Grace’s throat tightens as she remembers their last night together, the one her younger self had turned over countless times. “I think this week marks thirteen, actually.”
“Huh.” Meg’s eyes narrow as she works to solve the equation. “Yeah. That sounds right.” She laughs. “Good memory!”
Behind them, the distinct clink of metal on metal. A hook. The preteens erupt in a cheer.
“I thought your family stopped renting in Sea Drift years ago.”
“We did.” A pair of parenthesis-shaped curves hug Meg’s mouth. “My parents have been back a couple times the last few years.” A wistful expression forms across her face. “Not me, though. To be honest, I haven’t been on the island in a long time.”
“Me neither.” Grace lets out a quiet puff of a laugh. “Truthfully, I’m still processing the fact that I’m here at all.”
Although new families sometimes came and went, for much of Grace’s upbringing, it was the same faces on the island year after year. It went without saying that everyone who rented houses within a few blocks of each other during the same week were cemented as friends. For seven glorious days, you claimed the same stretch of beach, swam in the same quarter mile of ocean, watched the sunset from the same vantage point every night. The kids played. The adults shared cocktails. When you waved goodbye, you knew you’d see each other the next season.
Meg was one of those friends to Grace. For years, the Murphys—Carol and Burt, Meg and her twin brother, Ray, and their Labrador, Sandy—who hailed from a suburb outside Philadelphia, rented a house two blocks from Surf Street, over on Dune Lane, the same week as Birdie and Grace. The Murphys and the Porter girls never stayed in touch during the offseason. Didn’t call or write or visit. They didn’t even have each other’s phone numbers or addresses. That wasn’t what you did with summer friends. But for one magical week every August, the two families unfolded their chairs side by side.
Until eventually, when life changed.
The Murphys came into some money, moved on, began to vacation someplace else. The year after Meg and Ray headed to college, Carol and Burt moved the family down south. They spent a few more seasons driving north to Sea Drift, their final trip the year the kids all turned twenty-five. The last Grace heard, they’d begun to rent a different house every August in the Outer Banks.
“So you’re just checking in today, I assume?” Grace asks, sliding a foot from her sandal.
“Not this visit. For once, we booked a two-week stay. Today marks our halfway point.”
Grace nods, taking in this information and considering Meg’s use of “we.” She peers at the tables beyond Meg’s pinkened shoulders, wondering if Carol and Burt are sitting at one of them, squeezing hot ketchup onto paper plates. “So who are you here with? Is your—”
“Can we go back to the beach now, Mom?”
Grace twists and spots two elementary-aged kids dressed in swimsuits—a towheaded boy and a redheaded girl—barreling toward them.
“Ah! My brood!” Meg grins and tousles the boy’s hair. “You’ll have to excuse them. Any sense of manners goes straight out the windowat the prospect of bodysurfing.” She laughs, kisses the top of the girl’s head. “Emma and Quinn, say hi to my old beach friend, Grace.”
The kids mumble something halfway between “Hello” and “Can we go now,” both eyeing the beach a few blocks east like it might disappear if they wait one more second.
“Grace and her mom used to rent a house a few streets over from ours when I was your age.” A new look crosses Meg’s face. She throws up her arms as if she’s forgotten to ask the most apparent question. “Birdie! How is she? Is she down here with you?”
“Oh, um ...” Grace stutters, not wanting to have to tell another person. “She’s, uh ... she’s great,” she lies, not having a clue why she’s said it.
“Please, Mom,” the girl, Emma, interrupts, a welcome distraction. “It’s getting hot.”
Meg opens her mouth, about to apologize for her daughter’s remark.
“It’s okay,” Grace says, grateful for the conversation to be moving on from her foolish remark. “If I remember correctly, we were the same way at their age.”
“Order Number 17!” a voice shouts from the takeout window.
“That’s me,” Grace announces, signaling at the teenage cashier.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your food,” Meg states, her arms loosely draped around her children’s shoulders. “Everyone knows you have to eat Smitty’s fries when they’re burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot.” She taps her kids’ backs, points to a bicycle rack. They run toward it. “I didn’t ask ... Are you staying at your regular house?”
“Same as always.” Grace walks to the window, grabs her red plastic tray. “Like nothing’s changed.”Except for literally everything,she thinks. “What about you?”
“Different house, same street. Just me, my parents, and the kids. My husband isn’t here. He, well ...” Meg flicks the air, batting away whatever details she’s left out. “Just work and, you know ...life.” She smiles, then watches Emma and Quinn pull their pastel cruisers from the metal rail. “Hey, if you’re interested, I’m going to the Beachcombertonight for dinner. Seven-ish. Just me. My parents offered to take the kids to fly kites and out for ice cream to give me a little break. If you don’t have plans, you should swing by.”
“Oh, um. I need to get settled. I haven’t even checked in to the house yet.” Grace swallows, forcing herself to remember the reason—allthe reasons—why she’s here. “Plus, this sounds lame, but I need to get a lot of work done while I’m down here this week.”
“No pressure.” Meg laughs, but it feels forced. A hint sad. “It’s your vacation.” Something unnamed passes between them. “It’s not like we’re still teenagers, right?”
Time stops as Grace—in no small way—privately wishes they were.
