El's Chronicles: Shadow Island // Chapter 5

Chapter 5

By mid-afternoon, I found myself at the dock, carrying the cake on a platter covered with a cloth. The air smelled of salt and fish, with a faint whiff of my own desperation.

I spotted Zan unloading crates from his boat. He glanced up at me, then reached for another crate.

“Hey,” I called, forcing a smile. “Peace offering?” I held up the sharlotka.

He hesitated, wiping his hands on a rag before stepping closer. “What is it?”

“It’s sharlotka,” I said, holding out the platter with both hands. “An apple cake. Family recipe.”

There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Russian apple cake?”

I tilted my head, very impressed. “Not just any Russian apple cake. A Siberian one.”

He folded his arms, a smile breaking through. “Siberian, huh? That’s a bold qualifier. What makes it Siberian?”

I arched a brow, looking him in the eye with mock seriousness. “It was baked by a Siberian, using a family recipe tested in subzero conditions. Isn’t that enough?”

Then I added, almost as an afterthought, “And I always keep my apples refrigerated.” In case that mattered.

He studied me for a moment. “You’re a Siberian?”

I smirked. “Yep, born and raised. Back then I’d saddle up my bear for a trek through the snow, then head home for a slice of sharlotka, you know, standard Siberian childhood stuff.”

He laughed. “Alright. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” I replied. “I just figured I owe you an apology. I might have been a little out of line.”

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

I shrugged, glancing at the boats behind him. “It’s been a long week. The house feels haunted, I can’t sleep, and now I’ve got this mystery hanging over me. I might have taken some of that out on you.”

He considered that for a moment. “Fair enough.”

“So,” I said, setting the cake down on a nearby crate. “Truce?”

He nodded slightly. “Truce. And thank you.”

“So, what do people do around here when they’re trying to stay out of trouble and avoid disappearing in the caves?”

“Not much,” he said. “But if you’re looking for something to do… how do you feel about fishing?”

“Fishing?”

“Silverback fish. I could show you how we catch them.”

I hesitated but agreed, partly because I was curious and partly because, let’s face it, my options for island entertainment were limited to fishing or ghost hunting. “Alright. When do we leave?”

Zan looked up, watching the clouds drift in slow formation above the cliffs. The breeze caught his hair, and he squinted toward the line where gray met blue. “Wind’s turning southwest,” he said, almost to himself. “Perfect for fishing.”

The boat rocked lightly as we drifted away from the dock, the quiet lapping of the waves filling the silence between us. 

Zan handed me a second net, smaller than the one he carried, and gave me a tutorial so brief that it basically boiled down to: “Don’t fall in the water.” Judging by the sideways glance he shot me, he wasn’t joking.

“You see that patch of darker water over there?” he asked, pointing just beyond the boat. “That’s where they’ll be.”

“How do you know?” I squinted, trying to see what he saw.

He smiled. “You spend enough time out here, you learn the signs. They like the water near the rocks.”

I mimicked his stance, gripping the net tightly. He watched for a moment, then stepped behind me, adjusting my grip. “You’re too stiff,” he said. “Relax. It’s not about strength. It’s about timing.”

I nodded, trying to follow his lead. We waited in silence, the boat swaying gently beneath us, until he gave a quiet command. “Now.”

I flung the net with all the grace of someone trying to swat a bee out of their car. To my surprise, the net sank smoothly into the water, and when I hauled it back up, several gleaming silver fish flashed inside.

“Not bad,” Zan said, his tone carrying a grudging hint of approval.

“High praise,” I replied, smirking as I added the fish to the bucket.

Back on the shore, Zan lit a small fire in a stone pit near the dock. He gutted and cleaned the fish with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. 

“Here,” he said, threading the fish onto the skewer before handing it to me. “You cook it over the flame, not in it. Let the heat do the work.”

I followed his example, watching as the fish began to sizzle and crisp. The smell was incredible, clean and smoky with a hint of salt from the ocean air.

“This is how we do it here,” Zan said, turning his skewer slowly. “No spices, no fancy marinades. Just the fish and the fire. Keeps it honest.”

I smiled, holding my skewer carefully over the flame. “Honest fish. I like that.”

The fish was tender and slightly smoky, with a sweetness I hadn’t expected.

“This is amazing,” I said, genuinely surprised. “What’s the trick?”

“No trick,” he said. “It’s just fresh. That’s the difference.”

We ate in silence, the fire crackling between us. For the first time since I arrived on the island, I felt like I belonged, even if only for a moment. There was something comforting about sitting there with him, the weight of the day easing into the rhythm of the waves. I was reluctant to disturb that feeling, but eventually curiosity got the better of me.

“So, do you have family on the island?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, though my pulse quickened a bit with the question.

He was poking the fire with a stick, the orange light casting shadows across his face. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he sighed, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“No,” he said finally. 

“Would you tell me about your family?” I continued gently.

“My parents were archaeologists,” he said after a moment. “They were close friends of the Harringtons, working with Elias for years. Thirty years ago, when I was eighteen, my parents passed away. The Harringtons didn’t have children, so they took me in and treated me like family.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure how to respond. “I’m sorry about your parents… I didn’t realize…”

“It was a long time ago,” he said, sounding a little far away. “When Elias passed, it was just Betty and me.” 

I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but it came out anyway. “Do you have anyone special now? A girlfriend, or…”

He laughed under his breath. “I date occasionally.”

 “What about you?” he asked, catching me off guard. “Why’d you really come to the island?”

I froze, the question hitting closer than I expected. “What makes you think there’s a really?”

He stared at me. “People don’t just come here for the view.”

“I think…” I paused. “I think I came here to figure out why I needed to come here. I guess I thought maybe if I came somewhere quiet, I’d finally hear myself think. Or maybe I would finally have to face myself if I completely ran out of distractions.”

He didn’t interrupt. 

“Theo’s overseas for the semester on a scholarship, and my cashmere business is seasonal. It just slowed down, and for the first time in years, I had the chance to pause and think. And still, I didn’t. It is so easy for me to stay busy in the city, bury myself in errands and noise, and call it progress, call it productivity, call it anything but what it really is. Avoidance.”

“I get that. So, you’re a fashion designer?”

I shifted closer to the fire. “I’m not a fashion designer. It’s just not the right definition. My business started by accident. I was broke, I had a pile of discarded cashmere, and I needed to make something out of nothing. It snowballed. And besides, I think I’m in it more for the goats than for the runway.”

“So if this started by accident,” he said, “what would you do if it was on purpose?”

I definitely had the answer. 

“I always wanted to be a writer,” I said. And then, as if saying it made it real, I added, “Still do.”

He didn’t smile or nod. He just tilted his head slightly. “So… what’s the problem?” 

It wasn’t sharp or smug. He just asked. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because… what was the problem?

This was the first time anyone had ever actually asked me that. Not encouraged me, not complimented my old work, not told me that I missed my calling. Just why not?

I didn’t have a real answer. 

I hadn’t written anything in over ten years. I’d spent over a decade wanting to write again. Thinking about it, narrating my life in invisible paragraphs, filing days away like unfinished chapters. And yet, nothing. Not a word.

I glanced down, suddenly aware of how ridiculous the excuses sounded, even before I said them.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Life. Theo. The business. Everything else always felt more urgent.”

A pause.

“And I guess now that I’m in my forties, it feels… late. If I try and fail, that’s it. Or maybe I’m just afraid.”

He didn’t look away. “Afraid of what?”

I felt my throat tighten. “Of pouring everything out into the world and hearing silence. Of being misunderstood. Or worse, completely missed.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “If you still think about it after ten years, it’s not just a whim. It’s a part of you that’s still alive. You don’t have to build a career. But you should let it breathe.”

“Well, before I remember how to write,” I said, “I should remember how to make tratatouille.” 

Zan blinked, then smiled. “What?”

I haven’t been back to Russia in over a decade, and when my grandmother died a few years ago, I couldn’t arrange the trip in time for her funeral. I missed it, just as I had missed the last ten years of her life, and I spent days in bed, overwhelmed with guilt and grief. 

“My grandmother used to make it.”

After she passed, my brother and I found ourselves circling the old memories, and he kept saying tratatouille like it was a punchline. I was genuinely confused. I had always thought that tratatouille was a regional pronunciation of ratatouille. I was nearly forty when I learned tratatouille didn’t exist anywhere outside our family. 

We grew up in a country where grocery stores offered empty shelves, and the optimism was strictly rationed. But everyone had a garden, because survival required it, and pumpkins, stubborn and generous, were easy to grow.

“My grandmother added pumpkin to a basic ratatouille, stretching it to feed three generations gathered around the table. Called it tratatouille.”

Zan tilted his head.

I laughed softly. “She called it tratatouille as a joke. It’s a play on the Russian sound word tratatá, describing a rapid-fire, stuttering sound, like sputtering engines or machine guns. Or, as she liked to say with a smile, the sound a family makes after consuming an exceptional amount of fiber.”

He laughed. I kept going.

“She never wrote the recipe down, of course. It was instinct and repetition. I haven’t tasted it in over thirty years, but I keep thinking about it, trying to resurrect it in my memory, going over texture, spice, the precise shade of orange it turned when it was done right.”

I gave a small shrug. “In the city, I never have time. My kitchen’s the size of a cutting board. There’s no counter space. No room for error. No way to mess it up and start again without eating cereal for dinner. No space to grieve through pumpkins.”

I looked back at him. “Here on the island, I have five pumpkins and no excuses. I keep pretending I’m going to try. So far, they’ve made excellent paperweights.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re trying to recreate a recipe. Sounds like you’re unsure if you’re ready to.”

“You see?” I said. “Even now I’m lying to myself. Saying it’s about time, or space, or logistics. Saying New York kitchens are too small.” I laughed, but there was no joy in it. “My grandmother’s kitchen was smaller than the one I have now, and she fed generations from it. This isn’t about space.”

I wiped one eye with the side of my finger. “Maybe I don’t know if I deserve to accept the handoff. If I’m ready to be the one making tratatouille now that she’s gone.”

“Grief doesn’t revoke inheritance,” Zan said softly. “You honor her by continuing, not by punishing yourself.”

Then, more lightly, he added, “Besides, tratatouille feels ripe for reinvention. Very American, really. Perfect for anything from Halloween to Thanksgiving, straight through the winter holidays, as long as the weather still permits cracking a window.”

We both laughed.

Then, after a long pause, he quietly asked, “You mentioned a scholarship. Which one?”

I glanced at him, surprised by the shift. “Oh, it’s through the Bright Minds Foundation. It’s a nonprofit for gifted kids,“ I said. “He’s currently at this ridiculously prestigious boarding school in Europe. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, letting him go. But it’s an incredible opportunity, and I wanted him to have that experience.”

I leaned back on my hands, stretching my legs toward the fire, the warmth licking at my skin. The night had settled comfortably around us, the kind of quiet that felt vast but not empty.

“You know,” I said, “it’s kind of funny. I’ve heard about you from the residents at the retirement center, but somehow, we’ve never actually run into each other.” I shot him a sideways look. “I mean, Betty talks about you all the time, and I was there with Theo almost every weekend for months. What are the odds?”

“Yeah… about that. I was very aware of the Grandparent for a Day and adjusted my visits accordingly.”

I gaped at him. “You avoided us?”

He shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “Survival instinct.”

I laughed out loud. “Oh, I hear you. Honestly, I think the only thing the residents enjoy as much as our visits… is watching us pack up to leave.”

When Zan spoke again, his voice was softer. “How did the Grandparent for a Day thing come about?”

I paused for a moment, unsure where to begin. “Theo and I moved to the city about a year ago. I don’t have any family in the States, so it’s always been just the two of us. After the move, he started feeling the absence of family even more than usual. One day, he was upset because he saw other kids spending time with their grandparents, and he didn’t have that. So, I said, ‘Why not pick your own grandparents?’ And there was this retirement center just four blocks away, so that’s where we started. But then I guess more kids wanted to join in, and it became a thing.”

The fire burned lower, the shadows growing longer around us. The silverbacks were gone, reduced to bones, their smoky scent lingering in the cool night air. The apple cake had vanished too, leaving behind only the faintest trace of sweetness and a satisfied silence. Betty clearly knew her subject. For a man so committed to emotional restraint, Zan showed a deeply compromising level of interest in that cake. He said very little about it, but I took the empty platter as a compliment.

His face, lit by the faint glow of the fire, looked softer now, less guarded. 

“Do you have spare keys to the house?” I asked, staring at the dying flames.

“Yes, why?” he replied after a pause.

I’d already been sleeping in a house he could enter whenever he wanted. Asking him to stay didn’t seem like much of an additional gamble. So before I could talk myself out of it, I said, “Zan, I’m scared to stay in the house at night. It feels like it’s haunted or like someone’s trying to break in. And I’m pretty sure I hear screams coming from the woods every other night. Would you… would you stay the night there with me?”

The silence dragged just long enough to register as a tactical error. My words, freshly spoken, sounded far less innocent in retrospect. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could already see Betty grinning, probably setting up a betting pool. One thing was certain: I would never, ever be able to look her in the eyes again.