Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The house smelled like charcoal and cilantro.
Meredith stood at the kitchen island, dicing tomatoes while Carrie attacked an onion, eyes already watering.
At the six-burner range, Lori was shaking a pan of sautéed peppers.
Jen was perched on a stool near the counter, stealing chips from the bag that was supposed to be for later.
Outside, by the grill, Tom's voice carried through the open sliding door.
"How long on the burgers?"
"You tell me," Meredith called back. "You're the one holding the spatula."
Carrie snorted, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
"It's collaborative," Tom said, appearing in the doorway. He wore an apron that said GRILL SERGEANT in faded letters, a Father's Day gift from Sophie years ago. "Marriage is a partnership."
The kitchen had devolved into chaos—too many people, not enough room, everyone getting in everyone else's way.
Cutting boards competed for counter space.
Carrie's blender concoction sat untouched, bright pink and suspicious.
The speaker on the windowsill was playing a nineties playlist that had already caused two arguments, one about whether the Backstreet Boys counted as iconic and another about who had added "MMMBop" without asking.
Ethan reached for the phone to change the song.
Sophie blocked him, and for a moment they looked like the kids they'd been fifteen years ago, fighting over the remote in someone's living room while their mothers pretended not to notice.
Lori told them to take it outside. They insisted they weren't fighting—in unison, naturally—then glared at each other.
Sophie won, snatching the phone while Ethan was distracted.
She immediately switched to her own playlist.
Outside, Max had claimed the spatula from Tom and was attempting to flip a burger the way he'd seen done on cooking shows.
One smooth motion, a little toss, catch it cleanly on the grill.
Lily was stretched out on one of the pool loungers with a book, and Ava was on the lounger beside her, the two of them laughing about something.
The burger cleared the grill grate.
It kept going.
"That's in the pool," Brittany said, leaning against the deck railing.
Max shook his head. "It's not in the pool."
"Max." She pointed. "It's floating."
Everyone turned to look. The burger patty was, in fact, bobbing gently in the shallow end, trailing a thin ribbon of grease across the surface.
Max jogged down the stairs, grabbed the skimmer net, and fished it out. "Got it."
He tossed it in the trash and returned to the grill like nothing had happened. Tom handed him a fresh patty without a word.
Lori finished with the peppers and turned to the blender, examining the pink contents suspiciously.
Carrie's creation. Strawberries, rum, lime juice, and whatever else she'd found in the back of the cabinet.
She poured herself a small glass and took a cautious sip.
Her eyes went wide. She coughed, set the glass down, and pushed it away.
"That's not a drink," she said. "That's a weapon. Carrie, I'm pretty sure this is flammable."
Olivia picked up the glass from the counter, sniffing it. "It smells like a beach vacation and poor decisions."
Carrie brightened. "That's what I was going for."
"About twenty minutes," Tom called from the grill, "assuming Max doesn't lose any more patties."
Max rolled his eyes. "I only lost one."
Meredith pulled out the avocados and started on the guacamole.
Carrie leaned over with unsolicited advice about lime juice, and Lori wandered over to watch, still recovering from her first sip of Carrie's concoction.
By the time the bowl was done, all three of them had contributed something.
Carrie the cilantro, Lori a pinch of salt she insisted was necessary, Meredith everything else.
The afternoon wore on. Ethan drifted outside.
Sophie followed not long after. At some point Max handed the spatula back to Tom and joined the others by the pool, where Lily was still reading on her lounger and Ava was photographing everything.
Brittany stayed on the deck, texting someone—Ryan, probably—half-hiding a grin.
Tom announced the burgers were ready and carried the platter inside. The teens grabbed plates and loaded up without anything resembling an orderly line, despite Tom's protests.
They ate on the deck, plates balanced on laps and railings, the late-afternoon light slanting across the table. Someone had finally put on a playlist everyone agreed on, or at least one nobody hated enough to change. Lori had added enough juice to her drink that she could actually taste it now.
By the time dinner was cleared and the dishes were done, the sun was starting its slow descent toward the mainland.
The teenagers had scattered, and the adults had migrated toward the hot tub.
Some already in, some sitting on the edge with their feet in the water, some on the lounge chairs nearby with glasses in hand.
It was crowded. Lori was in the center, Carrie wedged beside her, Olivia on the other side, all of them trying to find positions that didn't involve sitting on someone else.
Meredith had claimed a spot on the edge, legs dangling in, watching the scene unfold.
Jen had taken one of the lounge chairs, near enough to join the conversation but not quite committed to the water.
Tom appeared and settled into a chair beside them.
"Where are the kids?" Lori asked.
"Lily and Sophie are watching something in the living room. Ethan and Max went for a walk." He stretched his legs out. "Brittany said something about calling someone."
"Ryan," Carrie said. "She's been texting him all day."
"Is that the beach club guy?" Tom asked.
Carrie nodded. "That's the beach club guy."
Tom raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. He was close enough to Meredith that their arms touched.
For a few minutes nobody said anything. Just sat there, the sky darkening overhead.
Jen stood, stretching. "We should get moving. Doors open at eight, show starts at nine. It's about forty minutes to Atlantic City if we hit the lights right."
They started getting ready. Carrie climbing out of the hot tub, Lori following, everyone heading inside to change. Meredith caught Tom's eye.
"Thanks for holding down the fort," Meredith said.
"Go have fun," Tom said with a wink.
The drive to Atlantic City took exactly forty-two minutes.
Jen drove—her car, her mission, her need to control the route—while the other four negotiated seating.
Carrie won the front seat by calling it first. Meredith, Lori, and Olivia piled into the back, dressed up in a way none of them had been since before Sea Isle.
Heels instead of sandals. Lipstick that wasn't tinted chapstick. Actual jewelry.
"I forgot I owned earrings," Olivia said, adjusting them in her phone's camera.
Atlantic City rose ahead of them, all glass and light and aggressive optimism, a city built on gambling and the belief that luck was real. The Hard Rock Hotel stood on the Boardwalk, the giant guitar out front visible from blocks away.
They parked in the garage and headed for the entrance, heels clicking on concrete. Music drifted from somewhere inside, not the main stage yet, but something ambient, setting the tone.
The guy at the door checked Jen's name against the list Clint had left, found it, and waved them through.
They pushed through into the venue, and Meredith took a moment to adjust. The space was intimate. Tiered seating facing a compact stage, a bar running along one wall, stage lights already dimmed low. People were still filtering in, finding seats. Not packed yet, but filling.
They found a spot near the front, close enough to see the stage clearly, far enough to have a conversation without shouting. The opening act was just finishing their set, a three-piece rock band that had been decent without being memorable. Polite applause as they packed up.
Onstage, crew members were setting up equipment. Drums, amps, a keyboard off to one side. A four-piece, from the looks of it. Jen said nothing, watching it all come together. She was holding her drink but not drinking it, her eyes on the stage.
The lights dimmed. Jen straightened in her seat, hands tightening around her cup.
The stage went dark for a moment. The room had filled while they weren't paying attention.
Packed now, people standing along the back wall.
Then the first spotlight hit, and Clint walked out, guitar strapped across his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Whistles and cheers. Behind him, the rest of the band took their positions—bass, drums, keys—and the noise dropped away.
He stepped up to the microphone.
"Thanks for coming out tonight," he said. "We're going to play some songs. Some you might know, some you won't. Bear with us on the new stuff. We're still figuring out if they work."
Laughter from the audience. The drummer counted off. And they started.
Jen leaned forward. Carrie caught her eye, raised an eyebrow.
They played through the first few songs, older material, based on how easily the band moved through them. People sang along to the ones they knew, dancing wherever they could find space. Then Clint stepped back to the mic.
"This next one's new," he said. "Wrote it last week. Still figuring it out."
He started to play.
The melody was slower than the earlier songs, stripped down, almost intimate. His voice dropped lower, rougher. The lyrics were about a woman in a coffee shop, laptop open, coffee going cold. The way she'd stop typing and stare out the window. The way she didn't notice him noticing her.
Carrie squeezed Jen's arm.
Jen stared at her hands, the condensation from her cup cold against her palms.
The song ended. The applause was immediate, enthusiastic. Clint smiled—smaller than before, almost shy—and moved into the next song.
They played for another hour. The dance floor filled. The women migrated closer to the stage, moving together, laughing, not caring how they looked.
The lights came up. The audience headed for the exits while the band broke down their equipment.
Jen's eyes swept the room, casual, unconvincing. "He said he'd find us after the set."
Then her posture changed.
Clint was making his way toward them. A few people stopped him—a handshake here, a quick photo there—but he kept moving, polite but focused. He still had that stage energy around him, but his expression was different now. Softer. More uncertain.
The other four women drifted back a few steps, giving them space.
"You came," Clint said, stopping in front of Jen.
"I did."
"I hoped you would."
"The song," Jen said. "That was me. The woman in the coffee shop."
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I probably should have warned you."
"It was beautiful." She looked down, then back up at him. "I finished the book. The mystery. A few days ago."
"That's great."
"And I've been writing the other thing. The fantasy." She shook her head slightly. "The one that has no business existing. And I can't stop."
Clint stepped closer. "Don't stop."
"I'm terrified."
He held her gaze. "Good. That means you're onto something."
"I should go," Jen said. "My friends—"
"Right. Of course." He pulled out his phone. "Can I get your number? So I can let you know about the next show."
"The next show," she repeated.
"Or coffee. Or whatever." He shrugged. "I just want to be able to reach you."
Jen took the phone and typed in her number. Their fingers brushed when she handed it back.
"I'll text you," he said.
"Okay."
She walked back toward her friends, trying not to smile too widely.
They collected their things and headed for the exit, five women together through the maze of slot machines and late-night gamblers.
Outside, Atlantic City glowed, humming with the energy of people who weren't ready for the night to end. They made their way to the parking garage, arms linked the same as they'd done since college.
"So," Carrie said as they reached the car. "He wrote you a song."
Jen just grinned.
"A really beautiful song," Carrie pressed.
They climbed into the car—Carrie in front, the other three in back—windows down, music up, everyone talking over each other about the song, the show, the way Clint looked at Jen.
Atlantic City shrank in the rearview mirror, all those lights getting smaller until they were just a glow on the horizon.
Sea Isle was waiting. So was the rest of the summer.