The next few days, Grace tried to disregard her mother’s comments, even as Birdie’s words echoed in her head.
“So did you enjoy yourself?” she asked Adam as they drove over the bridge.
“Sure.” Adam’s fingers curled around the steering wheel as he navigated them back in the direction of their life in the city. “The house is ... cute.”
“I know,” she said, as if she needed to apologize for the property, though it wasn’t technically theirs. “It hasn’t been updated in a long time.” She forced a laugh. “Maybe ever.”
“It was nice,” he said as they crossed the causeway, the highway entrance up ahead. “I can see why you were inspired to write about the setting—well, afictionalversion of it, as you keep insisting—for your book.” He cleared his throat, offered a side-eye. “Speaking of which, think you’ll ever let me read it?”
At that point, Grace had been working with her editor onThe Tidesfor months. Even so, she’d yet to let Adam skim a single page. Grace said she wanted him to wait until it was perfect—no more revisions or copyedits—then privately told herself she was being foolish whenever she wondered if there were other reasons she kept putting it off.
“Of course.” She summoned a bright, flirtatious smile. “But not until it’s officially done.”
“Well, in the meantime, I get why you love it there.” Adam glanced in the rearview mirror, perhaps to confirm that the island was indeed behind them. “Though it might be more of a you-and-Birdie thing.” Adam laughed. “Or a fiction-research thing.” He reached over, squeezed Grace’s thigh. “If only for the sake of my back. That bed was a doozy.”
Grace laughed, but it wasn’t real.
Now brake lights blink out one by one, a slow-motion domino effect. Grace taps the gas, cautiously at first, then with more certainty as the knot of vehicles unravels, like a tangled necklace finally shaking loose.
“Traffic’s moving, so I’d better go,” Grace explains to Jenny. “I just wanted to tell you my whereabouts—116 Surf Street—in case I go missing or something.” Her eyes lower to her fingers, knuckle-white from gripping the steering wheel, and the permanent line of pale skin where her weddingband previously hugged her—a once silent, sparkling promise. “I thought at least someone should know where I’m at.”
“Noted,” Jenny states. “So what’s the plan for once you’re down there?”
“No clue,” Grace admits. “Probably cry on the beach for a few days.”
“Better than crying inside at home.”
“Maybe,” Grace adds, not certain yet if she agrees.
“Well, you know how to reach me.” Jenny’s presence—even though she’s not physically there in the car with her—is certain and reassuring. “I can be there in two hours if you need anything. Just say the word. I might have three tiny people in tow, but—”
“Thank you, Jenny. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”
Before Grace has a chance to say goodbye and hang up, Jenny speaks again. “Grace?”
“Here we go.”
Jenny laughs. “Look, I know my family never vacationed down there, but from what you’ve told me about the island over the years, as well as what I remember from the way you described the setting in your book, it’s a pretty small place.” She pauses. “A lot of familiar faces.” Another brief interlude. “A lot of ... memories, you know? Not only of Birdie.”
“I’ll be fine,” Grace reassures her, understanding her subtext. “I’m not still sixteen.”
The call drops. There’s no need to dial Jenny back. They’ve both said what was needed for the moment. Instead, Grace buzzes down the windows, welcoming in the distinct smell of salt and brine as the Jeep glides over the bridge’s crest. For a moment, it’s nothing but sea and sky. Sunlight dances on the water. Gulls coast in the breeze. Fishing boats bob in the bay like toys.
And then, like magic, it appears.
The island.
Rows of beach houses. The black-and-white lighthouse on the north end. The Ferris wheel toward the southern tip. The wide Atlanticunfurls beyond it—a glimmering invitation Grace isn’t sure she wants to accept.
This was always Birdie’s favorite part. Not the arrival, but the moment right before it.
“I’m sure this probably sounds silly, but I love this,” she said once. Grace was a teenager, her bare feet pressed against the hot dash, a dog-eared magazine on her lap. “Right here, Cece,” Birdie went on, the open windows welcoming in a rush of warm air. “Right this minute.” Her mother’s long silver hair flapped around her face. “When everything good is still in the future. When the magic of our week here hasn’t quite started yet.”
Back then, Grace—desperate to justget there—had laughed and rolled her eyes. But now, as the bridge slopes downward, she understands Birdie’s point in a different way.
Grace inhales deeply, gaze set straight ahead.
The tires rush over the break between the bridge and the roadway as she tries to determine if the fluttery feeling in her chest is hope or something else.
