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“Yeah?”
“Thanks for an absolutely amazing date,”
“You’re welcome.”
I walk around my truck and open the door. She’s still on her porch, watching me.
“Hey, Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“When can I get another one?”
She laughs and I swear I can see her blush from the end of her driveway. The light by the door is giving her a soft glow and it takes everything in me not to run back up to her and wrap my arms around her.
“Ask me tomorrow,” she calls.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucy
There’saletteraddressedto Dad sitting on the island in the kitchen. Mom and I are both staring at it, neither of us making any move to grab it. It was sent from the rental company we use to rent out the house we own in Oak Island. The one my dad bought when I was a baby. The one we spent at least two weeks at every summer of my life. My dad was always the happiest at the beach and some of my favorite memories of him are there.
Neither Mom, nor I, have mentioned the beach house since he died.
“We should open it,” I say.
“We should,” Mom agrees.
Still, neither of us move. Finally, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I reach for the letter, holding out my other hand for the letter opener my mom is clutching like a lifeline. She hands it to me wordlessly and I take another deep breath as I open the letter.
“What’s it say?” she asks quietly.
My eyes flit across the letter, brows furrowing the more I read.
“Lucy?”
“The house was damaged.”
“What?” Mom croaks out.
“You know that hurricane from a month ago? Apparently it caused some roof damage to the house. They need Dad, well you, now, I guess, to sign some documents so they can proceed with the necessary renovations.”
“This happened at the end of May and we’re just now hearing about it?” Mom questions, her voice tense.
Just because we haven’t talked or been to the beach house since December doesn’t mean we want to get rid of it.
“It looks like they weren’t able to get someone to look at the house until two weeks ago. A lot of their properties have damages they’ve been dealing with,” I explain as I continue to read.
“What do they need?” Mom asks.
“You, I guess, since the house was in yours and dad’s name, right?”
Mom fiddles with the end of her T-shirt, not looking at me.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“Talk to me about what?” I sit the letter back down on the island between us.
