5

ALLISON

When you’re married, you start to take certain things for granted. You get into routines, ruts, and the grooves run so deep and slick you might not even realize how hard it is to get out. Duke always paid our bills, filing them in neat piles in a teak organizer next to the KitchenAid mixer. He took out the garbage and killed spiders. He had driven most of the time we’d gone anywhere because I hated getting lost. He did most of the cooking, too—planning the meals, shopping for the groceries, picking out the wine. We didn’t have dinner together very often because of our work schedules, but when we did I knew he’d take care of it. He enjoyed all that.

Unless Annie was around, my meals now consisted of packaged soup or Hamburger Helper or pasta with jarred sauce. But I was determined to be more health conscious at the beach. It was part of my resurgence—learn to cook. I’d even brought several books with me with intimidating titles: Novice Gourmet, Fit and Flair, and the slightly demeaning, though vaguely satisfying, Cooking for One.

I made a delightful and thorough list of groceries—soy milk, chicken thighs, avocados, bananas, yogurt, eggs, wine, cat food—taking pleasure in adding foods that no one liked but me—lime Kool-Aid, whipped cream from a can, tuna fish—and dividing them all into categories so it would be easier to shop.

I turned on Patty’s Keurig to fuel me for my first foray into town. If I listened to omens, then the grinding whir that came from the inside of the machine was a bad one. So was the blinking red error light. And the brown water that spit from the machine and splattered my white sweater before the whole thing died.

Okay, then.

Patty and John had left a list of local businesses on the refrigerator and had underlined Sweet Spot coffee as the best. I was skeptical it would be any better than my favorite Italian espresso shop in Philadelphia, but Keurig breakers couldn’t be choosers, so in my car I went, surprising myself by remembering how to get downtown without using my GPS.

The town was so quiet I half expected tumbleweeds to start rolling in front of my car. I stopped at the Opal Beach Library and got out to check the meter. I was still reading the parking restrictions when Dolores’s car pulled up behind me. I could hear Bruce Springsteen blasting even though the windows were closed.

“Don’t bother,” she said as she got out, waving her hand. She wore a snug-fitting, long-sleeved black T-shirt with Chicks Rule in silver across her chest. “No one pays during the off-season.”

“But it says Monday through Saturday.”

“Trust me. No one checks it now. That’s just for the tourists.” She rummaged in her car and came out with a bunch of large blank canvases from the backseat, juggling them and kicking the door closed. “If you get a ticket, come find me in there.” She nodded at the gallery. Art—Jim Gund. “But you won’t need to. I know Horace, the sheriff, and he treats the off-season like a long vacation.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

“How are you making out up there in that house all alone?”

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s colder than I expected, I guess. But I’m used to braving the elements.”

“It goes up and down,” she said. “In November we’ll have some days where it feels like June. Just the way it goes.”

I said goodbye to Dolores and headed across the street to The Sweet Spot. Inside, a woman stood behind the counter, cleaning up the mess from a coffeepot that had turned over on its side while she chatted over her shoulder with two customers. Country music was blaring—Dolly Parton singing about love—so the store seemed lively despite there hardly being anyone inside. A few wooden tables lined one side of the shop, and beat-up–looking canvas couches faced each other in the back. In the corner opposite the couches sat a turtle-shaped sandbox and a bunch of kids’ toys. I lined up at the register.

“Right with you,” the woman behind the counter yelled over the music and the humming of the coffee machines.

The two customers in front of me were talking loudly. The woman, short with painfully dyed blond hair, practically squawked, “Oh, sugar, you are just too much,” at the policeman standing with her. She giggled and adjusted her tight suit, then spotted me and shuffled over to the side to clear room. I wondered if the policeman was Horace, the sheriff who treated the off-season like a vacation.

A large wide mirror hung above the wall behind the counter, and I could see myself in it, hunching over, a bad habit I’d adopted since going off-air. During broadcasts, the crew would always remind you to stand up straight, shove your shoulders back, but these days, without the need to force that winning smile, I often felt loaded down. It was starting to show.

I adjusted Patty’s scarf in my hair and, just as I did, the woman behind the counter glanced up and saw me in the mirror. She froze, her eyes wide. She turned quickly. “Can I help you?”

The cop and the lady had also stopped talking, and I could feel their eyes on us.

“A latte?”

She fiddled nervously with her apron. “What size?”

“Large.” The cop and the woman started chatting again, though I could sense they were still listening to us. Then, in the spirit of my new adventure, I added, “Can you put a little scoop of ice cream in it?”

She flinched, and now I knew it was not my imagination. I took a step back.

“Ice cream?” she asked.

“I mean, gelato. That stuff...” I wavered, gesturing to the containers lined up behind the counter. “Never mind, that’s weird. Just cream and sugar is fine.” I blushed, embarrassed. This whole trip into town was already exhausting me.

“You okay, sugar?” the lady customer asked, the smile on her face clearly forced. “It just—forgive me—you just seem a little peaked.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said. Her strong musky perfume overpowered even the chocolatey smell of espresso beans.

“Just visiting?” Her head cocked to one side in a way that reminded me of Bobo, the dumb parakeet we had as kids. I missed Philadelphia, or downtown Annapolis, where you could faint on a packed city street and no one would acknowledge you.

“I’ll be here for a while,” I said.

Behind the counter, a spoon fell and clattered against the tile.

“Well, if you’re looking to buy, I’m your woman.” She thrust out a manicured hand with vicious pointed nails. Each tip had a silver jewel in the center. “Mabel Halberlin.” She handed me a slightly bent business card with her professional glamour shot on the front.

The cop chuckled. “Always the saleswoman.”

I sat down at one of the tables, nervous. The barista—had she somehow recognized me? I pulled out my phone. The internet signal was spotty at the house but here I had a strong connection.

No new emails. Not a one. I couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

My phone beeped with a text from Annie: This is the first day of the rest of your life!

I chuckled, and when I looked up, the barista was standing there, holding out my coffee. “You’re her sister, aren’t you?” she said.

“I’m sorry?” I shut off my screen and put my phone down on the table.

“Or a cousin?”

The surprise must’ve shown on my face. She breathed out heavily. “You’re not...related to Maureen?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know a Maureen.”

“You didn’t—come in here to see me?”

I took the cup of coffee from her and saw, with satisfaction, that there indeed was a lump of ice cream bobbing frothily inside it. “Everyone’s been recommending your coffee. But I can leave...”

She burst into a short giddy laugh. “Oh god,” she said, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were—” She seemed bewildered. “You look—you reminded me of someone.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved myself. “I get that all the time.”

I still sensed the unease in her face, but she seemed to be warming up. I’d thought at first she was young, but now I could see the fine lines around her eyes and the slackness in her neck. She had freckles, tons of them dotting her nose and cheeks. She was pretty now, but I bet when she was younger she’d been gorgeous.

“It’s just so odd...she used to put ice cream in her hot chocolate. And your hair.”

I pulled the scarf out and stuffed it in a ball in my hand. “I don’t normally—I just found this.”

“That’s so...funny.” She held out a hand that looked chapped, like she washed it a million times a day. “I’m Tammy.” She was flushing now, her skin bright red beneath her freckles. “I didn’t mean to be rude. She was an old friend...she used to wear her hair like that, is all.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did you lose touch, then?”

“Something like that.” Tammy’s smile fell a bit.

“Have you tried to find her? I mean, with Google and Facebook and all—I found this friend of mine from elementary school that I hadn’t talked to in decades. It’s kind of crazy. And now, seeing all her nutty political posts, I kind of wish I hadn’t found her, you know? You can almost know too much about someone these days.” I was rambling. Google her? Had I really just given that advice?

“I couldn’t find anything,” she said. She bent over and started wiping my table with her dishcloth.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m not going to stay.”

“Please do. I don’t want to run you out.” She put a certain oomph into the cleaning, using the weight of her entire body to scrub the table, working in straight rows across, not missing one centimeter of the surface.

“I’m not—you aren’t. I was just, I have some errands to do.”

“Just stay, at least to have your coffee. It would make me feel better, after the way I behaved.” She finished, folded the cloth in a neat square and tucked it in her apron. “Are you in town for long, then?”

“I’m house-sitting.”

“Oh really. Where?”

It took me a second to remember the name of the street. They all sounded the same. “Piper Sand Road?”

“Nice area up there.”

“Beautiful. It’s kind of crazy. I feel quite lucky.”

“I bet.” She smiled. “So what? Are you a writer or something?”

“A writer? No, no. I’m a meteorologist. A weather geek, my dad likes to say.”

“Oh,” Tammy said, her eyebrows raising. “That’s really neat. On television?” She seemed genuinely interested, not in a fake way like the real estate agent had been.

“I used to be, yes. For a few years. You don’t get that news here, though.” I stopped, suddenly grateful that my former station wasn’t broadcast this far up the coast. I’d been counting on the fact that my...infamy might not follow me to Opal Beach, and so far it had worked. I needed to be careful, though. I had a feeling in a town this small, one innocent Google search and my whole sad story would spread around like a bad cold.

“Wow! Still, you’re famous,” she said, and I tried not to flinch at her words. “At least by Opal Beach standards,” she added. “Unless you count our mayor getting on some travel website’s list of Best Small-Town Mayors—he was number 97—we don’t really get much in the way of celebrities around here.”

“Hardly a celebrity.” And then, because Tammy was still smiling enthusiastically, I added lamely, “This is great coffee.”

She seemed to snap back to life. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.” She left to attend to a machine buzzing incessantly behind the counter.

My phone lit up again. It was Annie following up.

Don’t have too much fun there, sis.