Chapter Thirteen
Jack pulled up to his grandfather’s house the next afternoon, his truck’s tires crunching over the oyster shells lining the driveway. When he killed the engine, he could hear classic rock playing somewhere out back.
Lincoln Harlow’s place stood out against the rest of the worn-down houses in the neighborhood. It wasn’t fancy, but it was well kept. Sure, the paint had faded, but it was clean. The porch creaked, but every board held firm. The house was like him, weathered but unbowed.
He found his grandfather out back, elbow-deep in the guts of an old outboard motor. His brow was tight with concentration, but there was a calmness about him, like he’d done this a thousand times before. Knowing Gramps, he probably had.
“You gonna stand there all day or make yourself useful?” Gramps called out, still squinting down at the motor.
Jack grabbed a wrench from the toolbox. “Depends. You finally gonna admit you need glasses, old man?”
Gramps snorted, finally looking up. “The day I need glasses is the day you learn to make coffee that doesn’t taste like bilge water.”
“Hey, my coffee’s not bad,” Jack protested, settling beside him as the familiar scent of motor oil and salt air wrapped around him.
“Son, the coast guard could use your coffee to break up oil spills,” Gramps shot back, but there was no heat in his words. It was just their usual, easy banter.
For a while, they worked quietly. The only sounds were the clinking of tools, Gramps muttering the occasional curse, and the constant buzz of cicadas.
It was the soundtrack of a Southern summer, led by a grumpy old man in grease-stained overalls.
Normally, it was comforting. Today, though, the weight of the photo in Jack’s pocket kept tugging at him, making it hard to stay in the rhythm.
A memory surfaced that he hadn’t thought about in years.
He was twelve, sitting on the dock, throwing rocks into the water, furious at the world.
His mom had recently dumped him and his younger brother at his grandpa’s to chase husband number four to Vegas.
His dad had been in prison since he was eight for theft, assault—something messy enough that everyone in town whispered about it for years.
Gramps was the one who’d kept him from going under.
That day on the dock, there were no lectures.
He’d sat down beside Jack, pulled out two fishing rods, and started teaching him how to tie the perfect knot.
They’d stayed out there for hours, not talking, just being.
The Harlow name had always come with baggage, and most days—even then—Jack felt like he was still dragging it behind him.
But today, he couldn’t afford silence. He needed answers. Wiping his hands on a rag, he pulled the picture from his pocket. “Gramps, I need to ask you something.”
Gramps looked up, and his eyebrows rose when he saw what Jack was holding. His expression shifted toward surprise or maybe recognition, but with Gramps, it was hard to tell.
“Where’d you get that?” His voice had lost its warmth, turning careful and guarded.
“It fell out of Lolly’s recipe book,” Jack said, keeping his eyes on his grandfather. “Want to tell me why you’re in a picture with her, looking pretty cozy in front of the café?”
Gramps stared at the photo, and Jack could almost see the memories flash across his face—joy, pain, and a bit of regret. It was like watching a silent movie on a weathered screen.
“That was a long time ago, Jackie,” he said finally, voice heavy. He handed the picture back, his fingers brushing the edges as if he was reluctant to let it go.
Jack waited, hoping he’d fill in the blanks. But when it became clear he wouldn’t, frustration rose up inside his chest. “That’s it? ‘A long time ago’? Come on, Gramps. There’s more to the story than that.”
Like Winston, Gramps loved a good story. Jack had once asked him how to change a tire, and he’d turned it into a three-hour lecture on the history of the wheel, complete with props.
Gramps let out a slow breath, turning back to the motor. “What do you want me to say, kid? It was a different time. I was a different man. Hell, I still had all my hair back then.”
“Everybody in town knew Lolly,” Jack pushed, not willing to let it go. “But from this picture, it looks like you knew her better than most. Why didn’t you ever say anything? You’re the one who sent me to the café for a job, and you never mentioned you two were . . . whatever you were.”
Gramps shrugged, but it was too forced. “Didn’t seem important. Ancient history. Besides, you know me. I’m about as sentimental as a barnacle.”
But Jack knew better. Gramps pretended to be tough, but he was more nostalgic than he let on.
Jack had seen it in the way he kept a stack of old report cards tucked in a drawer and how he polished his late wife’s silver every year before the holidays, even though nobody ever used it.
He could act as if the past didn’t matter, but Jack knew it did. A lot.
For a second, he thought Gramps might say more. His eyes went distant, like they did when he was remembering something long gone. But then he shook his head, and the moment was over.
“You hear about what’s happening with the café?” Jack tried, hoping to keep him talking.
Gramps nodded, his expression unreadable. “The place has been shut up for months. Sunrise hasn’t felt the same since.”
Jack frowned. “Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing you there.”
Gramps gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how much it mattered. Some places hold a town together, whether you sit at the counter or not.”
“We’re trying to save it,” Jack said, his voice urgent. “Me and Cora, Lolly’s granddaughter. I want to recreate some of Lolly’s recipes, get people talking, maybe find investors.”
Gramps fiddled with a socket wrench, staring at it like it held answers. “That’s a tall order, son. Lolly’s cooking . . . that was something special. Especially her peach cobbler.”
Jack perked up. “You’ve had her peach cobbler?”
But Gramps was already focused back on the motor. “You’re a good kid, Jackie. Always have been, no matter what this town thinks. You’ll figure it out. But I can’t tell you anything more.”
Jack knew when to quit. When Gramps had his mind made up, pushing wouldn’t change a thing. So he picked up a wrench and got back to work, letting the silence fall over them. He stayed until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard.
Jack had been driving aimlessly for hours, the conversation with Gramps running on a loop in his head. The photo of his grandfather and Lolly was burning a hole in his pocket, reminding him of all the questions left hanging in the air.
He must’ve passed the café twenty times that night, but this time, the warm glow from the windows drew him in.
Before he could overthink it, he pulled into the parking lot, staring down at the store-bought cobbler on the seat next to him.
It was way too late for a social call, but he found himself walking to the door anyway, balancing the dessert in his hands.
He hesitated, wondering if he was crossing some line.
Then again, when had he ever been great at staying on the right side of the line?
He took a deep breath and knocked softly.
“We’re closed!” Cora called out, sounding more than a little irritated.
“Even for a guy bearing peach cobbler?” he called back.
There was a pause, then footsteps. The door swung open to reveal Cora in oversized pink pajamas and a floral apron, her hair in a messy pile on top of her head. She looked adorably rumpled, and he had to resist the urge to tug on her sleeve like a fourth grader with his first crush.
“Peach cobbler, huh?” she said, eyebrow raised. “I never say no to cobbler.”
“Good to know,” he replied. “I thought you might need a break from . . . whatever it is you’re doing.” He peeked past her into the kitchen, which appeared to have been hit by a tornado. “Which is . . .?”
She rolled her eyes but stepped back to let him in. “For your information, I’m trying to get in the right frame of mind for our float theme.”
He followed her into the kitchen, taking in the chaos. Every surface was covered with little packets of . . . “Are those microwave grits?”
Cora groaned and dropped onto a stool, looking defeated.
“Yes. We settled on shrimp and grits for the theme, since it was one of Lolly’s most popular recipes.
Aggie even talked the high school home economics class into making a shrimp costume for whoever’s riding on the float.
I thought I’d practice making some to get into the spirit, but .
. .” She waved at the surrounding disaster, shoulders slumped.
He picked up a bowl and looked inside. The contents looked less like food and more like something you’d use to patch drywall. “Well, at least you didn’t burn them,” he offered, because gagging seemed too harsh.
She glared. “They taste like paste. If I wanted to decoupage, I would have hit the craft store.”
He huffed a laugh and set down the bowl. “Scoot,” he said, nudging her with his hip. “You’re making the grits sad.”
“Excuse me,” she said, staying firmly planted. “This isn’t your kitchen anymore, remember?”
“That’s funny,” he said, grabbing a pot. “Because I’m the only one here who knows how to make grits.”
“Oh, so now you’re a grits expert?” she said, fighting a smile.
He headed for the pantry, tossing her a cocky grin over his shoulder. “I’m Southern, and I’m a chef. Grits are in my DNA.” He rummaged through the pantry like he had a thousand times before. “The first rule of great grits is using the right kind. None of that instant nonsense.”
“Oh, really?” Cora teased from behind him. “And here I thought the first rule was don’t burn down the kitchen.”