“Yeah, but ...” Adam trailed off, considering something. “They could turn it into something even better, you know?” He finished his drink, signaled for another. “That is, if the owners were just willing to clean it up.”
Now the bartender walks back, sets down coasters marked with a clever anchor design and the bar’s name, as well as bottles of golden beer and a bowl of salty pretzel nubs. Caleb slides a bottle to Grace, picks his up, and clinks it against hers. “Cheers.”
They sit quietly as they both enjoy a long, refreshing sip.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Caleb states a beat later, just as a classic rock ballad steeped in memories starts to play. “I didn’t mean to be rude when you knocked.” He turns, their shoulders close. “I was just in the middle of dealing with some things inside that I sort of wished that I wasn’t.” The song plays on, the vocalist crooning away about the ups and downs of love and time. “My sister died,” Caleb says, plain and simple. “That’s why my parents dropped by.”
“Oh my God,” Grace gasps, feeling like a fool for interrupting their family gathering. She sets down her bottle, her eyes instantly flooding with tears. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s okay. It was last year,” he clarifies. “I probably should have led with that.” He drinks again. “This month is the one-year anniversary. We’re doing a little memorial for her on the beach next week.”
Grace’s mind floods with questions. She wants to ask him what happened. If it was sudden, like Birdie’s passing, or something longer and more drawn out—and if he had any time to emotionally prepare. She wants to ask how he’s coping. If time has made his loss easier, the way people—Dr. Anne, the authors of her self-help books, the women in her grief group—keep telling her it will. Does he feel better and more like himself one year after the loss, versus at the six-month mark? Or are the things that people tell individuals who are drowning in grief to cling on to—time and hope and faith, all the abstract life preservers they swear will help—just myths?
“Anyway,” Caleb continues, picking at the paper label on his beer, “that’s why I moved back to the East Coast a few months ago. My folks, as you can imagine, are still reeling. My dad could barely run the agency anymore. He was forgetting things, misplacing contracts, not following up with renters for payments. It’s all been a mess.”
The song ends. A newer one comes on, a track the twentysomething girls picked.
“I understand. I lost my mom back in February.” She trails her fingertip across the bar. “My entire life’s been turned upside down ever since. Sea Drift was always our place.”
Nearby, the girls break out in a drunken dance, singing and twirling like it’s late at night, even though it’s the middle of the day. They don’t care. Time is still on their side. The future is only as real as a daydream. They’re all too young to realize that one day, the party they believe lasts forever will eventually come to a screeching end.
“Oh, Grace.” Caleb briefly closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s terrible,” he adds, reopening them. When he does, a new thought settles over his face. “That’s why you were hesitant at first—when I called you on Friday—about coming back.”
She shrugs, such a simple gesture to express so many complicated feelings. “Part of it.”
Their bartender reapproaches. “Another round?”
“Not for me, unfortunately.” Caleb pulls a twenty from his wallet. He slaps it on the bar and signals that it’s for both their drinks. The bartender nods, takes the bill, then walks away to help someone else. “I’m on curfew,” Caleb says. “I promised my folks I’d be back in a bit so we can finish talking through things.” He polishes off his last sip. “My mom ordered candles. She wants me to put together something to say.” He sighs, long and quiet. “It’s all just ... a lot.”
The young bartender walks back up, passes Caleb his change. Caleb holds up a hand, a way to tell the kid to keep it.
“I’m really sorry about your sister, Caleb,” Grace says, suddenly seeing him—this charming, cheery, breezy man—in such a different way.
“I’m sorry about your loss, too.” Caleb’s phone rings. His breath deepens as he reaches into his shorts pocket to pull it out. “Ahh, the lady of the hour.” He flashes Grace his device. Her name—Mom—glows on the screen.
As Caleb grabs a fistful of pretzels, getting ready to go back outside, Grace remembers their first conversation on the beach, right after she realized her necklace was gone.
“Did you mean what you said?” Grace asks, not getting up yet, just wanting to sit a little longer and finish her drink. “On the beach. About things on this island not staying lost.”
He laughs. “Well, I wasn’t lying about my sunglasses, if that’s what you mean.”
Grace lifts her brows. “It’s not.”
Caleb waits before he responds, like he really wants to answer the right way. “I did mean it, Grace. This place. There’s something about it.” He pauses again. “That’s part of why I didn’t want to list the house yet,” he adds quietly. “The ‘For Sale’ sign,” he clarifies. “That’s why you stopped by earlier, right?”
Something occurs to Grace now that didn’t then, when she was overheated and marching over to Caleb’s rental. At the time, she thought maybe he had inside intel about the sign—why it was there earlier than it was supposed to be—simply because he knew a lot about different properties on Sea Drift. But now a new thought rushes in.
“Do you ... Doyouown it?” she asks, the light beer suddenly hitting her in a different way. “My house.” A nauseous feeling, faint but newly present. “Well, my rental house. Is it yours?”
“Not me. But my parents do,” he explains. “Since I was a kid. They’ve always rented it out, save for the two weeks our family stayed there every July.” Behind him, the door opens. A quick peek of sunlight spills into the bar. “They just don’t want to have to hold on to it anymore.”
Grace swallows, but the feeling stays. The house. All this time, it had felt weighed down by her own loss. She hadn’t considered that it might be haunted by someone else’s grief, too.
“By the way,” Caleb calls out to the bartender, his tone lifting, “where’s the big guy today? He’s usually here by now. Skipping out on work to catch some midday waves?” he jokes.
“Probably,” the young employee states, matching Caleb’s friendly tone. “Can’t keep that one away from the water.” He finishes pouring a drink for another patron. “Either that or he’s still over at the Beachcomber having his usual pre-shift beer before coming here.” He laughs. “Not as fun to have a drink at your own bar, I guess, knowing you’ve got work to do.” He smiles. “He’ll be in later. I’ll let him know you were here.”
Caleb looks back at Grace. “I go fishing now and again with the owner. Nice guy,” he explains, filling her in. “He was friendly with my sister. She liked to pop in here whenever she came up to the island to see my folks. They surfed together a bunch last summer before she ...” His voice trails off. The words disappear. There’s nothing left to say. “Anyway, I’d better get moving.” Caleb pushes in his chair, takes a step, then stops. “About your question.” He bites his lip. “In my experience, I’ve found that being back in a place steeped in memories of the person you lost can hurt like hell.”
