Grace only ever asked Birdie about her belief in signs once. It wasn’t something she ever questioned, but more something her mother—and in turn, Grace—fully trusted.
“Did you always believe in them?” Grace had asked one August night while they sat in the Adirondack chairs. “Signs, I mean.” She was almost thirty and officially dating Adam, who—not a fan of outdoor nudity—was showering inside. She and Birdie were sipping iced tea and sorting through a pile of sand dollars they’d found that afternoon. “I know you’ve always talked about them. But when did youreallystart believing in them?”
Birdie held up a shell—one perfect circle. “Oh, I don’t know, sweetie. Memories start to blur at my age.” She paused, turning it in her palm. “But if forced to guess, I’d say it was right after your dad died.” Birdie dropped her head back and looked up at the early-evening sky, all layers of lavenderand gray. “When you lose someone that important—and that fast—you start searching for any way to keep talking.”
Grace nodded, let a moment pass. “You’ve never had any desire to find someone else, have you?” Although she knew the answer—Birdie hadn’t once, in Grace’s whole life, gone on a date—she’d never directly asked. “I mean, because if you wanted to, you could easily have your pick of the good-looking fifty- to sixtysomething crop.”
Birdie laughed, her silver hair billowing in the breeze. “Not for me, Cece.” She tilted down her chin and looked at Grace, just as Adam opened the back door. “Sometimes your first love turns out to be the right one.” She thumbed the shell, smiled. “Even when you can’t be together in the way you want to be, that’s still enough.”
Now Grace leans forward and picks up the shell from earlier, trying to determine what, exactly, it is that she believes. About this house. About her mother’s absence. About her whole life. Before she can get too deep into her thoughts, her stomach grumbles, the sound of it unapologetically loud, as if it’s personally offended that she’s neglected it for half the day.
She doesn’t fully understand what’s happening anymore. What she’s supposed to do. Why she’s even back on this island in the first place. What she saw this morning or didn’t.
For the moment, all she knows is she needs a shower, a meal, and some time to recalibrate.
Thirteen
Birdie swore that eating out by yourself was something special—a privilege only enjoyed by a brave and confident few. She had plenty of friends—neighbors from her town house community and colleagues from the high school who felt like their own form of family. All she had to do was pick up the phone if she wanted some adult company. Once Grace, her longtime restaurant companion, left for college and set out on her adult life, Birdie—on the rare occasion she had extra splurge money—never placed those calls. When given the choice, she preferred to dine out alone.
“If you can’t sit comfortably and enjoy a meal by yourself, then how can you expect anyone else to sit with you and have a nice time?” Birdie used to tell Grace whenever she pressed her mother about the practice. “One day, Cece, you’ll understand,” she’d explain. “The most important thing you should strive to be in life, my love, is your own best friend.”
Now, as Grace sits alone at a corner table at the Beachcomber—her shoulders and thighs still scorched from her time baking on the porch—she’s not so sure. The waterfront dining room is packed with parties of two and four and six, everyone engaged in conversation as they share appetizers, exchange banter, and laugh. For a beat, Grace tries to imagine Birdie sitting in the empty seat across from her, noshing on crab dip, and telling her to relax and order a drink.
“Good evening.” A waitress approaches the table. “Welcome to the Beachcomber.” She begins to expertly fill Grace’s water glass. “Have you dined with us before?”
Grace looks up, ready to make eye contact with this person and engage in light conversation. Before she does, her body screeches to a halt when she notices a familiar glint of metal on the woman’s wrist. Panic wraps itself around her as she zooms in on the silver charm bracelet—a near replica of the one Grace had when she was eighteen.
“No!” Grace blurts out, sharper than intended as she braces for the impossible ... again.
“Oh, um ...” The waitress, surprised, stumbles over her words. “O-okay,” she says, regaining her footing. “Well, glad to have you joining us tonight.” Her tone downshifts. “I guess.”
Grace exhales. She realizes a moment too late that the voice isn’t familiar. A second glance at the bracelet confirms it—different charms from those she once owned.
“I-I’m sorry.” Grace’s pulse settles. “Long day.” She adjusts herself in her seat, hoping for a reset. “I meant to sayyes. I’ve been here.” She clears her throat. “Just not in a long time.”
“Hmm,” the waitress offers—less a response and more a judgment—as she starts to fill the second empty water glass on the table. “Assuming we’re waiting for someone else to join us?”
Grace peers at the seat across from her.
Try to enjoy yourself, love,she hears Birdie say in her mind.Tell her to bring bread.
“Not tonight,” Grace admits, hoping to sound cosmopolitan—an independent woman of the world—even though she feels like a child eating alone in the school cafeteria. “It’s just me.”
Earlier, after her shower, Grace threw on the nicest items she’d packed—a newer baby-blue T-shirt tucked into a pair of tattered jean shorts with an older lightweight sweater knotted at her shoulders in case it got cool. Casual, but cleaned up. It wasn’t like she was spending a night out in the Hamptons; it was Sea Drift. At least she didn’t have seaweed in her hair.
Too afraid to venture back to the market for provisions, and too tired to bike all the way to the island’s real grocery store and then put inthe effort to cook herself a proper meal, she got on the seafoam beach cruiser and started to ride. The daytime joints—places like Smitty’s and Sunny Side—were closed by that point, the local restaurants beginning to open their doors with the promise of easy coastal dinners and drinks.
The Beachcomber was an institution on Sea Drift, an old oceanfront motel with a surprisingly decent glass-enclosed restaurant that looked onto the water, and a lively open-air bar out back. It’d been there for decades. Pale-pink exterior. A sign with lettering straight out of the sixties. There were still two tall standing ashtrays in the lobby—relics from another time. Some years, Birdie took Grace here for her birthday—a special meal to celebrate a special day. As she got older, Grace frequented this place with friends. Happy hours. Late nights out. Plenty of different occasions, but never alone.
“Just ... you?” The waitress blinks as if caught off guard. The Beachcomber, a gathering place for sunburned vacationers, doesn’t exactly screamparty of one. “That’s ... fun.” She does a poor job of hiding her disappointment, likely doing a mental tally of her smaller-than-hoped-for tip. “Why don’t I give you a minute to look over the menu?” She gathers the additional place setting. “In the meantime, I’ll just ... get rid of these.”
The waitress wanders away, but not before stopping off at the hostess stand to whisper something to a colleague. Grace sits by herself, shifting in her chair and trying to feel—or at leastlook—comfortable. It’s hard.Just act natural,she tells herself, staring out at the water through the windows and feeling like she’s been stood up on a date.
“We really need to stop running into each other like this,” a new voice says. “People are going to start talking.”
Grace swiftly turns away from the glass.
“Meg?” She’s unable to hide her surprise. “Wh-what are you doing here?” Although Meg had referenced coming here during yesterday’s run-in, Grace hadn’t expected to find her—a mother to two young children—dining here for a second night in a row. “Weren’t you just here last night?”
