Nothingtestsarelationshiplike a sixteen-hour drive. Especially when you add in a nervous mini poodle and a co-pilot with a brand new driver’s license.
Jester eventually stopped shaking in his doggy safety harness, but I couldn’t say the same for myself—not when Berron was at the wheel.
Berron quoted obscure road rules for fun, then ignored them completely and lead-footed it to every possible side trip, tourist trap, and u-pick fruit farm.
I, on the other hand, viewed the expanse between New York and Florida as something to be passed through as quickly as possible.
It made for an interesting road trip.
When we finally broke the Florida state line and blew south on I-95, the humidity wrapped me up like one of Grandma’s quilts. It wasn’t summer yet, only spring break, and the heat was strong but tolerable.
The exit to Sparkle Beach took us through town: past landmarks like the old Highway to Grill burger joint; cruising the River Street downtown district; and finally over a great, swooping arch of a bridge above the Intercoastal Waterway to the beachside peninsula, where my cousin Luella lived.
We wouldn’t be staying in her cozy shotgun shack, though. Lily claimed that spare bedroom, so we had our own digs at the Eventide Motel, adjacent to Rolling Wave Coffee. Word was that the coffee there rivaled even that of the Big Apple.
But since we were running a little behind schedule—one “Let’s check out where that road goes!” too many—we were heading straight for the beach.
The rental car crunched over shell-peppered sand in the beachside parking lot just as the sun began to slide past the western horizon. The condo buildings and palm trees cast long shadows.
Berron was practically bouncing up and down in the passenger seat. Though he’d insisted on stopping just about everywhere, he refused to detour to a beach until it was, as he said, “Thebeach.SparkleBeach.”
“We’re here,” I said, pulling to a stop and applying the parking brake. “You ready?”
Jester stood up and stretched, pushing his front paws out like a fuzzy yoga master.
Berron pulled his messenger bag from behind the seat and leaped out of the car, slamming the door shut, then peering back in through the window. “Hurry up, Zelda!”
I chuckled to myself and unbuckled. “Hold your horses, Gentry.”
“Sybelia’s not here.”
“You know what I mean.” I leashed Jester, hopped out, and pulled two cheap beach chairs out of the trunk. The sound of the ocean waves was so close.
Berron took the chairs out of my hands and half walked, half scampered up the sidewalk, past the huge sea grape bushes and picnic tables.
Jester surged after him.
We crested the hill and faced the Atlantic Ocean together.
Berron’s hair blew in the wind, just as it should.
“I’ve never—” He stopped, shook his head. “I’ve never seen it. Not like this. It’s so—”
“Big?” I offered.
“Limitless,” he said.
Jester, who had begun sniffing the grass with interest, looked up.
Across the beach, where a low tide ebbed, a group of people were waving.
“That’s them!” I said, waving back to Mom, Aunt Belinda, and Luella. I didn’t know the rest, but I would soon.
We made our way down the sand-covered wooden stairs. On the last step, we pulled off our shoes. The beach sand was soft and cool like flour with a little butter cut in.
Every step brought us closer to the family we knew and the friends we didn’t know yet.
“Are they all magical?” Berron asked quietly.
