I pull out paper and start writing.
I seal the letter and add it to the outgoing mail.
Then my phone buzzes.
Scott:Can we talk tomorrow?
Me:Yes. Please.
Scott:The beach. 6 am. Our spot.
Me:I’ll be there.
I set my phone down and look at Austen, who’s watching me with his knowing cat eyes.
My hands are shaking. I squeeze them tight to stop it.
I just have to be brave enough to wait for the morning.
Amber’s housesits three blocks from the beach, a cozy cottage that her grandmother Pearl left her. It used to be all creaky floors and drafty windows, but since Brett moved in after their wedding, the place has transformed. New windows. Refinished hardwood. A wraparound porch with railings that don’t wobble when you lean on them.
“Sorry about the mess,” Amber says, kicking a pair of Brett’s work boots under the entryway bench as we file in. “I’ve been pulling double shifts at the restaurant, and Brett’s been finishing up a bathroom remodel, and somehow laundry just multiplied.”
The living room is comfortable chaos. A basket of unfolded towels sits on the couch. Someone’s homework is spread across the coffee table. A plate with toast crusts has been abandoned on the windowsill, and there’s a suspicious sticky spot on the floor.
“You should see my place,” Hazel says, stepping over a Lego that’s lying in wait like a tiny plastic landmine. “Jack rearranged the pantry last week and now I can’t find the flour. It’s been four days. I’ve just been buying new flour.”
“At least your husband attempts organization,” Michelle says. “Grayson’s idea of cleaning is moving piles from one surface to another and calling it ‘consolidation.’”
“Brett does that too!” Amber laughs, leading us toward the kitchen. “He built me a beautiful new master suite with a walk-in closet, and somehow it’s already full of his flannel shirts. The man owns seventeen flannel shirts. I counted.”
The kitchen is the heart of the renovation—granite countertops, a farmhouse sink, and an island big enough to seat all of us. Brett clearly designed it with Amber’s restaurant background in mind. Professional-grade appliances. Plenty of prep space. A wine fridge that Jo immediately gravitates toward.
“This is the good stuff,” Jo announces, pulling out a bottle. “Someone’s been hiding the fancy wine.”
“Brett’s brother sent that for our anniversary. But sure, let’s open it for book club. He’ll never know.”
“Where is Brett tonight?” Michelle asks.
“Night fishing with Jack. Apparently there’s some kind of...I don’t know, man bonding happening? They took a cooler of beer and promised to bring back flounder.” Amber shrugs. “I told him if he comes home smelling like fish guts, he’s sleeping on the porch.”
“Where are the boys?” I ask.
“Hazel’s place. Kira’s watching them.” Amber pulls out cheese and crackers, arranging them on a board. “Mason was very upset about missing book club. He’s decided he wants to join.”
“He’s seven,” Jo points out.
“I told him that. He said, and I quote, ‘I can have opinions about books. I have lots of opinions.’ Which is unfortunately true.”
Grandma Hensley settles into a kitchen chair, pulling out her well-worn copy of this month’s selection. She joined book club two months ago after declaring that “eavesdropping on your meetings at the coffee shop isn’t as satisfying as participating.”
“Speaking of opinions, I have several about this book,” she announces. “Starting with the fact that the hero took twohundred pages to confess his feelings when a sensible person would have done it by chapter three.”
Mads arrives last, slightly breathless. “Sorry—Asher was asking about centerpiece heights and I got trapped in a forty-minute conversation about hydrangeas.”
“How’s wedding planning?” Hazel asks.
“It’s going to kill me. Did you know there are thirty different shades of white? And apparently ‘just pick one, they all look the same’ is not acceptable.”
