Chapter 36 Now Lina
Now
Lina
A few hours later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of David’s car while he drives us toward the beach.
Though drive is a generous term for what he’s doing—the traffic is so bad, we’re barely moving.
When a Range Rover with New York plates attempts to cut him off, David lays on his horn.
He rolls down the window and flips the other driver off. “Better luck with that shit in the Hamptons, asshole!”
I glance at the back seat through the rearview mirror. Maren stifles a laugh. Henry rubs his temples, eyes closed.
“His road rage is almost as bad as his kitchen rage,” Henry groans.
“I told you guys I should have just biked,” I say.
“In those shoes?” Maren scoffs, genuinely offended by the suggestion.
After we’d filled the guys in over breakfast, I’d let the three of them collaborate on my look.
The dress I’m wearing is from an Italian designer Maren works with that I’ve never heard of.
It’s a skintight white linen midi with spaghetti straps and slits on both sides that reach a little too high on my thighs.
It hugs me in all the right places—and probably costs more than I’d make freelancing for a month.
The shoes are vintage Jimmy Choo sandals that Maren scored at an estate sale in Knights-bridge.
I’d styled my hair in loose waves, brushed my eyebrows into submission and swiped on mascara, blush and lip gloss.
Like the mice in Cinderella, my three friends awed with approval.
I am way overdressed—but I have to admit, I look pretty damn good.
“Uh, guys?” Henry says, leaning forward. “I think this is as far as we’re going to get.”
We’ve made it to Ocean Avenue, but the entrance is blocked off, and two police officers are directing beach traffic to an overflow lot a few blocks north—in the direction opposite of where we need to go.
David squeezes the steering wheel. “Fuuuuck.”
I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s already 11:57. I kick off my shoes and grab them with one hand, then open the door with the other.
David throws the gearshift in park. “What are you doing?”
I shut the door, leaning in through the window until I can see all three of them. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll meet you guys there!”
And then I run.
The boardwalk is mobbed. I shouldn’t be surprised: Weather-wise, it’s forecasted to be a stunning Memorial Day weekend.
I mutter apologies as I weave through bikers and joggers and power walkers and kids with boogie boards, the wooden planks hot against my bare feet.
I thank myself for applying an extra layer of deodorant before we left and pray that the material of this dress can handle a little sweat.
As I cross Tenth Street, the first thing I notice is the line for The Jetty. People are wrapped around the gazebo and halfway up the block. I smile, because Sebastian was right, and so was I: Revamping the snack bar was a good idea.
I slow down to catch my breath as I approach the outdoor hostess stand for the main restaurant. Bubba herself is manning it. I duck out of view to jam my burning feet into my—Maren’s—shoes.
Bubba notices me anyway and calls out, “Clocking in?”
I take a deep breath.
“Actually,” I say, straightening, “I was hoping to speak to the manager.”
Her lips curl into a smirk. She tips her head, gesturing inside. “If you see a headless chicken running around, that’s him. You should be able to catch him after the welcome.”
I thank her and start toward the threshold, then think better of it, double back and fold her into a hug. She squeezes me back, and I just have this feeling she knows why I’m here. Approves. It’s all the reassurance I need.
Inside, I scan the dining room for Sebastian, my heart racing.
The tables have already started filling up.
Everything looks the same, aside from one section near the windows, where a few of the usual four-tops have been replaced by a Bruce Springsteen tribute band.
I’ve heard this band play at various festivals and small concert venues over the years: They’re sort of local legends, and they’re actually pretty good.
If Sebastian had arranged this I’d be impressed. But honestly? It has Bubba written all over it.
As the band plays the first notes of “Rosalita,” I duck into the kitchen.
No sign of Sebastian there, either, but I do see Omar jostling one of the fry baskets while scanning the first round of order tickets.
I want to say hi, but I don’t want to interrupt him while he’s in the zone.
I’m about to turn around when he spots me.
I wave and mouth, Congratulations.
He winks at me. And then he glances toward the swinging door that used to lead to the snack bar. I know exactly what he’s trying to tell me.
Tentatively, I push it open far enough to peer inside, half expecting to slam into Kevin or Tina. What’s on the other side stops me in my tracks.
It’s still a small space, but it’s transformed.
The concrete floor has been covered with black and white tiles.
The back wall still connects to the kitchen via a window, but the counter in between is lined with elegant pastries, fancy breakfast sandwiches and glasses of iced coffee instead of baskets of burgers and French fries.
A humongous silver espresso machine gleams along one of the shorter walls, expertly operated by a thirtysomething man in a clean-cut polo, khakis and an apron.
I recognize the similarly dressed teens who are manning the registers as Parker and Wade.
The line is long, but it’s almost constantly moving, and no one seems frustrated.
I have nothing to do with this, of course, but I feel a swell of pride anyway.
“Can I help you with something, miss?” The barista has noticed me. His tone is cordial, accommodating, but I’m not so far removed from restaurant work to miss the hint of alarm of his eyes. He thinks I’m a customer gone rogue.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, hands up. Translation: I come in peace. “I was just looking for Sebastian. Do you know where he is?”
“He was here a minute ago,” he shouts over the sound of the milk steamer. Now that he’s pegged me as friend or family, he drops the formal tone. “Dining room, maybe? Or he could have run out—ice machine is broken and we’re almost through all the backup bags in the freezer.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning—and slamming into someone.
“Oh my God, sorry!” I yelp as the tall, red-haired woman I crashed into adjusts the crate she’s carrying.
The same red-haired woman I saw surfing with Sebastian last August. My stomach plummets.
“You’re fine, hon! James, mind giving me a hand?”
The barista rushes past me and takes the crate from her. I stop running through the worst-case scenarios my brain can conjure up long enough to notice that it’s filled with rows and rows of brown paper bags and smells like coffee.
And that the woman is wearing a baseball cap that reads SQUAN ROASTERY.
I rewind through the last full conversation I had with Sebastian and a lightbulb goes off.
On Mondays I’ve been working on plans for the café … casually meeting with potential vendors.
Surfer Girl is Sebastian’s coffee bean supplier?
“Thanks, Gina,” James says. “I can’t believe we already ran through what we ordered for today.”
I duck into the dining room. The band is taking a break, and a longtime customer named Mr. Gerstein has taken the mic for a toast. Still no sign of Sebastian. Defeated, I decide to grab a table while I curse myself for being such a jealous idiot and plot my next move.
I remember Mr. Gerstein’s wife passed the summer before my junior year.
He’s telling the story of how Bubba hand-delivered him a week’s worth of food, then organized a spaghetti dinner fundraiser for a breast cancer charity in her honor.
But her kindness didn’t stop there: She came by to check on him every week or so, always with a tray of food in hand, long after other visitors stopped.
“That’s the kind of woman Bubba is,” Mr. Gerstein says. “Someone who never stops showing up for her people.”
After a round of applause, he hands the mic off to a young man who looks to be college age. He introduces himself as JJ, and he thanks Omar for taking him under his wing last year. With Omar’s guidance, he applied for and received a scholarship to culinary school this fall.
The toasts continue like this for a little while. They’re informal—memories and words of gratitude shared above the din of clanging silverware and whispered lunch orders—but they’re a reminder of the role this place has played in Brantley Beach for so many years.
Before I can convince myself otherwise, I’m standing. I smooth my dress, walk over to the makeshift stage and accept the mic from a regular who I remembered always ordered eggs Benedict with the hollandaise on the side and a black coffee.
I clear my throat. Is it me, or does the audience suddenly seem rapt?
I still don’t see Sebastian, though I do spot Theo, Hana, baby Esther and Andre at a table in the back.
Andre’s eyeing me curiously and pulling his phone out.
Maybe it’s better to not know if Sebastian’s listening or not. I take a breath.
“Um.” Good start, Lina. “Hi, everyone. Some of you may remember me, but some of you may not know me at all. My name is Angelina Mariano. I worked here while I was in high school. Bubba’s was my very first job. And honestly? It was probably my favorite.”
I glance toward a slight commotion by the entrance.
My friends have finally arrived, out of breath.
David and Maren are exchanging words, and I’m not sure who looks more annoyed.
I silently thank myself for not waiting with them to find parking.
Henry spots me and shushes them both. David and Maren immediately drop their tiff and grab on to each other in excitement.
Bubba watches them, her expression one of amusement, then focuses her attention on me, too.