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Never really considered leaving.”
    I nodded, looking at the sprawling expanse of beach. “Well, being on the island again”—I paused and looked around—“I guess it makes me wonder why I ever left. I don’t miss New York at all right now.”
    “So what brings you here this month?”
    Didn’t I already tell him that I’m visiting my aunt? Wasn’t that explanation enough? I wasn’t about to explain that I was running from my past, which in a sense I was, or that I was trying to figure out my future, or that, heaven forbid, I’d just been divorced. I took a deep breath and said instead, “I’m doing research for my next book.”
    “Oh,” he said. “You’re a writer?”
    “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. I hated the self-importance of my tone. Could any of this really be considered research? As usual, the moment I started talking about my career I began to feel vulnerable.
    “Wow,” he said. “So what do you write?”
    I told him about Calling Ali Larson and he stopped suddenly. “You’re kidding,” he said. “They made that into a movie, right?”
    I nodded. “How about you?” I said, suddenly eager to change the subject. “What do you do?”
    “I’m an artist,” he answered. “A painter.”
    My eyes widened. “Oh, wow, I’d love to see your work sometime.” But the second I spoke, I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Could I be any more awkward, any rustier? Have I completely forgotten how to talk to a man?
    Instead of acknowledging the statement, he flashed a half grin before kicking his foot in the sand, dislodging a piece of driftwood that had been trapped. “Can you believe the beach this morning?” he said, pointing to the debris scattered along the shoreline. “There must have been quite a storm last night.”
    I loved the beach after a storm. When I was thirteen, a banker’s bag washed up on this same beach with exactly $319 inside—I know because I counted out every bill—along with a waterlogged handgun. Bee called the police, who traced the remnants to a bank robbery gone wrong seventeen years prior. Seventeen years. The Puget Sound is like a time machine, hiding things and then spewing them back onto its shores at the time and place of its choosing.
    “So you said you’ve lived here on the island all your life—then you must know my aunt.”
    He nodded. “Know her? You could say that.”
    Bee’s house lay a few steps ahead. “Would you like to come in?” I said. “You could say hello to Bee.”
    He hesitated, as if remembering something or someone. “No,” he said, squinting as he looked cautiously up toward the windows. “No, I better not.”
    I bit the edge of my lip. “OK,” I replied. “Well, I’ll see you around, then.”
    That was that, I told myself, making my way to the back door. Why did he seem so uncomfortable ?
    “Wait, Emily,” Jack called out from the beach a few moments later.
    I turned around.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little out of practice.” He pushed a piece of his dark hair out of his eyes, and the wind blew it right back where it was. “I was just wondering if you’d like to come to dinner,” he said, “at my house. Saturday night at seven?”
    I stood there looking at him, waiting to open my mouth. It took a few seconds, but I found my voice, and my head. “I’d love that,” I said, nodding.
    “See you then, Emily,” he said, grinning bigger.
    I had noticed Bee watching us from the window, but when I entered the house from the mudroom she had moved to the couch.
    “So I see you’ve met Jack,” she said, her eyes fixed on her crossword puzzle.
    “Yes,” I said. “He was at Henry’s today.”
    “Henry’s?” Bee said, looking up. “What were you doing there?”
    “I was on a walk this morning, and I ran into him on the beach.” I shrugged. “He invited me in for coffee.”
    Bee looked concerned.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    She set her pencil down and looked up at me. “Be careful,” she said