"Occupational hazard." He scanned the books, movements calm and measured. "If you're around, I host a speaker series. Local voices—authors, historians, anyone with a good story about this place. Next one's later this week."
"I might check that out."
"You should. It's usually a full house."
Lori took the bag. "Thanks for the recommendations."
"Anytime."
She walked out into the afternoon.
The beach club was exactly what Brittany had expected—white lounge chairs in precise rows, a pool that belonged in a magazine, a bar serving twenty-dollar smoothies to people who didn't flinch at the price.
Her job was front desk and cabana rentals. Check members in, answer questions, maintain the smile. She'd worked a juice bar, a summer doing register at a boutique, but the beach club operated on different rules. These weren't customers. They were members. The distinction mattered here.
A few hours in, she was logging a rental when someone spoke up beside her.
"First day's always the longest."
The bartender. He set a bottle of water on the counter. "Figured you could use this."
"Thanks." She took it. "Brittany."
"Ryan." He leaned against the edge. "Let me guess. You're questioning all your life choices and wondering why you signed up for this."
She laughed. "Is it written on my face?"
"Everyone has that look their first day. It fades by week two." He gestured at the pool deck. "Members seem intimidating, but most of them just want to feel important. Treat them like they matter and they tip well."
"Noted."
A woman in oversized sunglasses approached and asked about the spa schedule, her tone suggesting Brittany should already know. Brittany smiled, found the answer, delivered it calmly. The woman left without thanking her.
Ryan watched her go. "Mrs. Everett. Never tips over ten percent and once sent back a margarita because the salt was 'uneven.'"
Brittany snorted. "Uneven salt."
"I wish I was kidding." He straightened up. "You handled that well, though. She's not easy."
"Customer service isn't new to me. Just the clientele."
"That's the trick." He started back toward the bar. "Same skills, different tax bracket."
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of check-ins and questions and the constant effort of keeping her face pleasant. But it felt slightly less impossible than it had that morning.
When she grabbed her bag to leave, Ryan was restocking glasses behind the bar. He looked up, met her gaze, and raised his water bottle. Same way he'd brought her one earlier. A callback.
She gave a small nod and headed out.
Tom's car was in the driveway.
Meredith sat for a moment, groceries in the passenger seat, trying to figure out what she felt.
She'd been out most of the afternoon. Grocery store, wine shop on Landis, a stop for batteries they probably didn't need. She'd still bought groceries for the house, but no one had texted her a list, no one had asked what time dinner would be ready. Just her, moving through a day.
And now Tom was here, three days early, without warning.
She grabbed the grocery bags and headed inside.
