Tom appeared and settled into a chair beside them.
"Where are the kids?" Lori asked.
"Lily and Sophie are watching something in the living room. Ethan and Max went for a walk." He stretched his legs out. "Brittany said something about calling someone."
"Ryan," Carrie said. "She's been texting him all day."
"Is that the beach club guy?" Tom asked.
Carrie nodded. "That's the beach club guy."
Tom raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. He was close enough to Meredith that their arms touched.
For a few minutes nobody said anything. Just sat there, the sky darkening overhead.
Jen stood, stretching. "We should get moving. Doors open at eight, show starts at nine. It's about forty minutes to Atlantic City if we hit the lights right."
They started getting ready. Carrie climbing out of the hot tub, Lori following, everyone heading inside to change. Meredith caught Tom's eye.
"Thanks for holding down the fort," Meredith said.
"Go have fun," Tom said with a wink.
The drive to Atlantic City took exactly forty-two minutes.
Jen drove—her car, her mission, her need to control the route—while the other four negotiated seating. Carrie won the front seat by calling it first. Meredith, Lori, and Olivia piled into the back, dressed up in a way none of them had been since before Sea Isle. Heels instead of sandals. Lipstick that wasn't tinted chapstick. Actual jewelry.
"I forgot I owned earrings," Olivia said, adjusting them in her phone's camera.
Atlantic City rose ahead of them, all glass and light and aggressive optimism, a city built on gambling and the belief that luck was real. The Hard Rock Hotel stood on the Boardwalk, the giant guitar out front visible from blocks away.
They parked in the garage and headed for the entrance, heels clicking on concrete. Music drifted from somewhere inside, not the main stage yet, but something ambient, setting the tone.
The guy at the door checked Jen's name against the list Clint had left, found it, and waved them through.
They pushed through into the venue, and Meredith took a moment to adjust. The space was intimate. Tiered seating facing a compact stage, a bar running along one wall, stage lights already dimmed low. People were still filtering in, finding seats. Not packed yet, but filling.
They found a spot near the front, close enough to see the stage clearly, far enough to have a conversation without shouting. The opening act was just finishing their set, a three-piece rock band that had been decent without being memorable. Polite applause as they packed up.
Onstage, crew members were setting up equipment. Drums, amps, a keyboard off to one side. A four-piece, from the looks of it. Jen said nothing, watching it all come together. She was holding her drink but not drinking it, her eyes on the stage.
The lights dimmed. Jen straightened in her seat, hands tightening around her cup.
The stage went dark for a moment. The room had filled while they weren't paying attention. Packed now, people standing along the back wall. Then the first spotlight hit, and Clint walked out, guitar strapped across his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Whistles and cheers. Behind him, the rest of the band took their positions—bass, drums, keys—and the noise dropped away.
He stepped up to the microphone.
"Thanks for coming out tonight," he said. "We're going to play some songs. Some you might know, some you won't. Bear with us on the new stuff. We're still figuring out if they work."
Laughter from the audience. The drummer counted off. And they started.
Jen leaned forward. Carrie caught her eye, raised an eyebrow.
They played through the first few songs, older material, based on how easily the band moved through them. People sang along to the ones they knew, dancing wherever they could find space. Then Clint stepped back to the mic.
"This next one's new," he said. "Wrote it last week. Still figuring it out."
He started to play.
