Page 43 of Hearts on the Line

“Are no mosquitoes with the seabreeze,” Gloria quips behind me. “You’re so old, you’re making up stories now.”

I stop, glancing between the old friends. “Ladies, is this how we want to start supper club? Arguing over bugs?”

Bridget’s wearing a thin knit white sweater and a pearl necklace with a silver sand dollar in the center and bright-pink pants.

“I dressed up just for you. Not often we have a guest of honor.”

“No?” The rest of the women filter into the room, standing around the large oak dining table. A dated brass chandelier hangs overhead, a wedding gift that Kathleen cherished. I ignore the knot in my throat. Everything smells the same as before, like salt air and moss. The creamy walls are adorned with family pictures, and plants dot the overstuffed bookshelves. Even the braided rug is the same. “Well, it’s a good thing”—I root around my bag, then pull out a bottle of wine—“I brought this⁠—”

Ethan strolls out of the kitchen with a towel draped over his shoulder, wearing a very tight gray T-shirt. Unfortunately for me.

The smile drops from my face instantly.

“What is she doing here?” he snaps.

Chapter 14

Ethan

Iwaited twelve years to kiss Sloane again.

Then I did.

And I’m a coward because I can’t bring myself to talk to her about what it means, what it felt like to finally have her so close.

“What is she doing here?”

I hate myself for even asking. I know well enough why she’s here.

My grandmother.

“Well,” Gloria says, stepping in behind Sloane. She grips both of her arms and leans around her to one side. “We ran into her at the restaurant today.”

“It’s closed. Always closed on Monday.”

“I washed the carpets.” Sloane can’t look me in the eye.

“Okay, washing carpets and catching up.” I turn back toward the kitchen. I can’t form a coherent thought right now. Something about seeing her back in this house short-circuits my brain, and suddenly, I’m just that dumb eighteen-year-old who hated everyone and everything except for the girl next door.

“I can leave,” she offers.

“Oh no, you won’t,” my grandmother pipes up. I can feel her glare burning a hole into my back. “Ignore Ethan. He gets grumpy when he’s hungry.”

June pipes up. “The kids call that hangry, Bridget.”

My grandmother giggles.

No wonder Sloane thinks I hate her. I can’t ever seem to say the right thing whenever we’re together.

I head back into my parents’ kitchen, checking that Wally is still on the back deck. He’s guarding Betty White from the seagulls and sandpipers on the beach.

Every Monday night, I cook for my grandmother, her friends, and my parents since the restaurant is closed. It’s the closest I will ever come to cooking something that doesn’t involve a fryer.

Tonight, I’m making a chilled avocado soup, followed by pan-seared duck breast with a cherry and thyme gastrique over Parmesan polenta, and a roasted strawberry shortcake for dessert. The first course is just about ready, and I’ve been preparing everything for a few hours now.

I ladle a few scoops evenly through the four bowls, then head to the stove to quickly sear off some fresh shrimp. I have too much to prep for the next course to join everyone.

“I can leave,” she says again quietly from beside the counter. “They didn’t tell me you’d be here.”