Suddenly, Jack inhaled sharply. His eyes widened, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the photo. They all turned to look at him, and Cora’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the color drain from his face.
“Jack?” she asked, worry creeping into her voice. “What is it?”
He swallowed, his eyes glued to the photograph. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “That’s my grandfather.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jack pulled up to his grandfather’s house the next afternoon, his truck’s tires crunching over the oyster shells lining the driveway. When he killed the engine, he could hear classic rock playing somewhere out back.
Lincoln Harlow’s place stood out against the rest of the worn-down houses in the neighborhood. It wasn’t fancy, but it was well kept. Sure, the paint had faded, but it was clean. The porch creaked, but every board held firm. The house was like him, weathered but unbowed.
He found his grandfather out back, elbow-deep in the guts of an old outboard motor. His brow was tight with concentration, but there was a calmness about him, like he’d done this a thousand times before. Knowing Gramps, he probably had.
“You gonna stand there all day or make yourself useful?” Gramps called out, still squinting down at the motor.
Jack grabbed a wrench from the toolbox. “Depends. You finally gonna admit you need glasses, old man?”
Gramps snorted, finally looking up. “The day I need glasses is the day you learn to make coffee that doesn’t taste like bilge water.”
“Hey, my coffee’s not bad,” Jack protested,settling beside him as the familiar scent of motor oil and salt air wrapped around him.
“Son, the coast guard could use your coffee to break up oil spills,” Gramps shot back, but there was no heat in his words. It was just their usual, easy banter.
For a while, they worked quietly. The only sounds were the clinking of tools, Gramps muttering the occasional curse, and the constant buzz of cicadas. It was the soundtrack of a Southern summer, led by a grumpy old man in grease-stained overalls. Normally, it was comforting. Today, though, the weight of the photo in Jack’s pocket kept tugging at him, making it hard to stay in the rhythm.
A memory surfaced that he hadn’t thought about in years. He was twelve, sitting on the dock, throwing rocks into the water, furious at the world. His mom had recently dumped him and his younger brother at his grandpa’s to chase husband number four to Vegas. His dad had been in prison since he was eight for theft, assault—something messy enough that everyone in town whispered about it for years. Gramps was the one who’d kept him from going under.
That day on the dock, there were no lectures. He’d sat down beside Jack, pulled out two fishing rods, and started teaching him how to tie the perfect knot. They’d stayed out there for hours, not talking, just being. The Harlow name had always come with baggage, and most days—even then—Jack felt like he was still dragging it behind him.
But today, he couldn’t afford silence. He needed answers. Wiping his hands on a rag, he pulled the picture from his pocket. “Gramps, I need to ask you something.”
Gramps looked up, and his eyebrows rose when he saw what Jack was holding. His expression shifted toward surprise or maybe recognition, but with Gramps, it was hard to tell.
“Where’d you get that?” His voice had lost its warmth, turning careful and guarded.
“It fell out of Lolly’s recipe book,” Jack said, keeping his eyes on his grandfather. “Want to tell me why you’re in a picture with her, looking pretty cozy in front of the café?”
Gramps stared at the photo, and Jack could almost see the memories flash across his face—joy, pain, and a bit of regret. It was like watching a silent movie on a weathered screen.
“That was a long time ago, Jackie,” he said finally, voice heavy. He handed the picture back, his fingers brushing the edges as if he was reluctant to let it go.
Jack waited, hoping he’d fill in the blanks. But when it became clear he wouldn’t, frustration rose up inside his chest. “That’s it? ‘A long time ago’? Come on, Gramps. There’s more to the story than that.”
Like Winston, Gramps loved a good story. Jack had once asked him how to change a tire, and he’d turned it into a three-hour lecture on the history of the wheel, complete with props.
Gramps let out a slow breath, turning back to the motor. “What do you want me to say, kid? It was a different time. I was a different man. Hell, I still had all my hair back then.”
“Everybody in town knew Lolly,” Jack pushed, not willing to let it go. “But from this picture, it looks like you knew her better than most. Why didn’t you ever say anything? You’re the one who sent me to the café for a job, and you never mentioned you two were...whatever you were.”
Gramps shrugged, but it was too forced. “Didn’t seem important. Ancient history. Besides, you know me. I’m about as sentimental as a barnacle.”
But Jack knew better. Gramps pretended to be tough, but he was more nostalgic than he let on. Jack had seen it in the way he kept a stack of old report cards tucked in a drawer and how he polished his late wife’s silver every year before the holidays, even though nobody ever used it. He could act as if the past didn’t matter, but Jack knew it did. A lot.
For a second, he thought Gramps might say more. Hiseyes went distant, like they did when he was remembering something long gone. But then he shook his head, and the moment was over.
“You hear about what’s happening with the café?” Jack tried, hoping to keep him talking.
Gramps nodded, his expression unreadable. “The place has been shut up for months. Sunrise hasn’t felt the same since.”
