“Well, it was good bumping into you.” Meg gives Grace a fast hug. “It’s a small island,” she adds, stepping toward the bike rack. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” She hoists her bubble gum–pink cruiser onto the asphalt. “I can’t wait to tell my parents I ran into you. They’ll get a real kick out of hearing that, like us, you and Birdie are down here again for the week.” Meg stops herself, squints into the sunshine. “I’m sure Ray will get a kick out of it, too.”
“Ray?” His name hits Grace like a wave. Her stomach lurches as if she’s missed a step. The smell of the food, which only a moment ago made her feel ravenous, suddenly makes her queasy. “Is he ... here? I thought you said it was only you, your kids, and your parents at the house.”
“Well, yeah. At therentalhouse. Ray’s staying at his own place.” Meg cruises toward the corner. “He lives here now.” Her strawberry hair brushes her back as she looks both ways before she pedals off. “That’s part of why we finally came back.”
Grace stands—stunned—and watches Meg melt into the orange glare of sunlight.Clink.Behind her, another win. Grace turns to look out of habit, then twists back toward the street.
But just as quickly as her old friend appeared, she’s gone.
Six
It’s a little after four o’clock by the time Grace finally turns the Jeep onto Surf Street—two whole hours past her official check-in time. A crime, or so Birdie would have said.
She grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary as the car bumps over the familiar divot in the asphalt—the one that floods every time it so much as spits rain. Humid air, thick with salt and sunscreen, blows through the open windows as Grace takes in the view. Every detail of the oceanside block remains fully intact. Squat bungalows, some slightly updated but most untouched, their porches draped with towels. Surfboards leaning haphazardly against sheds. Barefoot kids, feet probably burning, racing toward the dune—the one that once looked mountain-size to Grace. It’s all exactly as she left it.
Except, of course, that it isn’t.
After her run-in at Smitty’s, Grace sat at a picnic table—miraculously snagging a free seat—and picked at her food, her appetite gone. A few bites in, she tossed the rest, then drove the length of the boulevard twice. The whole time, the information Meg revealed sat in her chest like an unopened text message she couldn’t quite bring herself to read.
Now, as she pulls up to the third bungalow in from the beach, she tells herself to mentally delete it. Not important. Not now. For the moment, her only focus is on surviving what lies straight ahead.
The house.
It feels more like a photograph than a real place. Chipped turquoise door. Cedar shingles. Blue hydrangeas flanking the steps. A white shutter that hangs slightly askew, as if the home is offering Grace a conspiratorial wink.
“Take a breath.” Grace shifts the car into Park. “You can do this.” She inhales deeply, steadying herself. “It’s only a house. Wood. Concrete. Brick.” She exhales, slow and measured. “It’s not like it’s a person. It’s just a place.”
She pulls Birdie’s key chain from the ignition, drops it in her bag. She was freshly thirty-two the last time she sat here, two months from her autumn wedding in Manhattan, her debut set for publication the following June. The starting line of what she’d believed was her real life. She forces the memories away, then lets her eyes drift closed while a different set of recollections pours in. If she listens closely, she can almost hear her mother’s voice in the breeze. Asking Grace to run around back to get the key. Rattling off a list of leisurely ways for them to fill the day.What do you think, Cece? Bike ride to the lighthouse? Straight to the beach? Midafternoon ice cream?The sound of it is so clear—so achingly familiar—that for half a second, she believes Birdie is there, dropping her woven tote near the door.
Grace’s lids dart open. She unclicks her seat belt and twists toward the passenger seat to gather her things. Her hand hovers over the photo album. With a sigh, she gives in and opens it. The plastic sleeves are warped from age, but not enough to tarnish the memories they preserve. Elementary-aged Grace and Birdie, eating Popsicles on the lopsided front steps. Teenage Grace and Birdie, cracking through a bushel of blue crabs at the patio table. Early-thirties Grace and Birdie that final summer, standing at the end of the flooded street after a storm, their arms thrown up toward a rainbow, like they could catch the whole season in their hands.
She snaps the album shut.
With a quiet sigh, she gathers her things, pushes open the car door, and steps onto the pea gravel driveway, the stones shifting beneath her flip-flops. She sets her belongings down on the warped stairs, then takes off around the side of the lot. Despite modern advancements, accordingto Caleb, the home’s antiquated security features have—like everything else—remained in place.
Out back, past the patio and threadbare hammock, Grace swings open the splintered door of the outdoor shower and reaches for the bottle of Suave strawberry-scented shampoo—the one the owners replace every season from the five-and-dime—revealing a single silver key. The metal is cool against her palm. It feels like a gift meant exclusively for her, rather than an object set here for different renters every week. She nearly yells “Got it!” like she used to do before she stops herself and runs back out front.
Grace slides the key into the lock. The door sticks—years of salt air having eaten away at the hardware—but then, with a quiet creak, it gives way. Her heart thuds harder, nothing but cardiovascular somersaults. She takes a reluctant step.
And just like that, she’s inside.
There’s no grandiose entryway, only a rectangle of cracked tiles where Grace slides off her sandals. The interior, although small, is bright with sunlight, like always, thanks to the fact that the brick fireplace and wood-paneled walls are all painted a crisp white. The couches are new—a practical beige microfiber, a minor upgrade—though the many beach tchotchkes are not. Everything—everything—has a seashell on it. Art. Throw pillows. Side tables cluttered with decorative trinkets. When it comes to coastal vibes, subtlety has never been the home’s strength.
Barefoot, Grace takes a step, tries to wipe the inevitable graininess from her feet. She moves into the living room, clicks on the window air-conditioning unit, then heads for the kitchen, where she notes the same blue drinking cups and speckled coffee mugs in the glass cabinets. On the scratched wood table—a petite round thing with only two chairs—sits a basket that contains beach badges, a map, a printout of emergency contacts and restaurant recommendations, a tube of complimentary sunscreen, and a handwritten note from Caleb.
Welcome to 116 Surf Street—a classic slice of the Jersey Shore! Everything you need should be in the basket. Quick reminderthat trash goes out on Tuesday night. Oh, and you probably remember this from your past stays, but the indoor plumbing is ... fickle. Best to use the outdoor shower when you can. Hope you catch a sunny week!—Caleb
Grace sets the letter back in the basket—one more reminder that she’s merely another guest here—then pulls out a glass and fills it at the tap, the island’s questionable water quality the least of her concerns. She gulps it down too fast, instantly making herself queasy, then presses her hands against the scuffed butcher-block counter, giving herself a minute. After a second, the seasick feeling passes—a ship finally steadying in port. Grace stays in place anyway, peering out the window, trying to decide what to do next. Her focus lands on an old pair of wooden Adirondack chairs out back. So many summer nights, Grace lounged in one of them, writing her heart out in a marbled notebook, her dreams for her words as vast as the sky.
“It’s perfect, darling,” Birdie said the night she sat out there with Grace, reading the final chapters of what ultimately becameThe Tides. “The setting is completely picturesque, and the love story is so real. So beautifully composed.” She pulled away her candy-colored readers, set them on the chair’s arm. “But are you sure you’re ready to send this out into the world?” she asked, knowing Grace planned to query literary agents that fall.
“I know,” Grace said, self-conscious. She was twenty-eight, her birthday two days away. “It still needs work. I plan to fill in a few plot gaps and do another round of line edits before I—”
“I don’t mean in terms of editing,” Birdie clarified, the air around them beginning to cool. “I mean that, well, it’s obviously not all fiction.” She bit her red-tinted lip. “Right?”
Grace tugged her sundress around her knees. “Certain parts, I guess.”
Birdie’s mouth curled into a knowing grin. “Kind of interesting that you chose to name your protagonist Cece, no?”
