“I do now.” She tucked her phone away. “I wanted a starter home for a young, newly married couple with eclectic furniture, some old, some new, a creaking staircase. This place is forHouse Beautiful. Just move in and live. It’s a frozen dinner. Heat and eat.”
Emery grinned. “Then tell him. And don’t read articles about marriage. Talk to real people. Marriage works. Look at Dad and Joanna. Dad and my mom. Caleb’s parents have been married for forty years.”
Ava looked pensive. “There’s the couple across the way who are always hosting their friends and family. They went jogging in matching outfits a few days ago when the temps hit forty-five.”
“Do you love Jamie, Ava?”
“I do.” Ava dropped her forehead to the table. “For now. But what if I can’t do this? Be his wife forever. What if he goes into politics, and I have to wear pantsuits and one of those coiffed hairstyles?” She bolted upright. “We happened too fast, didn’t we? Be honest. We did, right? You never liked how fast Dad and Mom got together.”
“That’s because my mom had recently died. Ava, are you running away?”
“Yeah, I think I am.” She looked Emery in the eye. “I’ve watched you do it enough times.”
CALEB
On Saturday evening, Caleb turned on the patio lights, built a fire in the outdoor fireplace, and roasted bratwurst with Bentley.
His neck and arms were sore from a day of holding a paintbrush over his head, but the side of Doyle’s was starting to look like something beautiful. The mural already had the desired effect—stirring excitement in the East End.
Folks came by all day, and at least forty or fifty people wanted to grab a brush, lay on some strokes, become a part of something happening on their side of town. Mac Diamond used the occasion to do a bit of soft campaigning for mayor until the current mayor told him to knock it off. Gutsy man, Simon Caster.
Being divided was killing Sea Blue Beach. The two sides had become like siblings, fighting all the time. They couldn’t separate because they were family, but the tension always existed.
In the chair next to him, Bentley hovered over a book while roasting his bratwurst, only occasionally checking his progress. Cassidy was missing this season of his life. He was discovering things, making his own observations and conclusions. He was smart and funny, lovable. If he still believed no one wanted him, he hid it well.
He’d tried to FaceTime his mom three times this week. She never answered or called back.
Yet, he had a blast working on the mural. Came home covered in paint.
“Geez,Bent,did you get any onthe wall?”
“Hey,I was on the bottom. Y’allon top splattered us.”
When Bentley’s brat caught on fire, Caleb suggested it was done. They sat at the table with coleslaw, chips, and iced teas, Caleb lost in thoughts of the day. Bentley, his book.
Emery never returned to the mural. Between her sister’s sudden appearance, writing her story, and getting the paper to bed, he didn’t expect to see her. He thought to text her, but even something like“The mural looks great”felt like an attempt to find out her business.
While on the scaffold, he’d painted part of the golden lightwhere Lulu outlined Immanuel. His sixth-grade civics teacher taught Immanuel as“Sea Blue Beach’s own rich lore.A fairytale-like legend.”Legend or Lord? Which was true?
As a kid, Caleb found comfort in the idea of God appearing to a lost and shipwrecked prince on a dark and deserted beach. Then sending a freed slaves to rescue him. Maybe it meant He was with the townspeople. With Caleb. With Emery. With Bentley.
He’d just taken a bite of bratwurst in a bun of mustard, cheese, and onions when Bentley said, “You should marry her.”
Caleb choked. “What?”
Bentley glanced up, his cheek chipmunked with food. “You should marry her. I mean, you are a full-grown man, you said so the other day. And you’re making money, right?”
“Marry who?”
“Emery. She’s good-looking.”
Caleb laughed. “Good-looking? I didn’t know boys your age saidgood-looking.”
“I’m well-traveled. You hear things out there on the road.” The wise, philosophizing Bentley slurped his tea. “Emery’s not what you’d call pretty. Maybe beautiful, but eh, that’s overused. Good-looking is like—” He pumped his fist. “You know, good. And looking. Like no one else.” He shrugged and sighed, done with his ruminations.
“Nice to know. Eat your coleslaw, Aristotle.”
Good-looking?Emery had been pretty as a teen, with light freckles and wavy blond hair, curves in the right places. When Caleb first saw her at Alderman’s a month ago, he was a little bowled over. Like, wow. She was beautiful. Or to go with Bentley’s definition, good-looking. With a couple of exclamation marks.
