Chapter 10
Ten
Grace sits, stunned, on the front stairs of the house, her mouth hanging open as if she’s a gasping fish that’s washed ashore.
Despite her initial plan—one last beach visit, then get in the car, say goodbye to this place for good—her hands are too shaky to drive.
She can hardly think straight, let alone safely navigate a speeding vehicle along five lanes of highway traffic.
Her clothes—old T-shirt, jean shorts, baseball hat—remain soaked, her skin chafing at her thighs.
She can’t even bring herself to run around back and grab the key so she can change into something dry.
For the moment, all she can do is sit.
It’s been at least a half hour, possibly longer, since her—her what?
Encounter? Hallucination? Spiritual awakening?
Complete emotional break? Her thoughts are still too muddled for her to even think clearly.
She just keeps replaying the scene—over and over, around and around, like an amusement ride that never stops.
The girl. The necklace. The impossibility of it. The unmistakable wave of déjà vu.
“Y-you’re being foolish, Grace,” she mumbles for the hundredth time.
“You’re exhausted. Probably dehydrated.” She stares off into space.
“You’ve hardly eaten or slept in days.” As she talks to herself, Grace recalls a past therapy session when Dr. Anne explained the notion of visual distortions—how people deep in grief look for shadows or other things that aren’t really there.
“Of course,” Grace decides and lets out a stunted laugh—short, breathless, possibly a touch deranged.
“This is 90just a trauma response triggered by hunger and a heavy hit of nostalgia.” She imagines Dr. Anne gently nodding from her upholstered chair.
“Or heatstroke. Probably a lesser-known consequence of too much saltwater to the head.”
While she listens to her own words, trying her best to believe them, Grace presses the sand dollar tighter in her palm.
It’s warm, familiar, and without a single crack.
She swallows, hoping to steady the trembling feeling inside her, and makes a conscious effort to remind herself it’s not a talisman, only a random organic object she discovered in the surf.
“Ten more minutes,” she announces to the ground. “Catch your breath. Collect your thoughts. Put on dry clothes. Then get in the Jeep. Leave. Drive away.”
“Enjoy another unplanned swim?” a voice interrupts.
Grace’s face pans up. In her current state, it takes her a minute to realize a person has appeared. That he’s looking at her. Speaking to her. Expecting her to react. She blinks, her lids quickly opening and closing like a camera shutter as her eyes work to relay the scene to her brain.
Caleb.
“I’m not one to judge.” He casually tucks his hands into the pockets of his board shorts, his whole stance ripe with beachy ease.
“And I, for one, know the ocean’s temptation can be strong.
” A playful grin stretches over his face, long and thin.
“But most people tend to wait until they’re actually in their bathing suits—just their bathing suits—before diving in. ”
Although it’s early, and in spite of Grace’s temporary paralysis, she now sees that Surf Street has begun to come to life.
A dad rounds the corner carrying a white bakery box, likely full of jelly doughnuts and crumb cake.
A pair of kids, already dressed in bathing suits, ride in concentric circles on their bikes, like dogs chasing their own tails.
A trio dashes out from another bungalow, the mom shouting at the two teens about SPF.
Up on the boulevard, a sprinkling of cars breezes past. For everyone here, this is the start of another normal mid-August beach day.
Everyone, that is, except for Grace.
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“Hi,” she manages, trying to bring herself back down to earth, and looks at her dripping-wet getup. “I fell in.”
Caleb waves to someone passing by in the street. “We ought to look into some water-safety classes for you,” he jokes, then gives Grace a good, hard stare. “You all right?”
“I-I’ve had a strange morning,” she admits, the correct mix of honest and vague.
Caleb gives her a fast once-over. “I sensed that.” His mouth curves, charming and welcoming. “Care to talk about it over breakfast?”
Sunny Side is about the size of a large shoebox, a vintage diner right on the bay. Paper menus. Greasy utensils. Huge platters. Burned coffee. Water views. Always a long wait.
Caleb sits across from Grace in a too-tight booth, peeling back the paper lid on a plastic creamer, his mouth curled in an amused grin.
Following his invitation back at the house, Grace finally dragged her weekender bag from the Jeep, ran back inside, and changed.
A fresh white tank top. A clean pair of cutoffs.
In the home’s dollhouse-size bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, doing her best to disregard the morning’s events.
She remained set on leaving, though rationalized that a hot meal before she merged onto any highways was a smart idea for her stomach, her overall safety, and her mental state.
“What?” Grace asks now, still feeling uneasy as she settles into her vinyl seat. “Why are you grinning?”
“Hmm?” Caleb stirs his coffee. “Nothing.” He sets down his spoon.
“It’s, well, I didn’t want to say it before but .
. .” He reaches across the table and gently tugs a strand of Grace’s hair, still partially damp and hanging like limp string from beneath her salt-stained cap.
“I just wasn’t sure if you were planning to save this clump of seaweed. ”
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Her cheeks flush pink as she considers how she’d failed to notice a web of kelp attached to her head.
“I’d say thanks, though I’m not sure that’s the right response.
” She watches him place it on the table, next to a lazy Susan full of jellies.
“Maybe I should keep it, start a scrapbook of embarrassing moments you’ve witnessed of me on this trip. ”
Caleb chuckles and skims his paper menu.
“I’ll be honest, I was surprised to see you sitting out front before.
I’d gathered that you were leaving today.
” He sips his coffee. “I was outside first thing, hosing off my fishing gear. Saw you loading up your Jeep.” He sets down his mug and waves over their waitress.
“Figured you’d had enough after the tide pool and were heading out early. ”
“I was.” She grasps for a clear thought, sifts through the bowl of creamers. “I am. I think.”
“Hunting for something other than decades-old dairy pods in there?”
Grace looks up, surprised to see him watching her, not even sure what she’s searching for.
“This place is a bit stuck in time, but they’ve made some improvements.” He lifts his fork and wipes away a smudge of grease, even though he’s yet to use it, then looks at her in a conspiratorial way. “If you ask really nicely, they’ll bring you sriracha or oat milk from the back.”
Grace laughs. “I’m fine with plain old creamer. Sometimes I gravitate toward the fancy stuff, though it’s purely a preference. Not a necessity.”
Caleb nods, apparently making a mental note of this small fact.
“Well, it’s a shame that you’re leaving today,” he states, just as the glass door behind him reopens.
A gaggle of boisterous teenagers—loud, full of energy and flawless skin, all youthfully oblivious—wanders inside.
“I get it, though. I remember you saying you were pretty weighed down with work at the moment.”
Grace pours a splash of creamer into her mug, then takes a hot, caffeinated sip.
As she does, she catches a flash of a girl in a pale-blue tank top with long blond-streaked hair flying by the window.
The sight 93makes Grace’s fingers go numb.
She sets her mug down, hard. A puddle of coffee splashes across the table, splattering her menu and the front of her shirt.
“Shoot.” Grace fumbles for a napkin and wipes up the spill.
The door opens. Grace’s eyes dart up. “Cece!” she blurts before she can stop herself, and waves a frantic arm, not even sure what she’s doing.
The girl turns, reveals her face—one Grace doesn’t recognize.
Of course. What did she expect? “Oh, wait . . .”
The girl meets Grace’s stare and rolls a judgmental eye. She squeezes through the crowded diner, joins her friends at a table. They pull together for a huddle, whisper something, then break out in a collective laugh.
Caleb’s brows rise in question. “Someone you know?” he asks as their waitress—a hardened woman Grace recognizes who’s worked at Sunny Side since the dawn of time—appears.
“I mean, no. Or yes.” Her face is on fire, teenage-level mortified. “She looked like . . . I thought . . .” In her mind, she contemplates if it’d be appropriate for her to slide down the booth and hide under the table. “I guess not.”
Their waitress taps her pen on her notepad, unamused. “Ready to order?”
“Crab Benedict for me,” Caleb jumps in, giving Grace a chance to collect herself. “And extra home fries,” he adds. “Like usual, please, Toni.”
Toni’s lips tug sideways, clearly wooed by his unpretentious charm. “I’ll tell them to make them extra crispy, Caleb.” She turns, looks at Grace, her expression instantly fading. “You?”
“Um . . . uh.” Grace picks up her sopping menu, too wet for her to read it. “Eggs. I guess?”
Toni blinks, unimpressed.
“She’s had a long morning. Bring her the chocolate chip pancakes, Toni,” Caleb interjects, but not before looking at Grace for her approval. She nods. “With a side of scrambled, to be safe.”
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Toni jots something on her notepad, reaches across the table, and picks up the seaweed. “Saving this for breakfast, sweetheart?”
Grace peers down at the tabletop—a scolded schoolgirl—and shakes her head.