Page 16 of Summer Love

The Lighthouse Diner hasn’t changed either. Cracked red vinyl booths, a stainless steel counter, fluorescent lights overhead, the smell of reheated coffee and bacon sizzling on the griddle. A waitress in her fifties weaves between the tables, a coffeepot in each hand. Two retirees talk fishing by the window. Three surfers in boardshorts, hair still wet, eat pancakes at the counter. Their bare feet leave sand on the red-and-white checkerboard tile.

The sun hammers through the plate-glass windows; the back tables sit in hard light.

I walked over from the lodge—ten minutes down Main Street, enough to put the mask back in place. I traded this morning’s dusty jeans, tank top, and Converse for black shorts, a camisole, and new sandals—as if clean clothes were enough to erase the last three hours.

I need to go get the bike this afternoon.

Ryan’s already at a table in the very back, where he can watch the door—a spot he’d have picked on purpose. He stands when I come over. His eyes sweep over me, head to toe—quick, almost clinical. He thinks I haven’t noticed.

“The New Yorker’s back in Coral Bay,” he says, smiling.

“You already pulled that one this morning, Ryan.”

It comes out sharper than I meant. I slide into the booth across from him. The vinyl sticks to my thighs. The waitress sets down two tall glasses of ice water and two laminated menus. Ryan pushes his aside without a glance.

“The burgers are decent,” he says. “Let’s just say it’s the best restaurant in Coral Bay—which isn’t a compliment.”

I skim the menu without reading it.

“Rough day?” Ryan asks.

His gray eyes rest on me—calm, attentive, with a hint of amusement. He knows something, or he’s guessing.

“Long. Jet lag, probably.”

“Someone told me you went by the house this morning.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder, casual. “News travels fast around here.”

My hand stills on my glass. His tone is light, but I don’t like the idea of him knowing my comings and goings.

The waitress comes back. I’m not hungry, but I order the same burger as Ryan and a coffee.

Then Ryan sets a Caldwell Realty folder on the table. He opens it.

“All right. Let’s talk about your house.”

Inside, photos. The front of the house, the yard, the deck, the windows. Shots taken in broad daylight, in that harsh light that spares nothing—the peeling paint, the sagging gutters, the overgrown weeds. My grandparents’ house, the one I grew up in every summer, reduced to a property value.

My throat tightens.

“We listed it at $780,000, like you asked,” Ryan begins. “We’ve had a few showings.”

He drinks before going on.

“But every buyer ran into the same problem.”

“The surf school,” I murmur.

Ryan nods.

“Lessons all day. Kids shouting. The music. The van. The evenings on the beach, the bonfires.”

I sigh.

“The Walkers aren’t exactly... quiet,” he adds.