She nods. “Thanks, I wouldn’t just ditch you, but there’s this guy...” she trails off with a blush.

I laugh. “Say no more.”

“See you tomorrow!” Kayla grabs a bag from the kitchen counter. “And, I really am sorry about your grandma.”

She shoots me another sympathetic look, then dashes out the backdoor and through the yard down to the beach.

I watch her go, trying to remember what it was like to be sixteen and so carefree. It wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like a hundred years. I just hope Kayla savors every moment of it, before the real world—and jobs, and rent, and responsibilities—get in the way.

I bring in my bags and take a proper look around the place. The main rooms are all downstairs: a big dining room, the open lounge, and a cute library nook. Upstairs, there are six guest rooms on two levels, with old-fashioned iron bedsteads and clawfoot tubs in their bathrooms. It feels odd to be up there all alone in the empty house, so I find myself heading back downstairs and out to Nana’s private annex in the yard. She had the garage converted after her fall, into a studio apartment with its own private patio. She liked that she could be up early to start baking without waking the rest of the guests, and leave them to their own devices when she wanted an early night.

Now, I step inside, and I’m hit with memories all over again. The hand-stitched quilt draped over the bed, the bottle of rosewater on the night-stand. There’s a pair of Uggs by the bed, a gift from me last year, and a copy of a Harlequin romance on the dresser. I remember sneaking them from her library, the summer I turned thirteen: poring over the bodice-ripping covers and giggling at every “thrusting manhood.” Nana caught me once, but she didn’t mind, she just pulled down a different book for me with a mischievous smile. “You’ll like this one,” she winked. “Chapter Fifteen, in the stables.”

It’s almost nine by the time a noise from the main house pulls me back to reality. I head back inside, and find voices coming from the living room. A couple is there, about my age, looking around.

“Hi.” I pause in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

The girl turns, revealing a friendly face framed in light brown curls. She’s wearing a cute navy sundress, a camera strap slung around her shoulder. “Sorry, we’re not nosing around, I swear.” She smiles. “We saw the car outside and thought we’d say hello. I’m Juliet, and this is my husband, Emerson.”

“We wanted to offer our condolences,” Emerson adds, reaching to shake my hand. He’s got dark hair and piercing eyes, but they soften in sympathy as I return the handshake.

“And pie,” Juliet adds, offering a foil-covered pan. “Apple blueberry. It’s actually Mrs. Olsen’s recipe, I bugged her for it all summer until she let me in on the secret.”

“Coconut flakes, baked into the crust,” I answer automatically.

Juliet laughs. “That’s right! I swear, I don’t know why you’d ever bake it without them.”

“Thank you,” I say, setting it down. “It’s so sweet of you to drop by. Did you guys know her well?”

“I grew up here,” Emerson explains. “I used to stop by every day before school, just to try and charm her out of a fresh cinnamon roll.” He flashes a grin, and I have no doubt that Nana would have kept him well-fed.

“And I worked shifts at the diner, back when I was eighteen.” Juliet lets out a wistful sigh, looking around the room. “She was always such a fixture in town. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Emerson slings an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. “But her recipes will always live on.”

Juliet laughs. “Is that a hint?”

“Maybe.” He grins.

Juliet looks back at me and rolls her eyes good-naturally. “Anyone would think he’s helpless in the kitchen, and not the owner of one of the hottest restaurants in the city. Are you visiting long?” she asks. “You’ll have to come by. It’s worth the trip.”

“I’m afraid not,” I give a rueful sigh. “I have to get back to New York tomorrow.”

“Well, why don’t you come by the bar instead?” Emerson suggests. “We were just on our way over.”

Juliet brightens. “You should! It’s band night, there’ll be a real crowd. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know…” I hesitate. “I’ve been driving all day, I might just stay here. But thanks for the invite, and the pie,” I add, touched by their friendliness.

“No problem.” Juliet smiles. “And if you change your mind, it’s Jimmy’s, right on the harbor. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

I see them out and take the pie out to the back patio. I dig in, savoring the sweet, tart fruit and flaky butter pastry as I watch the last of the sunset melt away over the bay. I can’t believe I’ve been in Beachwood Bay for less than an hour, and already I’ve had more neighborly concern than the past five years in New York. The couple in the condo next door to me don’t even smile when we pass each other in the hallway, and the last time anyone brought me anything, it was the super with a noise warning about my early-morning alarm.

But that was always what Nana loved about this town. Even when Grandpa passed, she stayed right here. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her, and even though it hurts to realize she’s gone, it’s a comfort knowing just how much she belonged.