She walked to her car with her hands in her pockets, the evening's warmth already fading.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Carrie had claimed the beach chair closest to the dunes, laptop balanced on her knees, the glow of the screen washed out by the sun overhead.
She had three tabs open: her email, waiting for Gayle's name to appear with news about the motion to delay; LinkedIn, where she'd finally added the freelance bookkeeping clients she'd picked up over the years; and a job listing for a full-time accounting position at a property management company back home. The posting had been up for six days. She'd written and rewritten her cover letter twice already, trying to make fifteen years of part-time gigs and volunteer treasurer roles sound like a coherent career instead of what they were, the scraps Richard had left her when he decided there was "no room" for her at the company she'd helped build. She deleted the line about her business background and tried again.
Beside her, Jen had her laptop out, fingers moving in quick bursts. She'd broken through on the Clementine Fields draft two days ago and hadn't stopped since. Pages coming faster than they had in months, the ending finally taking shape after all those stalled weeks. She'd mentioned it to the group over tacos on the deck, downplaying it the way she always did, but Meredith had seen the relief underneath. Almost done.
Olivia came out of the water, dripping, goggles pushed up onto her forehead. She'd been doing laps along the shoreline for the better part of an hour, far enough out that the waves barely broke. She grabbed her towel and dropped onto the sheet beside Lori, who was pretending to read the book John had recommended while actually watching Ethan.
He was down the beach with Max, the two of them tossing a football in lazy arcs. Not talking, just throwing and catching. Ethan had been quite a bit less withdrawn since he'd started at The Crabby Catch. Not transformed, but present.
"He looks better," Meredith said, settling into her chair with her iced coffee.
"He's getting there," Lori said. "This place is good for him. I think."
Sophie and Brittany had set up closer to the water. Sophie was texting Trevor again. She'd been on her phone constantly since they arrived. Brittany lay on her stomach, scrolling through something that looked like homework. Ava was farther down the beach with her camera, photographing the lifeguard stand or the waves or whatever had caught her eye.
"Paddle ball?" Max jogged over from where he'd been with Ethan, holding two wooden paddles and a ball. "Anyone? Come on, it's the beach. Someone has to play paddle ball."
"Not me," Lily said, eyes still on her book.
"You never do anything."
"I do plenty of things. They just don't involve paddles."
"Sophie?" Max turned his attention to the other towel setup. "Brittany? Come on, one of you."
Sophie glanced at her phone then set it down. "Fine. But I'm rusty."
"Nobody's rusty at paddle ball. It's paddle ball."
They headed for the firmer sand near the water, and soon the steady thwack of the ball joined the soundtrack of the morning.
The hours slid by. Reading, napping, the occasional trip to the water, someone making a Wawa run for drinks and coming back with three times what anyone had asked for. By late afternoon, the crowd had thinned and the lifeguards were pulling in the flags, and everyone was ready for showers and the promise of evening.
They packed up slowly. Sophie and Brittany headed back first, claiming showers before the rush. Ethan was the last to leave, taking his time folding his towel, lingering.
Lori waited until he was out of earshot. "Kevin's coming this weekend. To talk to Ethan about the wedding."
Olivia looked up. "He told you that?"
"Told. Announced. Demanded I make sure Ethan was available." She shouldered her beach bag. "I haven't figured out how to tell him yet."
"Tell Ethan, or tell Kevin no?" Meredith asked.
"Either. Both." She started toward the dunes.
Tom had volunteered to stay with the teens. Burgers on the grill, a movie in the living room, the promise that he wouldn't try too hard to be cool. By nine o'clock, Ocean Drive was already packed.
The OD was everything a shore bar should be. Dark, loud, and a little sticky. The dance floor filled the center of the main room, three bars surrounding it, bodies already pressing in even though the cover band hadn't started yet. The ceiling hung low, old wood paneling that had seen decades of hands slapping against it in time with the music. The whole place smelled like spilled beer and sunscreen and something vaguely fried from the kitchen. A guy near the door was checking IDs and collecting the cover, a tip jar already stuffed with ones.
The five of them pushed through to the back bar. They were easily the oldest people in the room by twenty years, and nobody cared, least of all them.
"Two pitchers of whatever's on draft," Meredith said to the bartender, a guy in his twenties with a backwards Phillies cap and a patient expression. "And five glasses."
"Cash only," he said.
