“And then what?” Amber asks. “After the kiss. What happened?”
“He brought pickled okra to my houseboat and we had dinner.”
“Pickled okra,” Hazel repeats. “The man brought pickled okra.”
“From his boat. It wasn’t even his—it was a jar someone gave Harold.”
“That’s the most Paul Spencer thing I’ve ever heard,” Michelle says. “The man wanted to bring something and he raided his father’s pantry. That’s romance at its most basic and I’m honestly moved.”
“And then the next morning he made pancakes for your kids,” Mads says, because apparently every detail of my life has been broadcast across the island. “Harold told Asher who told me.”
“Harold needs a hobby.”
“Harold’s hobby is your love life. Accept it.”
“Speaking of Harold,” Amber says, turning to Grandma Hensley with a smile like she’s been waiting for this opening. “You want to tell us why he’s been driving his golf cart past your house three times a day?”
Grandma Hensley adjusts her sun hat. “Harold Spencer drives that golf cart all over the island. It’s how he checks on things.”
“He checks on your front porch,” Michelle says. “Every time. Hazeltimed it.”
“I did time it,” Hazel confirms. “Seven-fifteen, eleven-thirty, and four o’clock. The man is on a schedule.”
“He’s a creature of habit.”
“He’scourtingyou,” Jo says. “He brought you tomatoes from his garden last week. Hand-delivered. In a basket.”
“It was a generous harvest. He was being neighborly.”
“He tied a ribbon on the basket,” Jessica says, without looking up from her book. “Neighborly doesn’t come with ribbon.”
Grandma Hensley looks out at the ocean with serene composure like she knows exactly what Harold Spencer is doing and has no intention of making it easy for him. “When Harold has something to say to me, he’ll say it. Until then, I’m enjoying the tomatoes.”
“She’s enjoying the tomatoes,” Amber repeats to the group. “The woman is being romanced by a man with a golf cart and a vegetable garden and she’senjoying the tomatoes.”
“At least my romance doesn’t involve pickled okra,” Grandma Hensley says, and the whole circle loses it.
The fireworks start at nine.
The book club spot is full now—husbands and kids and boyfriends and dogs. Grayson has brought a cooler. Brett is grilling something on a portable setup that Amber is supervising with the intensity of a professional chef who doesn’t trust anyone else with meat. Scott has abandoned the ring toss and is sitting next to Jessica, their shoulders touching. Hazel’s kids are running through the surf. Mads is leaning against Asher, his hand on her belly. Jo and Dean are sharing a blanket.
My kids are here. Jenna is with the teen crew—Dawson, Piper, and Finch—the four of them sharing a blanket and looking like an Outer Banks casting call. Jenna is sitting next to Finch with the studied casualness of a girl who chose that spot very deliberately. Millie is reading by flashlight. Aidan is explaining crab racing strategy to anyone who will listen, which currently includes Harold, who is listening with genuine interest and asking follow-up questions.
And Paul is here.
He arrived ten minutes ago. Walked down the beach with his hands in his pockets,nodded at Harold, accepted a drink from Grayson, and sat down on the edge of the blanket nearest me without saying anything. Not next to me. Near me. A foot of blanket between us.
He’s watching the water. I’m pretending to adjust my camera settings. Neither of us has said a word, and the book club ladies are watching us with the intensity of women reading a scene they’ve been waiting for.
“You two are killing me,” Amber whispers from behind her drink.
“Shh,” Michelle says. “Let it happen.”
The first firework goes up. A burst of red and gold. Everyone looks up. The kids scream. The colors cascade across the dark sky and paint the water below.
Aidan appears from nowhere and wedges himself between me and Paul. “Mr. Paul! Did you see that one? It was red! Red is the best color. After blue. And green. Okay, red is the third best color.”
“Red is a solid choice,” Paul says.
