Chapter 3 Rachel
Rachel
The evening crowd at The Hungry Gull has long since dwindled to a steady handful of locals, leaving the clink of silverware and low murmur of conversation to fill the space.
At last, Hazel's renowned key lime pie—thick and tangy with a perfect graham cracker crust—makes its grand entrance.
I drum my fingers against the edge of my water glass, creating a restless rhythm that matches my mood.
"I smell like coconut sunscreen and failure," I announce with a sigh, allowing my forehead to thunk against the table’s worn linoleum.
The gesture comes easy after a day full of hot sun, salty winds, and too many missteps.
My braid, once neat and professional, now looks more like the aftermath of a seagull's nest on the run—a tangled, wild mess of strands after hours of resistance against the relentless sea breeze.
"At least you smell tropical," Zoe quips from across the booth. Her purple-streaked crown braid catches the evening light, the strands gleaming like rich amethyst. She settles back, stretching into our regular booth. "And your cart is cute! The hand-painted sign alone should bring in a crowd."
The Hungry Gull at this hour—just as the sun sinks below the horizon—holds a kind of charm I can never shake.
The golden light spills through the dusty, chipped windows, casting long shadows on the worn floorboards and bathing the peeling walls in a soft, honeyed glow.
It's a look of elegance marred by age, giving the place a timeless air.
A slice of nostalgia hangs in the salty breeze.
The ceiling fans overhead spin lazily, stirring the thick air that's seasoned with ocean salt as it pushes through the old wooden slats of the screened-in porch, where a few hopeful tourists—still clinging to the promise of a sunset—gaze at the sky, not yet willing to admit the storm’s arrival.
Our usual corner booth feels more like a nest tonight, surrounded by people I’ve known for years, too close and too familiar, but comfortable.
It’s crowded with six of us jammed together as if we’re still teenagers instead of respectable(ish) adults.
Tom's got his reading glasses perched atop his head, although he only needs them for the tiny font on baseball cards.
Violet's pulled her silver-streaked hair into a messy bun that still speaks of a day spent helping her grandmother open the diner.
Rhianna's sporting at least six different pins on her denim jacket, each one catching the light when she gestures.
My favorite today is the one that says Bibliophile and Proud—a pin that, frankly, is an understatement.
Meanwhile, Mia, tucked between Rhianna and Zoe, keeps shooting me worried glances from behind the safety of the dessert menu she's memorized front to back after all our years of post-book-club pie sessions.
"Remember when we used to come here after band practice?" Mia asks suddenly. "All of us crammed into this same booth, still in uniforms…"
"Stealing each other's french fries and complaining about that impossible section of the halftime show?" Violet adds, twirling her fork.
"Speaking of impossible…" Rhianna grins. "Remember when Tom tried to do travel baseball and marching band our senior year? Like some kind of superhuman teenager?"
"Hey, I pulled it off!" Tom sets his bite of pie down. "Though Coach never understood why I had to miss warm-ups to actually participate in the band."
"And you never got injured. That's it—you're an alien," Rhianna declares. "Normal humans can't march with a tuba and pitch a perfect game in one weekend."
"The tuba was strategic," Tom says. "It was the only instrument big enough to hide my baseball glove behind during parade formation."
"God, those band trips though." Violet sighs contentedly. "Remember that time we got lost in Charleston and ended up discovering that amazing cookie place?"
"Or when Rhianna's clarinet case popped open on the bus and we had to hunt down all the pieces?" Mia elbows Rhianna, who rolls her eyes.
"Or that competition where we all got food poisoning but still performed!" Zoe laughs. "Somehow, we won first place too!"
"Hey, you picked that pizza place." Violet throws her straw wrapper at Zoe. "I told you it was suspicious."
"That's because we all had each other's backs," I whisper, looking around at my friends. "Just like we always have."
"Which is why this program can't end," Tom says firmly. "Every kid deserves a chance to find their people like we did."
"Maybe if they could see my cart past the chrome monstrosity that is Grant Pierce's ice cream empire, I'd sell more snow cones." I accept the slice of pie Violet slides my way. "Did you know his family owns some fancy chain? Grammie Rae says they're basically ice cream royalty."
"Pierce & Sons," Mia confirms, tucking a strand of caramel hair behind her ear. "They're huge in California. Very…" She pauses diplomatically. "Prestigious."
"Very stuck-up is what you mean," Zoe corrects, earning an affectionate eye roll from her wife.
"They do take themselves awfully seriously." Mia twirls her straw through her ice water. "Like they're selling fine art instead of ice cream."
"Speaking of taking things seriously…" Tom takes a sip of his coffee—black, no sugar, just like the noir mysteries he's always trying to get us to read for book club when he isn't joining Rhianna in a crusade for increasingly spicy reads.
"Maybe we should pick something lighter next month. A romance, perhaps?"
Rhianna perks up instantly, nearly knocking over her iced tea. "Yes! I've been saying we need more kissing in our literary lives."
"We just did that monster romance you picked," Mia protests, though she's fighting a smile. "I'm still traumatized by the tentacles."
"That was art." Rhianna presses a hand to her heart.
"A masterpiece," Tom agrees solemnly, raising his coffee mug in solidarity. "The way the author described the appendages—"
"Don't you work with fish all day at the bait and tackle shop?" Violet frowns at Tom. "Isn't reading about marine… romance… a little weird?"
"Nah." Tom grins. "Got to keep work and pleasure in separate tanks, if you know what I mean."
"We are not changing the subject," I protest, though my heart isn't really in it.
Discussing our reading list—even if it means listening to another Rhianna-and-Tom tag-team campaign for paranormal romance—would be infinitely more pleasant than dwelling on my spectacular failure of a first day on the beach.
The bell above the door chimes, and Jamie Peterson walks in with his parents. He spots me and waves shyly.
"Hey, Ms. Williams." He shuffles over to our table. Around school, he's always carrying his trumpet case, which is covered in stickers from every band competition we've attended.
"Jamie! How's your summer going?" I try to keep my voice bright, even as I notice him fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.
"Good, um..." He glances back at his parents, then lowers his voice. "About next year's band... I think I'm gonna have to drop it. Since, you know..."
The words hang there, heavy as storm clouds. Since the program's ending. Since we couldn't save it.
"Hey, don't give up hope yet. We're working on it, aren't we guys?"
"Absolutely." Zoe slaps her hand on the table, making our glasses jump. "Operation Save the Music is about to go nuclear. We're talking publicity stunts, flash mobs, whatever it takes. Ethan already put a donation jar up at the bakery."
"I plan to write something for the local paper," Violet chimes in. "See if we can get the community involved."
"And I made an amazing flyer for the library—it has enough glitter on it that the whole town will notice." Rhianna's grinning like a kid with a fistful of candy.
"And when we get the money," Mia says, "we're going to have a big celebration."
I look around at my friends, then back at Jamie, whose shoulders have straightened just a little. "See? Team effort. So, you do your part and keep practicing those solos, okay?"
He nods, a hint of a smile returning. "Yes, Ms. Williams."
After he rejoins his parents, I stare at my untouched pie. "You guys really think we can do this?"
"Honey." Zoe grins, that wild smile that usually precedes her most outrageous karaoke performances.
"We're going to make your snow cones the hottest ticket in Magnolia Cove.
If Ethan has taught me anything at the bakery, it's that a good gimmick sells.
We just need to brainstorm yours. And if Mr. Fancy Ice Cream doesn't like it?
" She shrugs, violet hair glinting. "He can take his chrome cart back to California. "
I finally take a bite of my pie, letting the tart sweetness settle on my tongue. The familiar rhythm returns, steadier now. One-two-three-four.
We have work to do.