The window is open. I hear a mourning dove outside, a short, staccato burst of song that repeats again and again. It blends in with the sound of my mother moving around in the kitchen below us, pans clanking together, the faucet turning on and off.
“You’re right.” He pulls away and clears his throat. He carefully puts the photo back into the box and sets it aside. “How did I get such a smart granddaughter, anyway?”
I smile and stand up. “Some people are just born lucky. Now can we please go eat French toast? I’m dying of hunger over here.”
“Dramatic girl,” he says as he rises to follow me from the room.
The kitchen smells like flour and eggs and maple syrup. It’s a large, open space with windows that look out onto the garden. I take a seat at the round wooden table, pushing aside the newspaper and a mug that reads COME TO MONTAUK FOR FUN IN THE SUN! Grandpa sits down next to me and picks up a section of the paper and holds it in front of his face. Mom is at the stove, still wearing her workout clothes, sweats and a baggy T-shirt that hangs down to her knees. It’s so different from her normal look—polished suits and shiny hair—that I hardly recognize her.
“Looking good, Mom,” I say as I reach for a jug of orange juice.
“Don’t be a smartass.” She drops three thick slices of French toast onto my plate.
My mom is a self-proclaimed Weekend Mom. During the week she’s busy working for a real estate office in town. When she’s not showing houses, she’s at meetings: for historical preservation, the Montauk Downtown Association, the PTA. Between her schedule and mine, we’ve perfected the art of the quick catch-up—a “hi” and “bye” in the mornings, a kiss good night. But on the weekends she’s all about taking me shopping at the outlets or to the beach on warm days, and she always, always cooks breakfast on Saturday mornings.
I bite into the thick grilled bread, closing my eyes when the sweetness of the syrup hits my tongue. “Oh gawd, thish ish shoo goood.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
I roll my eyes at her tone. “I’m seventeen, Mom. You don’t need to scold me like I’m five.” I hear Grandpa chuckling from behind the paper.
“Even seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t talk with their mouths full. Plus, you’ll always be my baby.” She comes over and puts her hand on my head, smoothing down my sleep-messed hair. “You need to get this cut. It’s all shaggy.”
“That’s the look.” I pull away from her. “Stop, you’re getting French toast in my hair.”
“The look, huh? I guess I’m just an old lady now who doesn’t know anything about style.”
“I don’t know, you’re rockin’ those sweats pretty hard.”
“Watch it,” she snaps, clearly trying not to laugh. “Where’s your father?”
“Comatose in front of the TV.”
“I heard that.” My dad walks into the kitchen, sidling up to my mom as she stands next to the stove. He slips his arm around her, pressing his face into her neck, his dark hair a startling contrast to her pale gold. He’s so tall he almost has to bend in half to reach her. She giggles, pushing him away with her spatula.
I almost gag on my orange juice. “Ew, get a room.”
“We have a room,” he says. “Actually, we have seven rooms. We just let you stay in one of them out of the goodness of our hearts.”
“My dad the comedian.”
He walks over to the table and sits down. He’s in jeans and a flannel shirt, his regular work-wear.
“Are you going into the store today?” I ask.
He nods and fills a plate with food. My grandpa puts down the newspaper and picks up his fork. Mom sits down at the table. There’s a moment of silence as we all concentrate on eating.
“How were your last days of school, Lydia?” Mom asks after a minute.
“Good. I’m glad it’s over.”
Dad points his fork in my direction. “Now you can start working for me full-time. Things are getting crazy down at the shop.”
Dad owns and runs Bentley’s Hardware, and there always seems to be some crisis happening that forces him to go in at all hours. But we all know he loves it—even though he complains, I think he would move into the stockroom if Mom let him.
“Maybe. I’m actually trying to get this internship. At the paper.” I gesture at the East Hampton Star folded next to my grandfather’s coffee mug.
Mom smiles. “Honey, that’s great!”
“I don’t know if I’ll get it. I’m waiting to hear. But I sent them some of my clips from this year, and the editor said he liked them.”
“Which clips?” Grandpa asks. “The one about the only female football player?”
I nod. “And the op-ed about gun violence.”
“That’s a good one. You’ll be a shoo-in.”
“Maybe you can still help out part-time,” Dad says. “You’ve got to learn the business for that happy day when I’m sipping mai tais on the beach and plumbing equipment is but a distant memory.”
“You’ll never retire. We all know you love it.”
“Don’t say that. Your mom and I have our hearts set on a condo in Boca Raton.”
“Yeah, right.” I laugh, though the jokes put me slightly on edge. Dad is always talking about how I’ll take over the store someday, and how his legacy will live on in me. I’m not sure he truly believes that I have no intention of sticking around Montauk forever.
“What time are you going in?” Mom asks him.
“In an hour or so. Stacy called in sick for her shift.” He turns to me. “You gonna come help?”
I pause, pushing the last piece of French toast around in circles. “I can’t today.”
“Why not?”
Dad puts his fork down and watches me over steepled hands. He and I have the same high cheekbones, the same heavy-lashed green eyes. But instead of his almost-black hair, I somehow ended up with deep auburn. “If
