The same briny scent laced the air in Dewberry Beach, but this time of year it was threaded with woodsmoke and the snap of fall. She zipped her jacket, shouldered her camera case, and made her way to the dunes. There, she found clusters of wild roses growing in a sheltered corner of the beach stairs. Jill readied her camera and started to work, experimenting first with texture and then with color, framing shots of crimson rose hips against sugary sand. She kneeled to capture the delicate petals of the last remaining rose flower against a backdrop of splintery wooden stairs, then wandered to the tidepools near the jetty. There, she photographed grumpy hermit crabs defending their shell homes with their tiny claws raised, and seagulls scavenging through clam shells. And when the angle of the sun changed, she switched to a telephoto lens to capture the curl of a perfect wave as it reached for shore.
She would have happily spent all day behind her camera. The sky was the bluest she’d ever seen it, and the rumble of the ocean filled her soul. There was so much to photograph—the wispy beach grass, the play of light against the ocean, the determined sandpiper by the jetty. But of course she couldn’t—there was still work to do at the house before tomorrow’s meeting and she had to get going. She gathered her things and packed them away, intending to return to work, but her stomach growled, reminding her that the only food in the house was unappetizing leftovers in the caterer’s pantry. She’d had enough of that. It was time for real food. Jill turned away from the house and headed into town to find lunch.
The shops in Dewberry Beach were a few blocks from the beach, and all of them had been decorated for Halloween. There were bright orange pumpkins carved with triangle eyes and snaggle-toothed grins displayed at the entrances, bundles of dried cornstalks tied to the light poles, and a banner stretched across the street advertising an upcoming fall festival. The town itself was small, with less than a dozen shops, and only a handful of those were open. In the center of town was a bakery that seemed to be doing a brisk business. Next to that was a tiny newsstand with its door propped open. Across the street was a firehouse next to a wide grassy field.
About a block or so before the fire station was a sandwich shop that looked interesting. It was a small cedar building with a few tables set on a patio and a sturdy overhead sign that read “Dewberry Deli,” and Jill was drawn in by the smell of fresh bread, oregano, and garlic. Her stomach rumbled again, as if it could barely believe its good fortune. When was the last time she’d allowed herself to eat a real New Jersey sub? Years, probably. There was always a dress to fit into or an event to attend. Not anymore.
Inside, the shop was a hum of activity as customers placed their orders and the man at the counter scribbled them on a tiny pad. He ripped the page from his order pad and passed it across the counter in one fluid movement, as if he’d performed the same action a million times before. On the back wall were wire baskets filled with crusty Italian bread, and above that was a three-panel chalkboard that served as a menu. Jill bit back a smile as she noticed the chalk had faded in places, making many of the selections almost unreadable. It seemed to Jill that customers either ordered from memory or they ignored the menu completely, ordering whatever they felt like.
As Jill waited for her number to be called, she turned her attention to the display case in the front of that shop. It was beautiful, with a gently curving glass front, soft wood trim, and white enameled shelves. Inside the case was food reminiscent of Jill’s childhood summers—bowls of pesto and peas, marinated peppers and mushrooms, spiced olives, Caprese salad with fat chunks of fresh mozzarella. Toward the end, where one might expect dessert, there was a simple sign in black print that read “Go to Mueller’s.”
Ellie would love this place.
“Fifteen.” The man’s eyes were sharp, but there was humor behind them, as if he were on the edge of laughter and, if asked, he just might share the joke with you.
“That’s me.” Jill held up her slip of paper as proof.
“What can I get ya?”
It had been a very long time since Jill had ordered a deli sub and she was out of practice. “Um. Turkey, please. With provolone. Do you have provolone?”
“’Course we do.”
“Okay, then provolone too—but not a lot. Just a slice or maybe half a slice.”
His brow creased in confusion. “You want half a slice of cheese?”
“Yes.” Jill nodded firmly. “I do.”
He sighed as he scribbled on his pad. “Half or whole?”
“Half. I just said.”
“Sub. Do you want a whole or half sub?”
“Half. Definitely half. With vinegar only—no mayo—lettuce, tomato, peppers, black pepper, and oregano. And a pickle on the side if you have them.”
The man’s brow arched as if he were waiting for something.
“Please,” Jill offered.
He laughed at that, deep and rumbling, and she smiled in return.
“What do you want for your side?” He gestured to the case filled with salads. “Pesto ziti and peas is fresh this morning. Marinated tomatoes, peppers, and mozzarella just put out. Feta with fresh oregano’s coming if you want to wait for it.”
“Oh, no thank you. Just a green salad please. No dressing.” The choice was automatic, from years of dieting.
He looked up, frowning in confusion. Jill assumed he hadn’t heard so she repeated herself, louder this time. “Green sal—”
“Yeah, I got it.” The man’s green eyes
