"I'll walk you back," Ryan said.
They left the beach together, their footprints disappearing into the dark sand behind them. The jetty was a shadow at their backs now, and the town glowed ahead, distant and familiar.
They stopped where the beach met the street. The house was visible from here, lights on in the windows, the porch light left on for her.
"Thanks for walking me back," she said.
"Anytime." He paused. "You working the morning shift?"
"Unfortunately."
"I'll bring you a coffee. Black, right?"
She grinned. "You noticed."
"I notice things."
He took a step back. It looked like he might say something, or step closer, but he just smiled, lifted a hand, and turned back toward wherever he was going.
Brittany watched him until he disappeared into the dark, then walked home with sand in her shoes and woodsmoke in her hair.
The reading series at The Salty Grape wasn't the reason Lori had driven half an hour inland that evening. It was a reason. The history of barrier islands, the event John at Tidewater Books had mentioned when she'd browsed a few days ago, those were reasons too. But John himself, his voice when he'd said, “I hope you'll stop by.” That was the reason she hadn't admitted to herself yet.
The Salty Grape looked nothing like the shore. A crushed-shell drive gave way to a converted stone barn with wide wooden doors propped open, string lights glowing against the fading sky. Beyond the main building, grapevines climbed neat trellises in rows that caught the last of the golden hour light. Someone had set up folding chairs on the flagstone patio out back, and maybe thirty people had already gathered, wine glasses in hand, the murmur of conversation mixing with the buzz of cicadas.
Lori got a glass of white at the bar and found a seat toward the middle. Not too close to the front, not hiding in the back. Casual.
John was near a small podium that had been set up by the stone wall, speaking with a man who must have been the evening's speaker. Sixties, white-bearded, wearing a faded polo shirt and khakis worn soft from fieldwork. John gestured toward the vineyard rows, said something that made the man laugh, then glanced out at the gathering crowd.
He caught her eye, or she thought he did. Lori raised her hand in an awkward half-wave before realizing he was looking past her. A woman brushed by from behind, making for the podium, and John greeted her with a hug.
Lori took a long sip of wine and studied the program.
The chairs filled in slowly. A couple sat down next to her, already mid-conversation about someone's daughter's wedding. An older woman claimed the seat on her other side and immediately began fanning herself with the program.
A gray hound mix with a grizzled muzzle wandered between the rows, accepting pats from anyone who offered. It paused at Lori's chair, sniffed her ankle thoroughly, then sat down directly on her feet.
"Oh," Lori said. "Hello."
It looked up at her as if it had chosen her specifically and would not be moved.
She tried to shift her feet. The dog leaned harder against her shins.
The woman beside her glanced over. "Looks like you made a friend."
"Lucky me," Lori said, though the dog's weight was oddly comforting. Like a heavy, slightly smelly weighted blanket.
At seven on the dot, John stepped to the podium.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, and the patio quieted. "For those who don't know me, I'm John. I own Tidewater Books in Sea Isle, and a few years ago I started this series to bring together the people who understand this place best, not just writers, but historians, naturalists, anyone with something worth sharing." He looked out at the crowd. "Tonight, we're continuing with one of the best."
He introduced the speaker without notes. Dr. Scott Shiles, retired professor from Stockton, thirty years studying the ecology and history of New Jersey's barrier islands. Author of two books Lori had never heard of and now wanted to read.
"Scott knows more about this stretch of coastline than anyone I've ever met," John said. "And he tells it better than most novelists. So without further ado."
Scott took his place at the podium. He was smaller than he'd looked from a distance, but his voice carried easily across the patio, steady and warm and practiced.
He didn't start with facts. He started with a story.
