My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I opened the front door and was greeted with a white-splotched, slobbery face.
“Hey, Easton,” I murmured, crouching down and scratching his black fur. “How was your day?”
He whimpered, dropped a sodden tennis ball at my feet, and stared up with unblinking brown eyes. I tossed it toward the living room, wincing preemptively as he thundered after it. The couch groaned as it shifted a few inches, and Easton vanished around the corner.
Once upon a time, a vintage end table had stood there—a thrift-store find I’d been absurdly proud of. It survived six months with Easton.
I hung my tote by the door, kicked off my shoes, and made my way to the kitchen. Rachel usually stopped by on her break to play with Easton and leave a paper bag of day-olds from the Morning Bell.
“Your diet is atrocious,” she’d scold, handing them over anyway.
It never made sense that my hands could shape clay but struggled with anything more than hot chocolate and Styrofoamcups of ramen. If boiling water counted as cooking, I’d have a Michelin star.
I greedily eyed the brown paper bag on the kitchen table. It looked particularly full today.
“Almost forgot,” I said to myself, retrieving my phone and taking a seat on my most stable dining chair. The top of a muffin already hung from my mouth when I unlocked my phone and read the message. My heart plummeted. The muffin fell to the table with a dull thud, spewing crumbs across the pockmarked wood.
Margot Wade: Hey, still living in the Cove?
I blinked. Scrolled up. The last message was from Christmas—a polite well-wish I’d sent, remaining unanswered. I gave up after that.
Stuffing a piece of muffin into my mouth, I tamped down the indignation swelling in my chest and typed a short reply. Her response came instantly.
Margot Wade: Great. Coming into town. Let’s grab coffee.
I set the phone down and drummed my fingers on my thigh. Margot and I had known each other since we were babies; albeit, the previous seven years had made us feel more like strangers than anything else. Before I could change my mind, I sent a cursory reply before shutting the thing off.
Margot was the first one to announce that she was leaving for NYU. She never even let me know she applied.
One day on the beach—we all couldn’t have been older than nine or ten—the five of us gathered the biggest seashells we could find and brought them to Captain’s. We borrowed a marker from Margot’s mom and wroteThe Bluebell Cove Pacton each shell. It was the day we decided to never leave the city we grew up in. We swore, despite the minute flaws and quirks of a small town, that we didn’t need bigger and better things when we had each other.
No one told me that it was a childish dream instead of a real promise.
It wasn’t long before the others followed her lead. Serena, Wes, and Teddy all swore they’d be back after college. Teddy was the only one honest enough to admit he was too busy. The rest faded away—first the holidays, then the calls.
In their defense, they’d each built impressive lives. It couldn’t have happened if they’d stayed. It’s what I repeated to myself like a buoy in the storm on the days when the aching crept back in.
Despite it all, I still knew exactly where my seashell was.
I stopped to feed Easton before heading to the door again. The thrifted mirror hanging in the foyer reminded me why I preferred winter. I tried to pat the frizzed parts of my ponytail, but the hairs proceeded to spring up after each touch. Rolling my eyes, I reached for the frayed baseball cap on the coat rack and hurried outside.
The walk to Captain’s was short. I tugged my cardigan tighter as the warm breeze began to grow brisk. Amber afternoon light filtered through the leaves, swaying to the familiar song of gulls overhead that made me smile.
Some said that it was the perfect time of year. The edge of summer’s heat had begun to taper, school was in session, and tourists had left, bound to return soon for Bluebell Cove’s holiday festivities.
Main Street was notably quiet as I strode down the cobblestone sidewalk. The cafe was already closed, leaving students to return home or gather at the beach. Many shops closed their doors earlier in the off-season.
But not Captain’s Table.
The diner sat at the end of Main, where Harbor Street met Seaglass Beach. It was the Cove’s unofficial community hubcome rain or shine, Town Hall remaining empty even as the diner filled to capacity.
Our traditions were as important to us as the tourists that streamed in every summer and winter.
When I pushed the door open, the brass bell chimed its familiarhello. The inside looked as if time stopped turning seventy years ago. Leather booths and bar chairs were matching in powder blue and chrome, completed by a pink checkered floor and a neon sign behind the bar.
The Port Camden Herald once called it “lovingly preserved and singularly authentic”. We saw an influx of visitors that year.
“Georgie!” Frank called from a booth by the door.
