Page 134 of Death of a Grill Master

“It’s more than okay,” she said. “It’s everything.”

And then, without looking back, she walked down the sidewalk into the Bar Harbor morning.

Chapter 42

Sunday brunch at Mona Barnes’s house was usually loud, heavy on salt and sarcasm, and made entirely from things she’d hauled out of the sea or picked up from the Bar Harbor Farmers Market that morning. But today had a strange undercurrent—like something was just about to happen.

The windows were cracked open to let in the September breeze. A pot of coffee burbled on the counter. The table, a big, weathered thing scarred by decades of elbows and spilled chowder, not to mention nine kids of various ages growing up around it, was packed with plates: flaky corn bread, roasted potatoes, a cast-iron skillet full of lobster quiche, and a bowl of fruit salad that was trying its best to be ignored.

Hayley reached for the basket of blueberry muffins just as Bruce stabbed his fork toward a piece of cantaloupe.

“Why do we keep pretending melon is food?” he muttered. “It’s just water with a rind.”

“You’re only mad it’s not covered in a chocolate glaze.”

Mona sat across the table, arms crossed, watching with a grin. “You could’ve just had a second muffin, Linney. I made them with triple brown sugar and a dangerous amount of butter.”

Bruce perked up instantly. “Well, that changes everything.”

Earl, seated beside her in a red-and-black flannel that looked like he’d ironed just for the occasion, had barely touched his quiche. He was uncharacteristically quiet, eyes darting from Mona to his coffee to something in his shirt pocket.

Hayley noticed the way he kept fidgeting. “You okay there, Earl? You’ve stabbed that crust four times.”

Bruce leaned in. “Either he’s having a nervous breakdown or he’s about to propose.”

Earl immediately dropped his fork with a loud clang.

Mona squinted at him. “You’ve been weird all morning. You’re not trying to tell me you clogged the septic tank again, are you? Because I swear to God, Earl—”

But Earl was already pushing his chair back and standing—no, not standing. Dropping.

To one knee.

Hayley’s mouth opened. Bruce froze, fork midair.

Mona stared like she wasn’t sure if she was being pranked.

From his shirt pocket, Earl pulled a small, smooth white clamshell, its two halves held together with a loop of faded blue ribbon. He opened it carefully, revealing an antique ring—simple, modest, and glowing faintly in the morning light.

“I love you,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you’ll have me.”

Mona stared at him.

Then at the clamshell.

Then back at Earl.

And laughed.

Not a cruel laugh.

Not dismissive.

But full-bodied, bright, and startled—like she couldn’t quite believe the moment was real.

“Oh, Earl,” she said, reaching out to cup his face. “I’ve had the wedding cake. Let’s just keep the frosting.”

There was a collective exhale around the table—half-laughing, half-crying. Hayley let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a sob. Bruce reached over and handed her a napkin without looking.