Me neither.Grace picked at the frayed hem of her shorts, then cleared her throat.So, Mr. Murphy,she said, putting on her bestauthoritative and grown-up voice,what is it that you want to be when you grow up?
In the months leading up to that moment, it was the only question anyone asked Grace. What’s next? Who do you want to become? The constant implication that change wasn’t a suggestion but a requirement.
Happy,Ray said, his arms draped over her torso.
I don’t think that’s a job,she joked.
It’s not.His finger tangled itself up in her hair.It doesn’t matter anyway, Porter. I’m already happy right here—right now—with you.
The truth was that so was she.
“Anyway,” Cece says now, “we’re supposed to get some overcast mornings later this week.” She gives a timid wave. “Maybe I’ll see you here if you come back to write or something.” Cece moves up the jetty. Before she gets too far, she turns back. “By the way, do you want this?” She holds up the chunky beaded necklace. “I totally lied to you before. If you hadn’t been sitting there, I absolutely would have chucked it straight into the water.”
Before Grace answers, Cece tosses it. The necklace lands in a heap on the rocks.
“Thanks?”
Cece smiles. “I promise I won’t judge you if you toss it.” Up in the distance, people appear on the path. “You know, if I were you—already having multiple books published—no matter what questions I had, I’d probably be so happy that I got to write at that level that I’d never stop.” Her shoulders rise to her ears. “But maybe that’s just the dreamer in me.”
Cece waves again, then makes her way toward the trail. Grace watches until the pine trees swallow her whole. For a short while, she lets all the questions she has roll in. About Ray. About Birdie. About Caleb. She doesn’t have the answers. Not yet.
And maybe that’s the point.
Because the question, she begins to realize for the first time since driving over the bridge, isn’t about the future or the present.
It’s about her past.
And whether she’s finally ready to really remember it.
Seventeen
Grace doesn’t immediately return to the house.
Once she finally walks off the jetty—pausing for a while at the lighthouse, remembering the days when all she longed to do was climb to its top and look out as far as she could see—instead of jumping right back on her bike and pedaling hard beneath the early-afternoon sun, she decides to walk, noting that her foot, irritated from too much activity, has started to ache. Wheeling the cruiser beside her, Grace meanders south along the boulevard’s narrow sidewalk, feeling more confused and exhausted with each new step.
She stops off at a few familiar spots, not just to reminisce but also to give herself short breaks from the heat. First is the saltwater-taffy shop, a place Grace hasn’t visited in years. It still smells like her childhood. Sugar. Humidity. Artificial fruit flavoring. She gathers pieces from the bins—root beer, orange sherbet, peanut butter swirl—dropping them into a white paper bag before she pays. Outside, she sits on a sunbaked bench, unwraps a piece of chocolate mint taffy, and takes a chewy bite. But it’s not the same. It’s too sweet. Too sticky. The memory of it better than the real thing.
“I like the strawberry ones, Cece,” Birdie used to say, always insisting on stuffing the bag with way too many candies. “They taste terrible—nothing like actual strawberries—but I love them anyway!”
On their last trip, the one they took a few weeks before Grace’s autumn wedding, the summer beforeThe Tideswas released, she andBirdie stayed up late one night, talking and laughing on the patio and eating taffy until they nearly made themselves sick.
“You know, in another few years, we may need to rent a bigger place,” Birdie said as she unwrapped another piece. “What’s that old saying? First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes ...”
“A hefty mortgage payment out in the suburbs, probably,” Grace joked, even though she was daydreaming about her and Adam starting a family, too.
“I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” Birdie smiled, finally pushing the paper bag aside. “You’ll cross that bridge—if that’s what you decide you want to do—whenever you feel ready.”
Grace leaned back in the Adirondack chair, looked up at the clear, star-speckled sky. “So can you believe it? The fact that I’m actually getting married soon?”
“No,” Birdie admitted. “I can’t.” Her voice caught, snagged by her emotion. “My girl,” she said, turning to look at Grace. “All grown up already.”
“Already?” Grace laughed. “I’m thirty-two.”
“I know it,” Birdie said. “But you’re still my Cece.” She reached over and squeezed her daughter’s thigh. “Speaking of which ...”
“Mom,” Grace droned, already sensing the direction in which their conversation was heading. “Again?” Birdie, in no subtle way, had already broached the topic several times that week. “I think you’re making way too much out of this.”
“Sweetheart, you’re getting married in a few weeks, and you still haven’t told your fiancé that the book you’re preparing to publish next summer is about your first love.”
