school? Where do you think they’re hiding out, the sand dunes?” Zosia pushed her glasses down the bridge of her nose. “Is that you behind her?”
She passed me the magazine. Emmy was the cover story. Underneath the headline, Relationship Rehab, Emmy J’s Journey to Heal Her Broken Heart, was a picture of her surfing on Topsail Beach.
“No, that’s not me,” I said, passing it back to her.
Zosia shook her head. “Emmy’s going to be crushed when she sees this. She’s really been enjoying her anonymity. I guess we all have.”
With one week of Boot Camp just about over and only one week left, she was right, I was starting to get used to our device and stress-free existence. Retreat House was a safe space, a cocoon from the rest of the world, and it was disarming to know one flash of a paparazzi camera could take all that away.
Zosia tucked the magazine back into her tote and pulled out her schedule of activities. “Do you know what treatment we’re signed up for?”
I checked my Retreat House daily schedule. “Something called a V-Steam? Emmy recommended it. Have you ever heard of that before?”
“I think so? Yes, a Vietnamese steam. It’s supposed to clear out your pores, remove the toxins, that sort of thing,” Zosia said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, that sounds great, actually.”
“I know, the Southeast Asian countries are light years ahead of us in terms of their therapies,” she said.
A technician from the spa stepped into the waiting area and clapped her hands together. “Ms. Kitt, Ms. Barry, I have you both booked for a 2:00 V-Steam. Please come this way.”
We followed her past the reception desk and down a long hallway that led to a series of doors. The technician handed us plush white terrycloth robes and directed each of us to a room.
“Get changed into these, and I’ll be back in a few minutes to start the treatment,” she said.
I stepped into my room and closed the door behind me. I was expecting a massage table, or one of those reclining chairs spas use for facials, but the room was pretty sparse. I changed out of my clothes and into the white robe and waited for the next set of instructions.
A few minutes later the technician came back with a large white porcelain bowl filled with steaming water. She placed it on the counter and started mixing in different aromatic herbs and serums. Hints of lavender, rosemary, and peppermint permeated the air. She ripped up herbs and leaves and sprinkled them into the basin.
I rose to my tiptoes and peeked over the technician’s shoulder. “What’s all that?”
“Oregano, mugwort, wormwood, and basil.”
“Is this a beauty treatment or magic potion?” I teased.
“Actually, many of our clients have commented this treatment’s been a magic bullet for their love life. Okay, I’m just about done,” she said, turning to me. “By the way, how’s your core?”