3. Summer
Summer
Main Street hasn’t changed. It’s my first thought as I turn off the coastal road and Coral Bay’s main drag opens up in front of me, straight and lined with low storefronts.
The same narrow sidewalks, the same wrought-iron streetlamps, the same flower boxes spilling over with lavender and bougainvillea.
The same surf stickers slapped on the road signs, the ones nobody’s ever peeled off.
Everything’s just like I remember. Well, almost.
I slow down. On the right, between the old fabric shop and the florist, there’s a storefront I don’t recognize. Midnight-blue facade, window full of books, geraniums hanging on either side of the entrance. A sign announces, in hand-painted off-white letters:
Tide the surfers didn’t try to get to know him.
I lean my bike against the agency wall—no lock, nobody uses one here—and push the door open.
Inside, it’s air-conditioned, too cold. After the heat outside, the contrast is unpleasant—it feels like walking into a Manhattan office transplanted onto this wild stretch of coast. Dark-wood furniture, thick carpet, property photos on the walls—houses with ocean views, empty lots sold as “exceptional opportunities.” Everything neat, aligned, controlled.
Ryan Caldwell sits behind the desk at the back. He stands, and six years collide.
Taller than I remember—or maybe it’s the ramrod-straight posture, shoulders back, that does it. Ash-blond hair combed back, thin metal-framed glasses, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, and a Rolex on his left wrist. His steel-gray eyes size me up. The smile comes after.
“Well. Summer Hayes.”
He comes around the desk and opens his arms like he’s going to pull me in, then thinks better of it and turns the gesture into a firm handshake, a little too long.
“Ryan? You’re the one handling the sale?”
“The agency’s family-run. Everything goes through me now,” he says with studied nonchalance.
Twenty-five years old, and the family agency’s already his.
He gestures to a chair in front of his desk.
“Have a seat. Want a coffee?”
“No thanks. I just had one.”
I settle into the leather chair. Ryan sits back down, folds his hands and takes me in with a focus that makes me uneasy. Not hostile—pointed.
“I wondered if you’d ever come back,” he says.
“I’m not staying long.”
“Your house was supposed to go fast, too. Six months later, it’s still sitting there.”
My jaw tightens. He scores a point, and he knows it.
“One offer, and it wasn’t serious,” I say. “What’s the holdup?”
Ryan leans back. His fingers tap the edge of the desk—slow, steady, like a metronome.
“The problem isn’t the house itself. The structure’s old but solid. The view’s gorgeous. The location would be exceptional if…”
“If what?”
“Let’s say the immediate surroundings complicate things.”
“What surroundings?”
“The beach is… very active. Potential buyers are looking for something quieter.”
His words are smooth, measured, almost too polite.
“What do you mean, ‘very active’?”
“The area around your house has a few… characteristics that can put off family or residential buyers.”
I stare at him. He holds my gaze without blinking, a half-smile on his lips, like he expects me to figure it out on my own.
But I don’t get it. Or rather, I get that he won’t tell me more.
“Ryan, I took a flight, rented a car, got a flat, and slept on a mattress from another century. Tell me what’s wrong with my house.”
His smile widens, just barely.
“You should go see for yourself. It’ll tell you more than any explanation.”
He checks his watch in one fluid motion—reflex or performance, impossible to tell.
“I’ve got a meeting in five minutes,” he says, standing. “But listen—walk around the house, spend some time there. We’ll talk after.”
He rounds the desk; I stand too.
“One o’clock, at the Lighthouse Diner?” he says. “We’ll go over the numbers, I’ll show you the comps in the area. In the meantime, go take a look around the neighborhood, all right?”
He adds with a mocking smile:
“We’ll see if the New Yorker can do better than us.”
Suggesting lunch in town instead of a meeting at his office isn’t exactly professional. And Ryan Caldwell knows it.
I hesitate a moment, then accept, because I need those numbers.
“One o’clock. I hope their pancakes are still as good,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel.
A bitter taste rises in my throat. There are memories at the Lighthouse Diner I’d rather leave where they are. But at lunchtime, between the takeout counters and the food trucks, Coral Bay doesn’t offer many places to sit down and talk numbers. I guess I don’t have a choice.
“Perfect,” Ryan says.
He shakes my hand—again, a beat longer than necessary. His gray eyes linger on me, unreadable.
“Good to see you again, Summer.”
He pulls a business card from his inside jacket pocket and holds it out.
“Just in case. See you later.”
I take it without looking and slip it into my bag without answering.
Outside, the warm air wraps around me all at once. The sun’s climbed higher now, and Main Street is bathed in a harsh light that flattens the shadows.
I grab my bike and stay on the sidewalk, hands on the handlebars, replaying the conversation.
“Go take a look around the neighborhood.”
Ryan danced around it. Ten minutes of smiles and politeness, but zero answers. It’s not discretion, it’s a choice. He wants me to see for myself, and there’s a reason for that. When someone refuses to name a problem, it’s because the problem has a face.
“The beach is very active.”
“The immediate surroundings complicate things.”
There’s only one way to find out.
I take a breath, get on my bike, and head back toward Crescent Beach.