Page 2 of A Fall to Remember

“What did the kid’s shirt say?” He cracked a real smile this time.

Miranda returned his grin. “I don’t know these people.”

“Brilliant.” He gave her a two-fingered salute and merged into the crowd.

Miranda felt lighter as she jogged to her gate to catch her plane. The shirt was a bit of a metaphor for life. Everyone is a stranger until they’re a friend. In another place or time, Miranda wouldn’t have minded getting to know the man on his way to board a flight in a coffee-stained shirt. And maybe that was part of what she was struggling with. Was she ready to make space in her life for something just for her? And how would she even know where that something was?

2

MIRANDA

“Mom! Mom! Oh, my God, Mom. This is fire!” Pete raced into the Green Grocer, waving his phone wildly with his cousin, Elise, right at his heels.

Miranda glanced up, yanking an AirPod from her ear and effectively killing the crooning melodies of Harry Connick Jr.’s When Harry Met Sally soundtrack.

“Seriously, Mom, this is fire,” Pete repeated, hurrying toward the vintage deli counter. His shaggy hair fell over one eye just like it had since he was a little kid.

Sure, she wasn’t exactly a neutral party when it came to her only son, but he was the coolest person on the planet in her not-so-humble opinion. Pete was tall and muscular, with ashy-brown hair, naturally lightened by the sun—one of the many perks of living next to the ocean. His wide blue eyes always held a touch of knowing, like he was an old soul who’d lived plenty of previous lives. What she was most proud of, though, was his kindness and his ability to really see people.

At the moment, his eyes were on her. Lasered on her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Miranda scanned her cozy shop, wondering exactly what he was so excited about. The black-and-white mosaic tiled floors gleamed beneath the bright white exposed ceiling with its original wood beams. Every section of the shop was like its own miniature treasure trove of delights from rows of imported olive oils and briny vinegars, pasta, dried beans and soups, tinned tomatoes and sauces, and a wall of chocolates from practically every country in the world. The handmade shelves nearly reached the ceiling, and cheerful pops of steel blue and cranberry paint gave the space a homey feel.

The curved front windows were filled with baskets of organic apples and pears. Pumpkins and an assortment of gourds were artfully arranged among bottles of wine, artisan cheeses, and locally produced jams and jellies to entice anyone passing by. The window display was framed with silky burnt-orange ribbons, fall garlands, and tiny twinkle lights. Elise enjoyed arranging pretty bunches of fall blooms and foliage—black-eyed Susans, Russian sage, ornamental kale, and Chinese lantern flowers—which she’d bundled with string and butcher paper for customers to take home and brighten their living spaces.

There was so much more to do, but Miranda didn’t mind. Autumn was her favorite time of the year, and decorating the store always made her feel like she was living her own version of a Nora Ephron movie.

The Green Grocer had been in her family since the early 1960s, when her parents purchased the historic building in the charming seaside town and turned the space into a boutique market with a deli counter and plenty of comfortable seating for customers to linger over a cup of butternut squash soup and a grilled cheddar and apple panini.

Unless Miranda was mistaken, nothing was amiss. The store didn’t open for an hour. Miranda had yet to heat the panini press or turn on a pot of soup. Nothing was on fire, so she decided to have a bit of fun with them.

“There’s a fire?” she asked, gauging Pete and Elise’s faces as she let her mouth hang open and darted her eyes around the store, pretending to check for open flames. Pete’s cheeks were flushed with color, and her niece’s sapphire-blue eyes twinkled with an impish delight. “Oh, no. How terrible.” Miranda pressed her hand to her chest in distress, really selling it. “Should we call the fire department?”

“Okay, funny. Funny. I’m serious. You’re fire, Mom. You’re a meme,” Pete said as he set the phone on the counter and tapped the screen.

“Right, I get it. But do I want to be a meme?” Miranda looked at Elise, hoping her niece would save her.

Elise grinned. Her dimples crinkled as she beamed at her aunt. She and Pete could pass as twins with their wavy hair, bright blue eyes, and matching dimples. “You’re the good kind of meme. I promise.”

Miranda squinted to see the screen, patting her head in hopes her reading glasses were hidden in the messy tumble of curls. She used to have perfect vision, but now, in her late forties, reading the fine print was a challenge. More like impossible. Seriously, had they suddenly made fonts smaller? Was it some sort of conspiracy orchestrated by the reading-glasses industry?

“So your trip to Catalina Island has blown up a little,” Pete said, pausing the video playing on his phone and twirling the little curl on his forehead. That was another thing he’d been doing since he was a toddler. She used to tease him that he could never play poker—it was his tell. Whenever he was excited or nervous, his fingers would drift to his forehead, where he would absently wind a strand of hair around his finger.

“Blown up how?” Miranda twisted her lips into a worried scowl. She didn’t like the eager smirk on his face or the way they kept looking at one another like they had a secret they couldn’t contain.

“Don’t get mad, okay?” Pete held up his hand cautiously.

“Why would I get mad?” Miranda was genuinely perplexed. She and Pete had a deep connection. She’d raised him on her own, which had made her his mom, dad, friend, confidant, mentor, and everything in between. He was in his mid-twenties now and an adult in his own right, which had only made their bond grow stronger. The same was true for Elise, who had come to live with them and help run the Green Grocer a few years ago after she graduated from college. They called themselves the Three Musketeers, getting up to good trouble with epic board game battles, themed cooking nights, hikes along the succulent-rich beach-side trails, and long nights spent conspiring on how to modernize the boutique grocery shop and bring in new customers.

“Well, um, let’s just say that Elise and I made a montage of some of your shots,” Pete said with a sheepish shrug as he caught his cousin’s eye. “We thought it was so sweet, Mom. You’re literally the worst picture taker on the planet, and everyone on the internet agrees. But they love you.” He tapped the screen again. “Just watch.”

“Oh, no, here we go again.” Miranda threw her hand over her mouth and shook her head, laughing and watching in mock horror as an image of her teal toenail polish and the strappy sandals she’d splurged on for the trip appeared on the screen. The getaway to Catalina Island had been at their urging. Miranda had been running the store, taking care of them, and the entire town for as long as they could remember. And both of them had kept insisting it was time for her to reward herself. Take a little vacation, get away before the busy fall season. So, in a move that surprised Miranda as much as it had Pete and Elise, she had taken their advice. She couldn’t believe it had already been a week since her three-day adventure, complete with kayaking, sailing, hiking, and plenty of luxurious lounging on the beach with a paperback and tropical coconut drink with a fancy paper umbrella.

When she had returned to Half Moon Bay rejuvenated and refreshed, but still unsure about what was next for her, Elise and Pete had demanded a play-by-play of the trip.

Then they’d all had a good belly laugh at the dozens and dozens of photos of her toes, selfies of her chin, pictures of strangers’ knees, upside-down shots, and shaky videos of the passing scenery obscured by trucks. Miranda was notorious for her poor selfie- and picture-taking skills. It had been a recurring source of teasing between Elise and Pete that she liked to play up for their benefit. “I’m just too old to figure out these newfangled cell phones,” she would say in a wobbly voice.

“Aunt Mimi, you’re forty-eight. Stop. Your peers literally invented social media. Age is no excuse for your terrible pictures,” Elise would counter. “You’re just always so in the moment that you can’t be bothered to pay attention to your phone.”

“But being in the moment is exactly what counts,” Miranda argued. “I don’t want to ruin a stunning view by having a camera in front of my face.”