Blueberry Blues by Karen MacInerney

 
    Blueberry Blues
     
    It was the Saturday of the Cranberry Island clambake, and I was beginning to wonder whether offering up the Gray Whale Inn as a location for the annual event was one of my better ideas. It was usually held at the island’s church – Saint James Episcopal – but since the church floor refinishing project that was supposed to be done two months ago still hadn’t been completed, I’d volunteered the Gray Whale Inn as an alternate location.
    "Can’t we put them out on the back deck?” I asked my best friend Charlene as she lugged a tub of clams into the inn’s kitchen. The two of us had laid out sheets of plastic so any condensation – or leaky tubs -- wouldn’t hurt the pine floors. Since moving from Texas to open the inn six months earlier, my budget had been tight enough; the last thing I needed was to have to refinish my own floors.
    "Are you kidding me?” Charlene pursed her glossy lips and shook her head as we maneuvered another load through the kitchen door. For a storekeeper on a little island off the coast of Maine, she always managed to look fabulous. Forget flannel and fisherman’s sweaters; today’s ensemble was a green velour sweater and tight jeans, with a crystal necklace and earrings that sparkled in the morning light. The overall effect was dampened only slightly by the apron she’d borrowed to protect her outfit – it was white with big black spots, featuring two dancing cows and the logo “Moo-stepping in Texas.”
    As Charlene adjusted her grip on the clams, it occurred to me that she’d be an excellent subject for the Daily Mail . The new staff reporter, Andi Jordan, was heading over with a photographer to cover the clambake, and I was hoping for some good coverage for the inn. Since taking the job at the paper, she'd written harsh reviews for several local restaurants, but since it was an island-wide event, I crossed my fingers that she'd focus on the community focus of the event – and the beauty of the inn. My bookings calendar wasn’t exactly overflowing, and I needed all the publicity I could get. Glancing down at my frayed sweatshirt, I reflected that it would probably be a good idea to slip into something more photogenic before everyone arrived.
    “We can't put them on the deck,” Charlene said as we bumped past the pine table. “The clams have to be inside. Otherwise the seagulls would gulp them all down in ten minutes flat.” We deposited the tub of clams on the floor, and she reached up to adjust her hair. “Besides, this way they’re closer to the stove. How many pots do you have, anyway?”
    "I’ve got two big ones, plus the one you promised to bring over.” I surveyed the crowded kitchen floor. “Although how we’re going to manage to cook in here with all that stuff, I don’t know.”
    "Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Emmeline’s taking care of the corn.”
    "Yeah, but I still have twelve more blueberry pies to bake.” I nodded toward the pies already lined up by the refrigerator, and the huge bags of rolls that covered half of my countertops. “At least I don’t have to do the rolls.”
    "I just hope the tables and chairs get here soon.” Charlene glanced out at the lawn behind the house – it was a brilliant emerald green, fading into a field of blue and pink lupines and the rocks and water below it. I’d sweet-talked my neighbor – and maybe-boyfriend – John into mowing it yesterday, and had spent a few hours weeding the flowerbeds as he worked, surreptitiously admiring the long brown legs extending from his faded cut-offs. The smell of the beach roses, sweet peas and fresh-cut grass, mixed with the ever-present salt tang of the sea, was a tonic; if I could bottle it, I’d make millions.
    "Is that all?” I asked as we lugged the last tub in from Charlene’s pick-up.
    "Unless you want to help me track down the tables and chairs…”
    "I’ve got blueberry pies to make, remember? Besides,” I said, nodding toward the