7. Summer
Summer
The Lighthouse Diner hasn’t changed either.
Cracked red vinyl booths, a stainless steel counter, fluorescent lights overhead, the smell of reheated coffee and bacon sizzling on the griddle.
A waitress in her fifties weaves between the tables, a coffeepot in each hand.
Two retirees talk fishing by the window.
Three surfers in boardshorts, hair still wet, eat pancakes at the counter.
Their bare feet leave sand on the red-and-white checkerboard tile.
The sun hammers through the plate-glass windows; the back tables sit in hard light.
I walked over from the lodge—ten minutes down Main Street, enough to put the mask back in place. I traded this morning’s dusty jeans, tank top, and Converse for black shorts, a camisole, and new sandals—as if clean clothes were enough to erase the last three hours.
I need to go get the bike this afternoon.
Ryan’s already at a table in the very back, where he can watch the door—a spot he’d have picked on purpose. He stands when I come over. His eyes sweep over me, head to toe—quick, almost clinical. He thinks I haven’t noticed.
“The New Yorker’s back in Coral Bay,” he says, smiling.
“You already pulled that one this morning, Ryan.”
It comes out sharper than I meant. I slide into the booth across from him. The vinyl sticks to my thighs. The waitress sets down two tall glasses of ice water and two laminated menus. Ryan pushes his aside without a glance.
“The burgers are decent,” he says. “Let’s just say it’s the best restaurant in Coral Bay—which isn’t a compliment.”
I skim the menu without reading it.
“Rough day?” Ryan asks.
His gray eyes rest on me—calm, attentive, with a hint of amusement. He knows something, or he’s guessing.
“Long. Jet lag, probably.”
“Someone told me you went by the house this morning.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
He shrugs one shoulder, casual. “News travels fast around here.”
My hand stills on my glass. His tone is light, but I don’t like the idea of him knowing my comings and goings.
The waitress comes back. I’m not hungry, but I order the same burger as Ryan and a coffee.
Then Ryan sets a Caldwell Realty folder on the table. He opens it.
“All right. Let’s talk about your house.”
Inside, photos. The front of the house, the yard, the deck, the windows. Shots taken in broad daylight, in that harsh light that spares nothing—the peeling paint, the sagging gutters, the overgrown weeds. My grandparents’ house, the one I grew up in every summer, reduced to a property value.
My throat tightens.
“We listed it at $780,000, like you asked,” Ryan begins. “We’ve had a few showings.”
He drinks before going on.
“But every buyer ran into the same problem.”
“The surf school,” I murmur.
Ryan nods.
“Lessons all day. Kids shouting. The music. The van. The evenings on the beach, the bonfires.”
I sigh.
“The Walkers aren’t exactly... quiet,” he adds.
At the word Walker, my nails dig into my palm.
“Buyers love the idea of a house by the ocean,” he goes on. “Until they spend an hour there.”
Our burgers arrive. Ryan digs into his. I push a fry around with the tip of my fork.
“And let’s be honest...”
Ryan turns a photo toward me: a close-up of the front shutters—the paint hanging in strips, bare wood showing underneath, gray and eaten away by the salt.
“The house hasn’t been maintained in years.”
“I can fix it up.”
“Sure. But you don’t live here.”
“That’s why I’m here. I can clean it up, repaint, fix a few things, redo the—”
“We got an offer,” he cuts in.
I look up.
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
The number kills what little appetite I had left. I knew the offer was low. The agency had called it “not serious, not worth bothering you with.” But hearing the actual number is something else.
“A hundred thousand? For a house listed at seven-eighty?”
“Someone who knows the place very well. Who knows that selling right next door to a surf school won’t be easy.”
Ryan’s eyes don’t leave mine.
“Someone who knows the neighbors very well.”
He doesn’t need to add the name. Of course I know.
“Jace.”
It’s not a question. It’s the second time today I’ve said his name out loud—and it still hits just as hard.
Ryan smiles. He picks up his glass, turns it between his fingers, sets it down. He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t need to.
“A couple from Santa Cruz almost made an offer,” he says. “Four hundred thousand. A second home. They were serious.”
More than my student debt. My freedom.
“They backed out because of the noise.”
Anger rises, aimed at a single point: Jace.
A hundred thousand dollars. That’s what my house is worth, to him. And he cost me a buyer at four hundred.
Ryan wipes his fingers on his napkin and closes the folder.
“And there’s my offer,” he says.
I frown. “Your offer?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars.”
He holds my gaze. “I could take the house off your hands fast. No showings, no complications. No hostile neighbors.”
The word is deliberate. Hostile.
“Wait. You’re my real estate agent and you want to buy the house?”
“I understand how that might look...”
“Like a conflict of interest?”
Ryan doesn’t blink. He leans forward, elbows on the table.
“I’m laying out all your options, Summer.
The hundred-thousand offer, the four-hundred-thousand one that fell through, and mine.
I’m not forcing you into anything. But I know this market better than anyone, and I know that if the house sits unsold too long, it’ll lose even more value.
Every month that passes works against you. ”
He’s trying to help me. Or he’s trying to play me. I can’t tell anymore.
“And why has there never been a ‘For Sale’ sign out front?” I ask.
Ryan taps the folder with his fingertips.
“Bad strategy. Trust me, it would’ve drawn more gawkers than buyers. With this kind of property, we keep it targeted.”
He leans back against the booth.
“Jace has never been very reasonable when it comes to that beach,” he says.
I take it without letting anything show. At least, I hope I do. He talks about Jace like someone he knows well—not a neighbor, not a file, but a guy he sized up a long time ago.
“Coral Bay’s small,” he adds. “People don’t forget certain stories.”
He doesn’t say which ones. It hurts. More than it should, after six years. I take a sip of water to give myself something to do.
“Anyway,” he says, wiping his mouth, “it’s good to see you again. Coral Bay’s more interesting when you’re around.”
I let it pass. My burger’s barely touched; I push the plate toward the edge of the table.
“How long are you staying?”
“Two weeks. Less, if I can.”
“Take your time. Coral Bay doesn’t open up to people in a hurry.”
He folds his napkin carefully.
“We could talk all this through over a drink,” he adds. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock, at the Salt Vine?”
My instinct says no. But Jace made a hundred-thousand-dollar offer on my grandparents’ house, a couple backed out because of his surf school, and I’m sitting in the diner where everything fell apart six years ago, unable to separate what’s true from what isn’t.
“Okay.”
A satisfied smile touches Ryan’s lips. He signals the waitress for the check and lays a bill on the table before I can react.
“It’s on me. Welcome to Coral Bay.”
Or not.
Outside, Main Street hums under the afternoon sun. I walk toward the lodge, to the sharp rhythm of my sandals on the sidewalk.
Less than twenty-four hours here. And already, nothing’s in my control.