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I nod. “I think I did. This would be my Elysian. I love it here. This is my style. Smelling the salty air. It would be paradise for someone who loves the water.” Cain’s smile broadens at my words. “What?”
He just watches me before looking over my shoulder. “Nothing. Let’s go in here.” Cain pulls me with him inside the door to a shop that’s open.
Inside, I notice that it’s got all these cute odds and ends. Things to use for the beach, postcards, snow globes.
It’s more than just a souvenir shop. It also has cute clothes and hats—big straw ones. One looks exactly like something Mara would wear.
It’s a straw fedora with a hot pink grosgrain ribbon. It’s perfect for when she goes to the Hamptons. “This one.”
Cain lifts a brow. “I didn’t peg you for the fedora type.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my bestie, Mara.”
Cain takes it from my hand and leads me toward the register. “Tell me about this bestie.”
“I know I told you she works with me. Mara is the only person in my life that I consider family. I’m lucky I at least have her. And this”—I point to the hat—“is something she would love. She’s fun. Eccentric. Sometimes nuts. And she’s the best person to have in your corner.”
“Then you must get it for her.”
“That’s the plan. What about you? You going to buy anything for anyone?”
“You know what, I think I will.” Cain walks over to the mugs and buys a Cape May mug that says Exit 0 on it.
Furrowing my brow, I gesture to the mug. “Who’s that for?”
“My assistant, Barbara. I guess she’s the closest thing to family that I have.”
The only family he has is an assistant who is petrified of him. My heart breaks a little at that thought. I hope she’s worthy of him. It makes me sad that he’s alone, but it’s probably one of the reasons we initially gravitated toward each other.
Maybe together, we can heal each other’s past scars.
“You don’t have anyone else?”
“As we discussed, my family was very dysfunctional, and I got out at a young age. The only person I ever considered family was a man who lived in the same town as me. He was a firefighter who used to show me the station and trucks.”
“You spent a lot of time with him?”
“Not a lot . . .” His voice trails off, the tone low and almost hollow. Thinking of the past hurts him.
I can understand that.
It might not be the same, but I know how it feels not to have the support of your family.
I reach out and touch his hand. “But he cared for you.”
“He did.”
“Do you still speak with him?”
“Not often.” When he says that, his jaw tightens. It almost reminds me of the eve of a storm, when everyone dashes around and starts to close the shutters, except the shutters, in this case, are the darkness inside of Cain.
What happened to you, Cain? What happened in your past to make you feel like this?
I don’t ask the questions lingering on my tongue. I don’t dare spoil the mood. The same way I don’t mention Cynthia. Our time here is limited, and I’m scared. I know that the truth will catch up to us. It’s inevitable.
But not today.
Instead, I ask him other, more neutral questions. “Where is the guy?”
“Gone.” He drops my hand and takes a step toward the register.
Strange choice of words. First, not often, then gone. But that would mean he’s still alive. I wonder why they don’t speak, but again, I know I don’t want to push and dampen the mood. I keep all my questions that are begging to come out inside.
I pay for my hat; he pays for his mug, and then I grasp his hand to turn out of the store. As we continue our walk down the road, I see exactly what I’m in the mood for in the block ahead.
I pull him along with a giggle until we are standing in front of an old-fashioned ice cream store.
“Ta-da!” I say with a goofy flourish, pointing at the red-and-white-painted exterior of Freezies Ice Cream, being slightly over the top to make him laugh.
His brow lifts in surprise. “You want ice cream now?”
“I most certainly do, my dear sir!”
He smirks, shakes his head, and pulls open the door. “Then let’s get you some.”
The inside is exactly what I would expect. It feels like I’m transported back in time to the 1950s. Black-and-white-checkered floors lead to an old-fashioned, large, red countertop. Behind it is an older gentleman wearing a red apron, black bow tie, and matching black hat. We walk in and straight to the counter.
“Hello, what can I get for you?” the man, with a name tag that reads Richard, asks.
“May I please have a soft serve vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone?” I grin so large my cheeks hurt. “Thank you.”
