Page 7 of Death of a Grill Master

“Do you think it’s true?” Hayley asked. “What Earl said? That Sergio’s resigning?”

Bruce shrugged and set his notebook on his lap. “Maybe. But Sergio’s not impulsive. If he’s stepping down, it’s not just burnout. It’s something deeper.”

Hayley stared out over the bay, troubled. “He hasn’t said a word to me. And Randy … he’s my brother. My younger brother. He used to tell me everything. Now I’m getting these tight little texts and half smiles.”

“Maybe they’re not ready to talk yet,” Bruce said gently.

Hayley frowned. “I just hate being kept in the dark.”

Bruce chuckled. “You? No …”

She swatted his arm.

“Seriously,” he said. “It’s because you always want to fix everything.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s one of the things I love about you. But sometimes people don’t want to be fixed. They just want space. Even from their very competent, nosy big sister.”

Hayley rolled her eyes and took another sip. “Great. Now you sound like Liddy’s therapist. Or her stylist. Actually, I think they might be the same person.”

They lapsed into silence again, listening to the soft slap of water against the rocks below. Hayley watched as a small fleet of sailboats drifted into the harbor, sails glowing in the moonlight.

Watching them made Hayley think of her daughter, Gemma—who’d once begged for sailing lessons every summer but now lived in New York producing shows at the Flavor Network. She had her own apartment in Manhattan, a staff, interns who ran out for espresso, a demanding filming schedule. Jet-setting between tastings and network meetings and rubbing elbows with celebrity chefs who probably had their own knife lines at Williams Sonoma. Her little girl—who used to stage cooking competitions in their kitchen using Cheez-Its and gummy bears—now flew first class and called her “Mom” in a tone that made Hayley feel both proud and slightly ancient.

Her youngest, Dustin, was in Los Angeles, married, living in his own house with a lemon tree, with a young son named Eli who was already a whirlwind with a toothy grin. Dustin had landed a job at a major animation studio and was climbing the ladder fast. Every time Hayley got a video message of Eli babbling into the camera or drawing something vaguely animal-shaped, she got a tug in her chest—pride, yes. But also longing.

They were both thriving. Which meant they didn’t need her anymore. At least not in the way they once did.

She didn’t feel sad, exactly. Just … displaced. Like the center of her world had shifted while she was still standing in the same spot.

Her attention returned to her husband scribbling furiously in his notebook.

“You’re really not going to tell me if I’m the victim in your book?” she asked, nudging Bruce’s foot with hers.

He grinned without looking up. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The sassiest ghost in Maine, huh?”

Bruce finally looked up, startled. “What?”

“That’s what you said. If you decide to kill me off, I’d be the sassiest ghost in Maine.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I meant sexiest. Definitely sexiest.”

Hayley mock-scowled. “Too late now. You said what you said.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’d be both.”

Boat horns echoed softly in the bay as vessels began to anchor in place. Somewhere behind the bluff, a cheer went up—someone lighting sparklers early, probably. The temperature dropped just enough to make Hayley glad for her zip-up hoodie.

Bruce put away his notebook and thermos, capped the pens, and slid it all neatly into his canvas tote.

Hayley stretched her legs out and looked up.

It was almost time.

The sky was darkening. The first stars blinked to life above them.