Page 14 of Stony Point Summer
“Sì!Grazie.” His mother stands, claps the chalk dust from her hands and sets the chalk bucket beside the shop door. “Now you color in the letters, so our customers will all smile.”
Sal does. He kneels down in the spring sunshine, picks a piece of fat chalk and quickly shades in the letters she’d outlined. He gets sidetracked, too, veering further off onto the walkway, where he draws a few bouncing soccer balls beyond the chalked letters.
Around him, the crowded marketplace comes to life. Pedestrians hurry by, their shoes clipping along the sidewalk. Down the street, green patio umbrellas open at an outdoor café. On the next block, the tram clangs past.
Elsa steps back and gives a last look at her window display, then another at her kneeling son. After collecting the chalk bucket, she flips the sign on her boutique door—Ciao! We’re Open—and begins another day.
seven
— Now —
PULLING INTO THE DOCKSIDE DINER’S parking lot fifteen minutes later, Maris can practically taste dinner. The little restaurant feels like home—the most casual coastal kitchen you could imagine. Glass fishing floats hang in the windows. Faded buoys dangle from the ceiling. Along the walls, draped fishing net holds starfish and seashells. Walking through the diner doors, Maris knows why else she’s so fond of the place. It was actually The Dockside that brought Jason back into her life.
That reunion happened three years ago, when she headed east from Chicago to settle her father’s estate. Her trip included a stop at Stony Point, her old beach town, and this very diner. Over breakfast, she’d opened her laptop at a table and worked on denim designs, using the blues of the sea. She also fiddled with a too-large engagement ring she’d received from Scott—the man she lived with in Chicago. Distracted by that uncertain engagement, Maris inadvertently left behind her laptop case when paying her tab. And as fate would have it? The next customer to walk in the diner came across that misplaced case, found Maris’ business card inside it, and hours later showed up at the door of her rented cottage.
It was the first time in over a decade that Maris had seen Jason Barlow.
The first time she’d seen his prosthetic leg. Seen the scar running along his jaw. Seen the shadows on his face, watched him scratch the scruff of Maddy’s neck.
The first time Maris heard him say her name in a certain familiar way that surprised them both.
Yes. This is just what Maris needs—The Dockside Diner. She walks in to hear chattering voices and silverware clinking on plates. Grills sizzle, and waitresses call out orders to the cooks. People brush past, stools spin, ketchup bottles pour, saltshakers sprinkle. Hubbub and din and commotion. Every bit of it enfolds her in comfort after being in her quiet, empty house.
“Hey, hon,” someone says before Maris can even grab a seat. It’s Lauren brushing quickly past. Her waitress apron is folded over a bent arm; her purse strap is looped on her shoulder; her keys are in hand. “How’re you holding up?”
“Good.” Maris turns while saying it—Lauren is rushing by that fast.
“Things going okay with you and Jason?” Lauren calls back over her shoulder.
Maris tips her head with a small smile. This is so unlike Lauren. Usually she’ll stop for a minute. Grab a stool at the counter, catch up a little. Instead, Lauren is already at the door and pushing it open.
“We’re working on things,” Maris has to practically yell to her fleeing friend, which prompts only a brief wave as Lauren flies outside.
“Oh hey, Maris.”
Maris turns again, this time to Kyle, but throws one last glance back at Lauren—already crossing the parking lot.
“What’s happening?” Kyle asks while drying his hands on a towel. He’s wearing his standard chef threads—white apron over black pants and black tee.
“Kyle. Not much.” Maris sets her bag on the diner counter and sits on a chrome stool. “Busy day, though.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I know. You guys aremobbed.”
“Definitely.” Kyle grabs a rag and wipes off Maris’ space at the counter, then sets down a placemat. “So, what’re you up to?”
“Saw Elsa earlier. Dropped off flowers for her. You know …”
“Yeah, for Sal. Elsa came by for lunch. Had to decide on a relish for the inn’s grand opening. Dockside’s catering.”
“She mentioned that.”
“Imagine? One year already since DeLuca left us. Where’s the time go?” Kyle nods to a framed photograph hanging near the entrance doors. The picture is of Sal waiting tables at the diner last summer. Sal wears a half-apron and holds a tray of dishes high on his shoulder. “Always miss the Italian,” Kyle tells her.
“Me, too. He was one of a kind.”
“That Sal loved schlepping tables here.” Kyle pulls his wallet from his back pocket and slips out a piece of paper. “I still carry his final note with me,” he says, sliding the folded paper across the counter.
