“What?”
“My nonna.” He pointed his stubby pencil toward the display case. “She makes all the salads.”
“I’m sure they’re very—”
“So you want to at least try the pesto?”
“No, I do not,” Jill spluttered. Who did this guy think he was?”
“Tell ya what.” He shrugged as he ripped the page from the pad. “I’ll throw in the pesto, gratis. You come back and tell me if it’s not the best piatto you ever had.” He shifted his focus to the man filling orders. They looked similar and Jill assumed they were brothers. They had the same dark wavy hair, the same muscular build, the same cheekbones.
“Fine,” Jill said, annoyed. She’d accept it, but she didn’t have to eat it.
The man smiled as he turned. “Petey! Order up.”
As she waited for her order, Jill wandered around the small shop. She eyed the rack of chips and browsed the cooler of drinks. She passed a side table with a collection of shakers filled with red pepper flakes, oregano, parm, and bottles of vinegar. In the back, near the door, was a bulletin board, tacked with a haphazard collection of notices. Most were old, offering babysitting services or surf lessons. The ink on some of them was so faded, the cards so layered that Jill wondered how many summers they’d been posted.
Just as she was about to turn away, a simple notice tacked to the corner of the board caught Jill’s attention. Written on a recipe card in neat script, the ad made her breath catch.
Photographer wanted for fundraising project.
Minimal experience required.
Jill’s pulse quickened. Photographers for any job were never hired without experience. Even with references, the best she’d ever managed was an assistant’s job, loading film or memory cards and changing lenses. To be the one in charge? That never happened, certainly not without formal training.
“Do you know anything about this notice?” Jill turned to a young woman wiping the tables. “The photographer job?”
She shook her head. “I think it’s been there for a while. You can take it if you want.”
Jill tucked the card in her pocket as she collected her order from the front counter. Then she made her way to a table outside to enjoy her lunch in the crisp autumn air. The sandwich was delicious, perfectly made and even better than she remembered. Afterward, she crumpled the papers and rose from her chair.
As Jill returned her tray to the table by the front door, a thought occurred to her and she felt a smile spread across her face. Despite her initial feeling, she’d tried Nonna’s pesto. The man behind the counter was right: it was the best she’d ever eaten.
Jill chose a more indirect route back to the house because she was distracted by the colors of fall leaves against the blue sky. She meandered, turning down one side street and then another just because they looked interesting. Before long, she’d taken out her camera and tucked the lens cap into her pocket. The work she’d done earlier that morning at the beach was good and she was pleased with the photos.
But it was time to widen her scope.
The town of Dewberry Beach was so small that there didn’t seem much chance of getting lost, so Jill let herself wander, following the pull of curiosity. It was a glorious afternoon, and as she got swept up in her work, she felt the weight of uncertainty and worry slip from her shoulders. She followed a path across a narrow footbridge and spied a man helping his daughter free a tangle of crabs from a net. They were happy for her to take pictures, so she did. Her first photo showed the pride in the little girl’s face as she held up her catch. The second captured water dripping from the net and spattering on the wood below. The third was a picture of them together, with the man’s arm around her shoulders, the love clear on his face as he looked down at his daughter.
As the afternoon waned, the air cooled and the sun began its descent. It was clear that the chores she’d been putting off couldn’t wait any longer. The house agents would be arriving early the following morning and she needed to be ready. It was time to make her way back.
Tucking away her camera, she returned to the main street, knowing she could find her way from there. At the corner, she came upon a white clapboard church and she stopped, captivated by its charm. She followed an oyster-shell-lined path around the building to a tiny courtyard garden with a stone bench beneath a shady tree. The last of the summer sunflowers grew against a picket fence, their heads bending under the weight of the seeds. Jill watched a clump of seagrass fronds sway and a moment later felt a gentle breeze brush across her face. Everything about this church was understated, except the stained-glass window just below the spire. A puzzle of deep red and vibrant blue, it was an unexpected pop of color in the simple building. She stood for a moment, watching the sunlight work its magic. The colored glass panels absorbed the afternoon sun, then cast it back across the sidewalk in a wash of purple.
It was the perfect ending to her day in Dewberry Beach, unexpected and surprising.
It was dark by the time Jill returned to the house, and her mood shifted. The teak deck furniture was much too heavy to pull down from overhead storage, no matter how hard she tried. After a few attempts, she abandoned the project and left tomorrow’s appointment to fate. She pulled a blanket from a trunk and settled herself into a loveseat in a hidden alcove, lifted the window to feel the breeze, and pulled out her camera to review the images she’d taken that day. After a moment, she put the camera down, satisfied with the work she’d done.
As she listened
