Toni blinks, unimpressed.
“She’s had a long morning. Bring her the chocolate chip pancakes, Toni,” Caleb interjects, but not before looking at Grace for her approval. She nods. “With a side of scrambled, to be safe.”
Toni jots something on her notepad, reaches across the table, and picks up the seaweed. “Saving this for breakfast, sweetheart?”
Grace peers down at the tabletop—a scolded schoolgirl—and shakes her head.
“Toni’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Caleb says once she’s gone. “Like a lot of things on this island, I guess.” He finishes off his coffee, waves down a different waitress for a refill.
“I remember,” Grace states. “Both about Toni, and, well, other things, too.”
Caleb sits with this comment, letting it float for a beat before it vaporizes. “So,” he begins a moment later, “you’re bogged down with work at the end of the summer?” He leans back in the booth, but the movement is stilted—there isn’t much room. “Isn’t this typically the time everyone pumps the brakes, takes it easy, coasts to the end of the season?”
“I’m a writer,” Grace explains.For now, at least. “A novelist. The only time I pump the brakes is the forty-eight hours after I submit a manuscript.”
“A novelist, huh? That’s pretty neat.”
“Sometimes.” Grace used to feel proud telling people this fact. Now, not knowing what her future career path has in store, it just leaves her with a pit in her stomach. “Depends on the day and which page you’re currently stuck at, I guess.” Behind her, the teenagers erupt in an explosive cackle. Grace can’t help but wonder if she’s the butt of their joke. “I’m on a deadline. A tight one. I thought I could work down here, that maybe the ocean air would give me the push I need to get my story down. So far, I’ve mostly found the change in scenery ... distracting.”
Though hardly any time has passed, Toni emerges from the kitchen, a tray balanced on her shoulder. Without a word, she sets down their plates. They’re huge. Piled high. Stacked and dripping with everything delicious and unhealthy.
“What about you?” Grace asks, desperate to change the topic. She cuts a bite of pancake, the batter fluffy—even better than Jenny’s—andperfectly studded with chocolate. “You work for the rental agency year-round?”
“For now.” Caleb slices his knife through a smothered hunk of crab. “I’ve had some big life changes this year. I grew up right over the bridge, though I’ve been out on the West Coast for a long time.” His tone drops, as if someone clicked down the volume on a remote. “Eventually, though, everything—even year-round sunshine—runs its course.” He cuts another piece. “Moved back after the holidays last winter. Never been married. No kids. Had a pretty boring office job, which frankly, I was happy to leave. Fairly easy move, all in all.” Caleb sets down his fork, wipes his mouth. “My folks still live out on the mainland, though during peak season they end up needing to be here on the island almost daily. A lot of times during the offseason, too. They’ve had the business since I was a kid, but they’re getting older. They don’t want to keep it much longer. It was time for me to come home, figure out my next steps.”
A few moments of silence pass as they both work their way through their meals. Salt. Sugar. A perfect balance of protein and grease. As they do, Grace looks—reallylooks—around Sunny Side, as if for the first time since they walked in. The bustling counter. The marine-themed knickknacks on the walls. The sweeping views of the bay and wooden docks out back.
Birdie used to bring Grace here at least once during their annual visit. “Get anything you want,” she’d say, waving at the air as if they were in the middle of a fancy department store buying every shoe from the display. “French toast. Bacon. Cinnamon rolls,” Birdie would rattle off from her side of the booth. “If Dad were here, he’d laugh and tell us to tack on the chocolate chip pancakes as an appetizer,” she’d add brightly, then look to the empty seat beside her. “He would’ve wanted you to enjoy this week to the fullest.”
Although their shared life in Pennsylvania was comfortable, money, for the most part, was often tight. Birdie was a single parent. She clipped coupons. She knew how to stretch a meal. She budgeted all year forSea Drift so the week would feel like Christmas—not a detail missing. Except, of course, for one thing—oneperson—no amount of sugar or boardwalk rides could bring back. Maybe it was Birdie’s way of trying to fill the invisible void that’d been left behind in her daughter’s life when James died. Or maybe, to some degree, it was a way for Birdie to try to heal the void that’d been left behind in her own life, too.
“So what time are you hitting the road?” Caleb asks now, pulling Grace away from her memories. “It’s Sunday. Sure you’ll hit some pretty fun bridge traffic on your way out.”
“Probably right after this.” She pushes away her plate, a signal that she’s done even though it’s half full. “Figured I’d lock the house up—you know, for a second time—and leave the key in its usual spot for next week’s tenants.”
“And then?”
“And then what?” Grace asks.
“Do you think you’ll ever come back?”
The question lingers. “I’m not sure,” she admits, just as Toni sets a to-go box and their check on the table.
Before Grace can reach for the paper, Caleb grabs it, like a seagull making a quick dive.
“In that case, my treat,” he insists. “Just in case it’s your last visit.”
Outside, the sun is on fire. The air hangs heavy and humid. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky.
“Well, thanks for breakfast.” Grace holds the take-out box filled with the rest of her meal, which Caleb encouraged her to pack up and take. (A little car snack for later.) “Also for the opportunity—the nudge, really—to come back to the house these last few days.” Nearby, a line of other hungry visitors flocks at the diner’s door, waiting to get in. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out and that the place will end up empty anyway.”
Caleb smiles, as though he wants to say something but is busy figuring it out. Before he has an opportunity to piece it together, his phone rings. He looks away, abruptly tugged from the moment, as he pulls his cell from the pocket of his board shorts.
“Dang it.” He glances at the screen, looking annoyed. “I’m sorry.” He toggles, glancing back and forth between Grace and the device, as if he’s trying to decide who to root for in a Ping-Pong match. “I’ve gotta take this,” he announces, having chosen his team. “It’s another one of my renters.” Something about the phrasing lands sideways in Grace’s ears. “Their fridge broke last night. Or, at least, they think,” he explains, sounding newly exasperated. “They reached out earlier, but the call kept dropping.” He shrugs, lifting the phone to his ear. “It’s a whole thing.”
Grace nods her understanding, even while an unexpected feeling of disappointment blooms in her as Caleb turns, takes a few wide steps in the opposite direction, and answers the call. She stands on the curb and waits, unsure if she should stick around or if this is his way of saying goodbye. She tugs down her cap, runs her fingers through her hair to check for any more tangles of seaweed, and hangs out a minute just to see.
The next part happens so fast, Grace doesn’t even realize what’s occurred until it’s over. A bump—a hard one—at her back. She falls, the take-out box arching overhead and flying wide open, launching out pancake pieces like confetti. It takes about two seconds for the crowd of waiting patrons to gather around and see if she’s okay, and half that time for a flock of determined seagulls—already pecking at the sidewalk—to swoop in.
