That morning, when someone knocked on his door, Ezra did not answer. It was Holly. He recognized her voice. From an upstairs window he watched her wait, with Bruce, at the door. He watched until she left something on his step, before leaving with Bruce. When he was sure it was safe, Ezra opened the door to find a plate covered in foil. Inside were Greta’s scones, still warm. They had come straight from the oven to his door. When he took a bite, he did not taste sadness. Greta was healing. As was the inn, across the way. Just as Holly and her grandmother would, too. For him, it was too late.
Now, as Amy spoke, he listened. He tried to picture his grandsons, whom he knew he could not picture accuratelybecause it had been so long since he’d seen either boy or picked them up or read a story to them on his lap. “Are you sure you can’t come?” he interrupted suddenly.
“What?” She’d been in the middle of telling him about something at preschool.
“This summer. Is there no way you and the boys, or even just you, could come? For just a little bit?”
The sigh at the end of the phone was his answer; an answer he was unfairly asking her to reissue. He knew she could not; her reasons were sound. They’d been over this already.
“Dad. I’m sorry this summer didn’t work out. And I do miss you—we all do. You know that, right?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry for asking.” She returned to her story about preschool and he tried to listen to what she was saying, but he could not.
Again, he interrupted. He couldn’t help it. The thoughts were firing like shooting stars, and he had to get them out before they fizzled into darkness.
“Did you have a happy childhood, Amy?”
“Dad. Of course I did. Yes, the happiest childhood.” She paused. “Where is all this coming from?”
“Your mother and I, we worried about that. I just want to know, did we do right by you?”
“Always.” He could hear the concern in her voice.
“Because I loved your mother so much.” Here, his voice broke, giving him away. “And sometimes I worry, you know. I worry that maybe I loved her too much for my own good, and maybe yours, too. You know I loved you just as much, right?”
Amy went quiet. “I do know that, Dad. Of course I know that, then and now.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Is everything alright out there?” she asked again. “You’re eating and sleeping okay?”
He’d said too much, and if he didn’t get off the phone soon, he’d say more. “Yes, darling. Yes, of course I’m fine.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Just the rambling thoughts of an old father. Too much time on my hands, if you will.” He needed to wrap this up.
“You’re sure?” She did not believe him. There were so many things he still needed to say, and time was running out.
“Honey, I love you very much. And I am terribly proud of all you’re doing with your life. Please don’t worry about not making it out here this summer. We’ve had so many summers. So many golden perfect summers.” He was starting to choke up. “You enjoy this one with your family. You’re an incredible young woman and mother, and you are right where you need to be.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He could hear her gearing up to say more, to ask more. Before she could do either, Ezra told her he loved her again. And goodbye.
Exhausted, Ezra rested his head in his hands at the kitchen counter.
Goodbyes were the hardest thing. They signaled to the brain that something was ending, and the brain, being the organ of survival it was, was hardwired against endings.
Now, Ezra poured himself a glass of water and went outside. He stared out at the bay. Goodbyes were always hard. They were inevitable, too.
Greta
She’s here!” Linus swept into the kitchen like he was on fire. And he didn’t need to say anything more. Greta knew.
“Are you sure?”
“I recognize her. I’ve stalked her on socials all week. She landed in Hyannis last night.” He was breathless. “It’s Dahlia.”
Dahlia Fisk from theBoston Globe. Restaurant critic. Who could put you on the map or wipe you off it. The critic who’d likened the last bowl of seafood bisque she’d reviewed totoilet water. Before it’s flushed. Dahlia was here—now—while Greta was buzzed from two glasses of wine, with no warning, and a mish-mash menu that featured nervous-breakdown Swedish comfort food in a Cape Cod town on a hot summer night. This was going to be the end for all of them.
Holly flew in on Linus’s heels, her face the color of the latest tomato Greta had plucked from the garden. The two burst into a stream of words.
“What can we do?”
