I know this because I've been counting, the way you count the seconds between lightning and thunder to calculate how close the storm is. Eleven minutes of Harold Spencer behind the wheel of his truck, hat tilted back, window cracked, humming what sounds suspiciously like an Elvis ballad while the salt marshes blur past on Route 12.
“You're in a mood,” I say.
“I'm in a great mood. I'm alive, the weather's beautiful, and I'm about to have the best coffeeon the coast.”
“You're humming Elvis.”
“I'm happy. You should try it sometime. The happiness part. Or the humming. Either one.”
The morning is already warmer than it should be—that shift in the air that means summer is here and the marina is about to get busy. Tourist season. Charter bookings. The Levi Cole wedding that's already turning my quiet dock into a logistics operation I didn't sign up for.
Harold takes the turn onto Main Street and I watch Twin Waves scroll past through the passenger window. The town looks good—I'll give it that, even if I won't say it out loud. Fresh paint on the storefronts. Hanging baskets blooming outside the shops. Amber and Brett put a new awning on The Salty Pearl. Jessica's bookstore has a summer reading display in the window.
I don't come into town much. The marina is its own world—water and wood and diesel and the rhythm of boats settling in their slips. Town is Harold's territory. Always has been. He knows every business owner, every street corner, every place that's changed since he built the marina with what he calls “youthful stupidity and decent lumber.”
This coffee trip is his idea and has been since Holly died. Every week or two, he shows up at the dock office, jingling his truck keys, andsays “You look like a man who needs to remember civilization exists.” I go because arguing with him takes more energy than going, and because the one time I said no, he sat in my office for three hours telling me about the time he caught a bull shark off Bogue Inlet in 1987. The story got longer every twenty minutes. I've never said no again.
“Emma's got a full schedule this week,” Harold says, casual as weather. “Family portraits, a maternity shoot, a gig for the tourism board.”
“Good for her.”
“She's building a real business, that one. Talent like hers, word gets around.”
“I said good for her.”
“You said it like you were reading a script. Try meaning it.”
“I mean it. She's good at what she does. Her clients are happy. It helps the marina.”
“Helps the marina.” Harold shakes his head. “My son, the romantic.”
I look out the window and say nothing.
Harold pulls into the angled parking in front of Twin Waves Brewing Co. and kills the engine. He sits there a second, adjusting his hat in the rearview mirror.
“You're checking your hair,” I say.
“I'm adjusting my hat.”
“You checked your hair first.”
“I'm seventy-two years old. I've earned the right to look presentable before entering a public establishment.” He opens his door. “Let's go.”
Whatever Michelle Lawsondoes with her espresso machine should probably be classified as a controlled substance. The whole place smells like roasted coffee and cinnamon, and the morning light is coming through the front windows in long warm panels that make everything look like a photograph.
It's busy. Fishermen finishing up, a few tourists already in beach gear even though it's barely nine, and at the big table by the window, what appears to be a small family reunion.
Grandma Hensley is holding court. Silver hair, sharp eyes, sitting in what I'm fairly sure is her permanent chair. She's got a newspaper folded beside her cup, but she's not reading it. She's talking. Beside her, Hazel Sanders is nursing a latte and nodding with the practiced patience of a granddaughter who has been listening to this woman's opinions for her entirelife.
Mads is across from them—very pregnant. The last time I saw Hazel's daughter she was barely showing. Now she's got one hand on her belly and the other wrapped around a mug, glowing and exhausted and daring anyone to comment on either.
At the next table, Caroline—Jack Sanders's daughter—is set up with a laptop and what looks like her second cup already. She's one of those people who's always in motion, always working on coastal sustainability or community development or whatever it is she does now that she's decided Twin Waves is her project.
Michelle looks up when the door chimes. “Harold. Paul. The usual?”
“The usual for me,” Harold says. “And a refill for Mrs. Hensley. I'm buying.”
He leans against the counter, chatting with a fisherman about tide charts while Michelle works the machine. Easy. Relaxed. Like this is just a regular morning.
