She retreated to the kitchen, grateful for a moment to collect herself. Her heart was fluttering, and her pulse was rampaging through her. “Get a grip, Beverly,” she told herself again. As she arranged the flowers in a small vase, she reminded herself once more that this was not a date. The flowers didn’t mean anything. They were just being friendly.
When she returned, Cliff was standing in her living room, looking at the framed photos on her mantel. A photo from the first day she opened Coastal Coffee. A few photos of her and Maxine through the years. What wasn’t there was a photo of her and Cliff.
“Ready?” she asked.
He turned and nodded. “Shall we?”
The evening air was perfect as they stepped outside—warm but not humid, with a gentle breeze coming off the water. She locked her door, and they set off down the street toward the boardwalk.
“I thought we’d go to Sharky’s, if that’s okay with you,” he said. “Unless you had somewhere else in mind.”
“Sharky’s is perfect.” It was casual enough not to feel too date-like but nice enough for an evening out.
They walked side by side, close but not touching. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but she felt a nervous energy that made her want to fill it.
“Do you have any ideas about this second fundraiser?” he finally asked.
She began to relax. This was familiar territory—planning, organizing, helping the community. The nervous flutter in her stomach subsided somewhat as they approached the boardwalk.
“I do. I’ve made a list.”
“Of course you have.” He grinned at her.
They continued down the boardwalk to Sharky’s. The restaurant was busy but not packed. The hostess led them to a table near the windows with a view of the water. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.
“This is nice,” she said as they settled into their chairs.
“It is.” But his eyes were on her rather than the view.
They ordered drinks—a glass of white wine for her, a beer for him—and studied the menus. She was acutely aware of the glances from other diners. Mrs. Peterson and her husband were at a table near the bar, and she caught the older woman watching them with unabashed interest.
Cliff must have noticed too. “I think we’re providing the evening’s entertainment,” he said with a wry smile.
She grimaced. “We’re sure to be as big a subject of gossip as your mother’s impending wedding. By tomorrow morning, half the town will have heard we were here together.”
They ordered dinner and talked about another fundraiser. “This one will need to be different. Maybe we can think of something that will even attract people from the mainland.” She frowned, trying to come up with an original idea.
“Especially if that second ferry starts running.”
She frowned for a moment. “If they don’t get funding to continue the bridge… are you still going ahead with your development plans?”
She studied Cliff’s face as she waited for his answer. The gentle clinking of silverware and murmured conversations of other diners faded into the background as she focused on him. The sun continued to lower toward the horizon outside the windows, casting a golden glow across the water.
He took a sip of his beer, then set it down with a deliberate motion. “Yes,” he said finally. “I am going ahead with my plans. The island needs this development. The hurricane only proves it more. There are businesses that barely survived the storm. We need to diversify the economy here.”
She felt like a cold, hard stone settled in her chest. Despite their recent reconnection, some things hadn’t changed.
“Even with the bridge delayed?”
“The bridge will get built eventually. It’s just a matter of time and funding.” He nodded confidently. “And when it does, Magnolia Key needs to be ready. This development will bring jobs, tax revenue, and tourists who will spend money at local businesses.”
Including Coastal Coffee, she thought. Yet the idea still troubled her.
“What about the height variance? Are you still pushing for six stories?”
“I need at least five to make the numbers work,” he said, his expression turning more businesslike. “Four would be a stretch financially.”
Their server arrived with their meals—grilled grouper for her, steak for him. She waited until they were alone again before continuing.
