Page 51 of What Remains of Grace

“Saturday,” he said. “Sunrise on the causeway? Or should I meet you here? I’ll bring the extra board. ”

She nodded like her heart wasn’t palpitating. “I’ll be there. I can drive myself.”

“Good.”

* * *

That night, routine should have saved her. It didn’t.

She opened a drawer, closed it, then opened another. She’d unpacked the little she’d brought, but the drawers still felt mostly hollow, half-filled with travel-folded clothes that didn’t belong in this house any more than she did.

Her closet wasn’t much better. A decade in Georgia reduced to one sad corner of pencil skirts she didn’t need here, field jeans patched from job sites, a black dress meant for client dinners, and three button-downs she barely remembered buying.

None of it was something you wore to meet a man on the water at dawn.

She stared at the mirror, then at the text blinking from Emmie.

EMMIE: Home in five.

She typed back: Question for you—do you own anything that can get wet? I may need to borrow something.

Emmie burst in like the answer to a prayer. “Define ‘get wet . . .’”

“Like, ocean wet,” Jenna said, deadpan. “Not funeral wet.”

Emmie cackled, “What is funeral wet? Nevermind. Also, yes. I have options.”

“In my size?”

“Trust the process,” Emmie said, already rifling through the tote she’d lugged in from her room. “Local shop blew out inventory after the hurricane last year. Everything was like five bucks or less if you showed a 34689 address.”

She tossed a bikini top onto the bed that could only be described as aspirational. Jenna lifted it with two fingers. “This is . . . a potholder.”

“Minimalist,” Emmie corrected, digging again. She pulled out another top, still tiny, but at least recognizable. “Okay, what about the red one? It’s less . . . potholder-y. Very cute. Very summery. Perfect for whatever you’re doing. What are you doing?”

“Paddleboarding,” Jenna said, trying and failing to sound casual.

“With who?” Emmie sang, already smirking.

“A friend,” Jenna lied.

“A friend? Right.” Emmie held up a neon-striped option that might have been illegal in several states. “Anyway, Contractor Guy will pass out on the dock. Ten out of ten.”

“Absolutely not,” Jenna said, grabbing for it and missing. “Also, stop calling him that.”

“What should I call him?” Emmie asked, delighted. “Mr. Bennett? Coach? Sir?”

“Emmie.”

The warning did nothing. Emmie’s grin only widened.

“Fine, fine,” Emmie said, digging deeper into the tote. “I did buy old-people things. For when it’s chilly. And for, you know, protecting your aged skin from the sun.”

“Emmie.”

“Kidding,” she said, not kidding at all. “Somewhere in here. Ah. Found it.”

She pulled out a sleek black one-piece with long fitted sleeves, a subtle hourglass seam that tapered in at the waist, and a zip front that ran to mid-chest. The fabric looked structured enough to smooth everything it touched, but flexible enough to move with her.