Nan Rossiter
The Gin and Chowder Club
© 2011
PROLOGUE
Asa knelt down, picked up the envelope, and brushed away the sand. A sudden wind rushed down the beach and threatened to steal it from his hands, but he held it tightly and ran his fingers lightly over the familiar handwriting. The bittersweet memory of a summer long ago began to fill his mind like the gentle wave of an ebbing tide. Asa’s heart raced as he turned the envelope over and slipped out its contents. Tucked inside a letter was a faded bus ticket dated June 21, 1961, and behind the ticket… an old photograph. Asa stared in disbelief.
PART I
– Habakkuk 2:3
1
All day long, the leaden sky had hung low and threatening over Nauset Light. Asa sat at his desk and watched the lighthouse from his bedroom window. There was something haunting about the steady measurement in each revolution… It was almost as if you could watch time passing.
“Asaaa, we could use your help down here,” Samuel Coleman bellowed from the kitchen, interrupting his son’s thoughts.
“Be right down,” the boy answered. He scribbled one last sentence and closed the notebook, slipped it into the bottom of his desk drawer, and pushed back his chair, almost tripping over the family’s old black Lab who was dozing on the braided rug beside his bed.
“Sorry, ole girl,” Asa said, scratching her head.
Martha thumped her tail forgivingly and followed him gingerly down the worn narrow treads as he hurried to help his father and brother.
Samuel looked up. “Please rinse before dropping ’em in.”
“Yes, Dad,” the boys replied, rolling their eyes and elbowing each other. When they had first begun helping with the task of pulling clam bellies from their shells, the boys had stood side by side on a chair. They had grown considerably since then, but the task would not be the same if their father forgot to reiterate these mundane instructions. Asa didn’t mind. He loved to help with the recipe that had been in their family for generations. He loved it not only because it was a tradition, but also because it meant that his parents would be having company. When they were younger, he and Isaac would already be in their pajamas when their parents’ friends arrived, and they would be allowed to stay up just long enough to say hello and to explain that they had indeed helped with the chowder. Then they would be ushered upstairs for prayers and gently tucked into bed. The ocean breeze would whisper to them through their bedroom window as they listened to the merry laughter and voices downstairs. Finally, the boys would hear the chowder being served and the men jovially toasting, their voices lilting with unmistakable Cambridge accents…
Then they would drift off to sleep, warmed by the happiness in their parents’ deep old friendships…
Asa pulled the last clam belly, gave it a quick rinse, and dropped it into the pot. He scooped the empty shells into a large metal pail, and Isaac carried it outside. Asa watched his father drain off the potatoes and add them to the steaming pot as well.
“So, what do you boys have planned for tonight?” Samuel asked as he poured in a generous amount of cream.
“Depends on the weather,” Asa answered. “We’re supposed to meet some of the fellows down on the beach for a bonfire.”
“Just fellows?” His father looked up with raised eyebrows as Isaac came back into the kitchen.
“Dad, do you need ice up here?” Isaac asked.
“Yes, we’ll need some ice. Are you offering to bring it up?”
“Sure. Asa, give me a hand.”
Isaac gave his brother a playful shove as they headed out of the kitchen. Samuel watched them go. He was amazed to think that these young men were his sons. What had become of the small boys who, just yesterday it seemed, had relentlessly chased each other through the house? Where were the little fellows he had carried out into the waves, one in each arm, the older one squealing with delight, the younger one silent and wide-eyed with determined courage? Now they were as tall as he was.
Isaac and Asa were both slender and handsome. Isaac reminded Samuel of himself at the same age-chestnut- brown hair that was already showing signs of receding, hazel eyes, and long dark lashes that were the envy of every woman who ever saw them. Isaac was a mathematician and an artist. He was creative in a conscientious and orderly way. He attended art school in Rhode Island and, having just finished his foundation year, had settled on architecture as a major, and it suited him.
Asa, on the other hand, looked just like his mother. His features were gentle and kind. His blond hair shone in the sun. By August, it would be bleached to almost white against his brown skin. Asa’s eyes were as blue as the sweet summer sky and often reflected the distant thoughts of the poet he tried to keep hidden. Samuel wondered why his younger son was so reluctant to share his writing but respected his privacy. Asa would be heading to college in the fall, and Samuel hoped that there, he would finally grow more confident.
