“Wait.” Grace’s thoughts filter back to yesterday. Caleb. Cold beers. The conversation. “You own the Dive?”
Ray doesn’t respond with words, only a head nod.
“Then you know Caleb,” she says, the facts stacking up like a building, stories upon stories. “My landlord.” Her breath shortens. “And his sister. The one who ...”
She doesn’t complete her sentence. There’s no need.
A new sense of quiet settles over them, as if the landscape—picking up on this emotional shift—has turned everything down by a notch.
“I do,” he says, his voice traced with a faint ache. “And for a short while, at least, I did.”
“Ray, I—”
“There’s nothing to say, Grace. You don’t have to scramble and try.” The dog starts to run, her leash tugging Ray’s arm. “She was just a new friend.” A soft sound escapes him—one caught between a sigh and a laugh. “There was a minute there when I thought maybe there was the potential for something more, but—” Ray stops, cutting himself short. “Well, until I realized ...” He trails off, his thought hanging unfinished.
“What?” Grace asks, sensing there’s something else he needs to say.
“The last time I saw her, she asked me to help her with something. Her parents own a rental on the island. I knew that; I just didn’t know which one. Her folks had a new couch being delivered. She wanted me to hang at the house with her, wait for the truck to arrive, then give her a hand making sure they positioned it in just the right place.” He shakes his head, waiting before he speaks again. “Like I said before, Grace, life really does happen in funny ways.”
Another beat of silence. Another memory. Another sign.
“She literally led me to your doorstep,” Ray says.
Twenty-One
Grace walks alone up the coastline. Ray and Hooper are gone now, off to the Dive for a night shift, apparently. Most of the other stragglers who were still down here—posing for pictures, flying kites—have packed up and left. In the sky, the light has softened. All around, the air has cooled. The day is winding down. Deep inside her, so many thoughts and emotions feel like they’re starting to settle, too.
Although she can’t see them, Grace knows that beyond the dunes, inside the many rental homes, people are moving on. Children are being coaxed into bathtubs. Families are gathering around outdoor tables to eat. There are conversations. Maybe music. Laughter. The bittersweet hope that life stays like this forever, that these sorts of nights never actually end.
Maybe what Ray said was right. Perhaps this place was never just a vacation spot—a stretch of tide-smoothed sand a little ways out in the Atlantic where one could get away for a few precious days and forget. In reality, maybe it was a place people came to remember. The things they’d lost. The versions of themselves they used to be.
Grace keeps going, watching as the water ebbs and flows over her feet. It recedes. Then returns. Recedes again. The waves try so hard to reach farther ahead but always get pulled back. While she moves, Grace periodically stops and picks up broken bits of shells—the many fractured pieces of what were once full stories that have washed up on this shoreline. She rubs some pieces between her fingers and wondershow many people on this island—beneath the layers of sunscreen and rash guards, behind the sunburned cheeks and easy smiles—are also grieving, whether they say it out loud or not. Meg. Caleb. Ray. What do they all believe they’ll find here? A recollection they can reach out and hold? A reminder of the people they were before their plans got derailed and grief became their guiding force? Or is it both these things?
Grace examines a shard of clamshell. She runs her fingers over its grooves and the chips along its edge. They’re smooth. Grace drops it back in the surf, wondering how many years of tumbling around in rough water it took for it to finally become that way.
Maybe the truth is that Grace didn’t drive all those hours back here on a whim to rediscover something about her writing. Maybe it wasn’t to seek out some magical elixir in the coastal air that would help her heal. Perhaps the real answer is because she hoped that when she did return, in some small way, it might all feel like it did before. Before the miscarriages. Before she lost her voice. Before Birdie died. Before Adam left. Back when she still had a sense not only of who she was but also of who she wanted to be—where she was heading in the world. Back when she felt less like a ghost of herself and more just like ... Grace.
A little way up, she sees someone else wading through the water—a teenager. Grace’s heart skips, then stumbles. She’s not even sure she wants to see her again. That happy girl—the one who still believed the future was a bright, beautiful promise. The one who still believed in anything at all.
The person turns, and Grace sees it’s a stranger.
Of course it is,she thinks.Because that carefree girl I used to be is gone.
When Grace reaches the top of the dune—her back to the ocean and her face looking out toward the bay—she doesn’t immediately realize that anything is different. The air smells like charcoal. Children bike up and down the street. A couple sits on their rental home’s front porch,talking and having a drink. It’s all the same except for one subtle, but noticeable, change.
A car in the driveway of Number 116, parked behind Birdie’s Jeep. A newer, black SUV. Sleek lines. Flashy brand. New York plates.
Grace picks up her pace but only slightly, not sure yet whether she hopes this is one more thing she might be imagining. She doesn’t even stop to pick up her flip-flops. Instead, she just keeps moving, steady and forward, down the sandy decline. The dune grass sways on either side of her, a quiet and peaceful melody. Its tune doesn’t match the sounds inside her. Pulse thumping. Lungs working overtime. Heart beating too hard.
She reaches the street and steps onto the asphalt. The surface is no longer hot, though it’s undeniably jagged. What feels like a dozen pebbles lodge themselves into her feet, a larger one—indisputably sharper than the rest—jabs itself into her heel, instantly intensifying the subtle ache she’s tried to blow off the last few days. Even so, she presses forward, putting her weight on her toes while her gaze remains ahead.
Finally, she stops at the curb, right next to theFor Salesign. Although her mind is a jumble of words—thoughts and questions, a million fragments she’s not sure will add up to anything—Grace doesn’t say any of them. Instead, she just stands and waits for him to begin.
“I brought you a cupcake,” Adam says from his place on the front steps. “You know, for your birthday.” He holds up a small white box as proof. “And an iced coffee. Regular. With coconut milk.” He smiles, but it’s small. “I got it right this time.” He gestures at the plastic cup beside him. “I’ve been sitting here for a while, though, so the ice mostly melted. It might be a little watered down at this point.”
“What are you doing here?” Grace asks, the queasy feeling she experienced on the sand returning.
“In my defense, I did call,” Adam explains. “About an hour ago. Right after I got off the parkway, before I reached the bridge.”
