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there’s something in the
letters that will explain why they went to Shark Island that
night?” Rooks asks.
    I hadn’t thought that far ahead. There has to
be a reason why those letters were in the wall, and someone was
clearly sorry for something, but I hadn’t thought all the way to
their deaths. I guess I wanted to let Seth and Hanna have a moment
to live again, even if it was only through me.
    “I have no idea,” I say, adding a shrug for
good measure.
    Rooks sighs. “Fine. Just keep reading, and
read faster so you can pass them on to me,” he says. He fights a
smile, and I think it’s way too cute that he’s this interested in
the letters.
     
    When we pull up at Waterfront Café, it’s not
what I expected. I’d imagined a chic little downtown-type
restaurant down near the beach, with a waterfront view. I’d
pictured it as a pastel blue building, sort of like a diner, with
an old jukebox and decor from the 1950s. I figured it was just an
old piece of the town history.
    But Waterfront Café is actually a lighthouse
building. It’s stony and gray, like it used to be white but the
weather beat the shiny paint away over the years. Blue and white
stripes wrap around the tower, and a black metal railing stretches
alongside the staircase that leads to the second floor.
    “There’s a gift shop above,” Rooks says,
pointing up the steps. “But they have the best biscuits in town,
and all the old guys come down here every morning for coffee.
Starbucks is a joke compared to this place.”
    A black metal sign with curly letters hangs
over the entrance. A faux driftwood wreath decorated with seashells
and starfish hangs on the door. Rooks leads the way inside. It’s
not as modern café as Starbucks, but it’s much nicer than an
old-timey diner. The hardwood floors are gray and rustic, almost
like they belong back in Tennessee rather than in a beach town.
    I follow him toward a back table, my heavy
beach bag still over my shoulder. As Rooks predicted, a group of
older men sit around a table drinking coffee and literally
discussing the weather. Rooks pulls out the gray metal chair and
motions for me to sit first.
    “Told you,” Rooks says. “They sit at that
same table every single day. They talk about the swells that come
in and how it’ll affect tourism and the fishermen. Sometimes they
talk about their time in the military or some old car they used to
drive, but it’s almost always about the seafood business.”
    I study them in their khakis and golfing
shorts, their polo shirts and their glasses, their gray hair and
their wrinkled faces. How many of them are Coral Sands natives? How
many retired here for the sushi and nice weather? I wonder if any
of them were here in 1965. I wonder if they were friends with
Seth.
    A young girl approaches our table, shielding
my view of the men. “Good morning,” she says a bit too cheerfully,
sort of like my mom. She places two plastic menus on the table.
“I’m Olivia and I’ll be taking care of you guys this morning. Can I
start you off with some coffee?”
    “Sweet tea, please,” I reply.
    Her faces scrunches like she can’t believe
anyone would digest anything other than coffee at this hour. “You
don’t want something to wake you up?” she asks.
    Rooks laughs. “She’s from Tennessee,” he
says. “That’s how they wake up there. Make it two sweet teas, if
you don’t mind.”
    She mutters something that sounds like ‘suit
yourself’ and walks away much less perky than she was when she
approached our table. A pallet of driftwood rests against the wall,
adorned with rope and seashells. My mom should really come down
here and check out the competition or at least ask who was in
charge of the design. If she wants to be an interior designer for
the coast, she needs to see what she’s up against.
    I drop my beach bag under the table but keep
it tucked between my leg and the nearby wall. I wish I’d had more
time to read last night. I wish Rooks would’ve