2.

 

I arrive at the shore late afternoon, the sun still burning hot in a cloudless sky. I slow the car, cruising as I turn down Main Street and take in the quaint small town that’s hardly changed since I was a girl. It’s summer season, so the streets are busy: tourists buying souvenirs from the gift shop, kids lined up at the ice cream store, and families crossing the street, barefoot, toting coolers and lawn chairs down to the beach. The smell of suntan lotion and salt water is in the air: the irresistible scent of summer.

Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. I always loved this place, how every day here always felt like the first day of vacation. My parents would moan about missing city restaurants and gym memberships, New Yorkers through and through, but I’d take early-morning strolls on the beach over a sweaty treadmill any day.

I head out past the harbor, a cluster of boats bobbing gently on the sapphire tide, and follow the coastal road a few blocks out of town until I reach Rose Cottage B&B. It’s a rambling old house, right on the sand dunes, and as I pull into the driveway, I can see the overgrown front yard is bursting with colorful wildflowers; honeysuckle and roses growing wild up around the front porch.

I get out of the car and slowly walk up the front steps. I realize, too late, that there might be nobody here. The place looks empty, but when I try the front door, it swings open.

“Hello?” I call, stepping inside.

The house is still, but full of warmth. Sunlight falls through the windows, pooling gold on the honeyed wooden floors and antique rugs. The main room opens up into a cozy sitting area, with overstuffed couches arranged around an old fireplace. I stroll closer, memories rushing back to me. Nana loved collecting things, and the mantle is full of framed photographs and tchotchkes: polished sea glass, driftwood sculptures, tiny figurines. In pride of place is a family picture, taken ten years ago at least: all of us crowded around on the back porch together, after a summer barbecue or picnic. I’ve got jam stains on my shirt, hugging Nana tightly, and my parents are even smiling for a change.

The grief hits me again, bittersweet.

“Can I help you?”

I jump, whirling around. “Oh my God, you scared me!”

“I’m sorry!” A teenage girl is coming downstairs. She’s wearing cut-offs and a bikini top; her red hair pulled up in a knot, a laundry hamper under one arm. “I’m afraid we’re closed.”

“I know. I mean, I’m Noelle—” I start to introduce myself, but the girl brightens.

“Nancy’s granddaughter! Of course, the big-city lawyer. She told me all about you.” The girl dumps the hamper on the ground and comes to greet me. “I’m Kayla, I work here most summers. Cleaning and laundry, that kind of thing. I try to help in the kitchen too, but, you know your grandmother…” she giggles, then stops. Her smile fades. “I mean, knew. I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK. I’m sorry too.”

We share a pause, a moment of reflection. Then I look around. “I was hoping to stay here, before the funeral tomorrow. Do you think that would be OK?”

“Sure.” Kayla smiles again. “We cancelled all the bookings for this week, so there’s plenty of room. Let me deal with this, and then I’ll get you settled in.” She hoists the laundry again, and leads me through the living area, down the hallway to the back of the house.

She heads out to the utility room in back, but I pause in the kitchen, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon. It’s the way I’ve always remembered it: a bright, sunny room with big picture windows, french doors leading out onto the back garden and sand dunes beyond.

I trail my fingertips over the blue tiled countertops and big steel range. The shelves are packed with old bakeware, and there’s a farmhouse table big enough to seat six—or a dozen sheet pans when Nana was baking cookies. Her old cookbooks are even still lined up on the window ledge, their covers dog-eared and stained with syrup rings and jam.

It feels like she’s still here somehow, like she’ll just stroll in the room, take down the canister of sugar, and start sifting together a cake mix.

“She loved it in here.” Kayla’s voice comes again. She leans in the doorway, a sad smile on her face. “All my memories of her are in that apron of hers, with something delicious coming out of the oven.”

“Mine too.” I take a deep breath, and try not to let the sadness overwhelm me. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”

Kayla nods. “Everyone’s coming. There’s a reception after, too, at the diner. We didn’t know if the family wanted to do anything… I mean, I think someone tried to call your parents…” she trails off, looking awkward.

“No, that’s fine,” I reassure her quickly. “That sounds great. They’ll all be here tomorrow.”

A cellphone sounds. “Sorry.” Kayla checks the message. She giggles, then taps out a reply.

“I’m fine here, if you need to get going,” I offer.

She looks up. “Are you sure? My friends are just heading out to a party…”

I can see the longing on her face, so I smile. “I promise. I know my way around this place. Linens and towels still up in the main closet?”

She nods. “Thanks, I wouldn’t just ditch you, but there’s this guy...” she trails off with a blush.

I laugh. “Say no more.”

“See you tomorrow!” Kayla grabs a bag from the kitchen counter. “And, I really am sorry about your grandma.”

She shoots me another sympathetic look, then dashes out the backdoor and through the yard down to the beach.

I watch her go, trying to remember what it was like to be sixteen and so carefree. It wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like a hundred years. I just hope Kayla savors every moment of it, before the real world—and jobs, and rent, and responsibilities—get in the way.

 

I bring in my bags and take a proper look around the place. The main rooms are all downstairs: a big dining room, the open lounge, and a cute library nook. Upstairs, there are six guest rooms on two levels, with old-fashioned iron bedsteads and clawfoot tubs in their bathrooms. It feels odd to be up there all alone in the empty house, so I find myself heading back downstairs and out to Nana’s private annex in the yard. She had the garage converted after her fall, into a studio apartment with its own private patio. She liked that she could be up early to start baking without waking the rest of the guests, and leave them to their own devices when she wanted an early night.

Now, I step inside, and I’m hit with memories all over again. The hand-stitched quilt draped over the bed, the bottle of rosewater on the night-stand. There’s a pair of Uggs by the bed, a gift from me last year, and a copy of a Harlequin romance on the dresser. I remember sneaking them from her library, the summer I turned thirteen: poring over the bodice-ripping covers and giggling at every “thrusting manhood.” Nana caught me once, but she didn’t mind, she just pulled down a different book for me with a mischievous smile. “You’ll like this one,” she winked. “Chapter Fifteen, in the stables.”

It’s almost nine by the time a noise from the main house pulls me back to reality. I head back inside, and find voices coming from the living room. A couple is there, about my age, looking around.

“Hi.” I pause in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

The girl turns, revealing a friendly face framed in light brown curls. She’s wearing a cute navy sundress, a camera strap slung around her shoulder. “Sorry, we’re not nosing around, I swear.” She smiles. “We saw the car outside and thought we’d say hello. I’m Juliet, and this is my husband, Emerson.”

“We wanted to offer our condolences,” Emerson adds, reaching to shake my hand. He’s got dark hair and piercing eyes, but they soften in sympathy as I return the handshake.

“And pie,” Juliet adds, offering a foil-covered pan. “Apple blueberry. It’s actually Mrs. Olsen’s recipe, I bugged her for it all summer until she let me in on the secret.”

“Coconut flakes, baked into the crust,” I answer automatically.

Juliet laughs. “That’s right! I swear, I don’t know why you’d ever bake it without them.”

“Thank you,” I say, setting it down. “It’s so sweet of you to drop by. Did you guys know her well?”

“I grew up here,” Emerson explains. “I used to stop by every day before school, just to try and charm her out of a fresh cinnamon roll.” He flashes a grin, and I have no doubt that Nana would have kept him well-fed.

“And I worked shifts at the diner, back when I was eighteen.” Juliet lets out a wistful sigh, looking around the room. “She was always such a fixture in town. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Emerson slings an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. “But her recipes will always live on.”

Juliet laughs. “Is that a hint?”

“Maybe.” He grins.

Juliet looks back at me and rolls her eyes good-naturally. “Anyone would think he’s helpless in the kitchen, and not the owner of one of the hottest restaurants in the city. Are you visiting long?” she asks. “You’ll have to come by. It’s worth the trip.”

“I’m afraid not,” I give a rueful sigh. “I have to get back to New York tomorrow.”

“Well, why don’t you come by the bar instead?” Emerson suggests. “We were just on our way over.”

Juliet brightens. “You should! It’s band night, there’ll be a real crowd. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know…” I hesitate. “I’ve been driving all day, I might just stay here. But thanks for the invite, and the pie,” I add, touched by their friendliness.

“No problem.” Juliet smiles. “And if you change your mind, it’s Jimmy’s, right on the harbor. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

I see them out and take the pie out to the back patio. I dig in, savoring the sweet, tart fruit and flaky butter pastry as I watch the last of the sunset melt away over the bay. I can’t believe I’ve been in Beachwood Bay for less than an hour, and already I’ve had more neighborly concern than the past five years in New York. The couple in the condo next door to me don’t even smile when we pass each other in the hallway, and the last time anyone brought me anything, it was the super with a noise warning about my early-morning alarm.

But that was always what Nana loved about this town. Even when Grandpa passed, she stayed right here. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her, and even though it hurts to realize she’s gone, it’s a comfort knowing just how much she belonged.

I feel a sudden rush of energy. I’m not going to just sit around tonight and wallow alone, I’m going to go out and enjoy this town—just the way she would have wanted.

Quickly, I get up and go grab a sweater. I’m still dressed in my cut-offs and an old T-shirt from the drive, but I know the bar will be casual. I pull my unruly hair back into a braid, grab my purse, and head out, locking up behind me with the key I find hidden under an old flowerpot on the porch and start walking the short distance towards town.

Sure enough, Jimmy’s is easy to find: the sound of music and laughter drifts along the beach-front, leading me right to it. I push the door open and take a look around. It’s still the same dive bar I remember, but now there’s a new stage area over to one side, and the large room is packed with a crowd of people: drinking beer, playing pool, and spilling out onto the back terrace to enjoy the summer night.

“You made it!” Juliet appears, and pulls me into a hug. “I’m so glad.”

I have to leap back as a group of women hustle past. “Wow, I’ve never seen it so busy.”

“That’s because we’ve got a star event,” Juliet grins. “Dex Callahan is going to do a couple of numbers tonight, he always brings in the crowds.”

“The rock star?” I blink in surprise.

“Also known as my future brother-in-law’s brother, or something like that.” Juliet gives a careless shrug. “Anyway, what matters is that he’s great.”

I see a spot at the bar open up. “I’m going to grab a drink, do you want anything?”

Juliet shakes her head. “I’m good. We’re over in the booth by the stage,” she adds, pointing.

“Great, I’ll be right over.”

As I fight my way through the crowd, I feel my stomach let out a rumble. Pie is pretty much all I’ve eaten today; pie, and gas station snacks. I’m hoping they serve food here, when the crowd shifts, and I go stumbling into someone.

“Sorry!” I put my hands out to keep from falling, and a pair of strong arms grip me tightly, keeping me on my feet. “I didn’t see you—”

I look up, and the words fade on my lips. The room disappears—all the noise and jostling crowd blurring into background static.

It’s him.