Jennifer Estep: By a Thread

I just nodded, not sure what I should say to Bria, not sure what I could say to make things better. The sharp edge of grief might dull with time, but it never truly went away. The cruel blade was always in your heart, just waiting to be twisted in again at a moment’s notice and remind you of everything and everyone you’d lost. I knew that better than anyone.

Bria had done what she’d needed to do, so she headed toward the gate, her steps slow and her shoulders slumped. I stayed behind, giving her some space, and waited until she was out of earshot before I looked down at the two graves.

“Thank you for watching over her,” I said in a soft voice. “For taking care of and protecting and loving her when she needed it the most.”

I knew it was silly, but I said the words anyway. I didn’t know if Harry and Henrietta Coolidge could hear me wherever they were, but they deserved my thanks, even if I was the only one who’d ever know that I’d given it to them.

“Gin?” Bria called out in a soft voice.

I turned and walked toward the cemetery gate, leaving the quiet shadows behind.

We walked to the convertible in silence, and Bria drove us back out toward the edge of the island. I’d thought we’d go straight to the hotel, but she surprised me by turning into a sandy lot that faced the ocean about a mile from the Blue Sands resort.

The unpaved lot fronted a restaurant made out of weathered boards. The wood might have been a soft blue at one time, but the wind had blasted it with so much sand over the years that the building was now a pale, washed-out gray. Several fiberglass picnic tables done in bright shades of electric blue squatted in the sand outside the ramshackle structure, while a neon sign the same color burned above the screen door. One by one, the letters lit up to form the restaurant’s name— The Sea Breeze —before a tube lit up around them all, forming a clamshell.

I eyed the blue clamshell. The sign reminded me of the heart-and-arrow rune that glowed outside Northern Aggression, my friend Roslyn’s nightclub in Ashland.

“Does an elemental run this place?” I asked. “Because that’s a rune if I ever saw one. That clamshell. It’s a symbol for hidden treasure.”

Dwarves, vampires, giants. Most magic types used a rune to identify themselves, their power, their business connections, and even their family alliances. Humans used runes too, but the practice seemed to be the most common among elementals.

For the first time since we’d left the cemetery, a smile creased Bria’s face. “Nah, she’s not an elemental, but Callie owns this place. The clamshell is her idea of a joke, of saying that her restaurant is a buried treasure just waiting to be discovered, like a pearl inside an oyster, although everyone on Blue Marsh already knows just how good the food is. C’mon, I told her that I’d swing by for dinner tonight, and I’m dying for some of her hush puppies. They’re amazing.”

My sister got out of the car, and I followed her. It was after six now, and the dinner rush was on. Lots of folks must have had the same opinion Bria did about the food because cars filled the sandy lot. I could see a dozen people eating outside at the picnic tables and even more crammed inside through the porthole-shaped windows. Waitresses bustled back and forth from the restaurant, through the rows of tables, and inside again, each one carrying white platters filled with shrimp as big as the palm of my hand and lobsters as long as my arm.

As much as I liked cooking, seafood wasn’t really my thing. I supposed because shrimp and the like reminded me too much of the crawdads I used to catch as a kid in the creeks in the woods that surrounded Fletcher’s house. Crawdads were slimy little suckers with sharp, nasty pinchers, and they’d made my fingers bleed more than once over the years. Deep-fried or not, I had no desire to stuff one into my mouth.

Bria wove through the crowd before pulling open the screen door and stepping inside the restaurant. I followed her and stood by the door a moment, taking in the scene before me.

The Sea Breeze was just what its name implied—a seaside joint with the island decor to match. Sand dollars, starfish, and spiked sea urchins preserved and mounted inside glass cases hung on the walls, along with thick fishing nets, spears, and even a few cracked oars. A wooden counter with polished brass railing ran along one wall, but what caught my eye was that a long, skinny boat had been placed on top of the counter, its hull sinking into the wood like it was bobbing along on top of the ocean. The boat then formed a bar where people could sit, eat, and drink. Clever. It matched the rest of the weathered interior and looked like something right out of The Old Man and the Sea , which was the latest book I was reading for a summer literature class that I planned on taking at Ashland Community College.

The inside of the restaurant was just as crowded as the outside, and we had to wait several minutes before two seats opened up at the end of the bar. The bartender came over, took our food orders, and mixed up a couple of drinks for us—a mojito for Bria and a gin and tonic with a twist of lime for me.

Bria put down her menu and looked at the bartender. “Tell Callie that Bria’s finally here and to come say hi when she has a minute, okay?”

He nodded and pushed through a set of double doors, stepping into the back of the restaurant. Bria swiveled around on her stool so that she could look at all the folks enjoying their food. A smile curved her lips, and her blue eyes misted over with memories. It was obvious that she loved the restaurant and felt at home here.

I didn’t begrudge Bria her trip down memory lane, but I couldn’t help but be a little hurt by it. My sister had never looked so happy and relaxed at the Pork Pit—not once.

“Callie and I grew up together in Blue Marsh, and we were inseparable as kids,” Bria said. “Her family’s owned this restaurant for three generations now. I probably spent more time here as a kid and playing on the beach outside than I did at my own house. I think I told you about her once, about how you reminded me of her.”

Bria had talked pretty much nonstop about Callie Reyes the last few days, ever since we’d decided to come here for a vacation. From everything Bria had said, I knew that Callie was more than just her friend, that Callie was like a sister to her—the sister I wasn’t.

Callie was the one Bria had grown up with, the one she’d laughed and giggled and gossiped with. Callie was the one who’d held Bria when she’d cried over the deaths of her parents. Callie was the one who’d seen to the funeral arrangements and made sure that Bria was okay afterward. Callie was the one who’d always been around when I hadn’t.

I respected Callie’s role in my sister’s life, was glad that she’d always been there for Bria, but part of me couldn’t help but be jealous of the other woman as well. Of course, I couldn’t tell Bria that, not without making things worse between us than they already were—especially not now when I was in the other woman’s restaurant, in her gin joint.

“Of course, I remember,” I said, my voice a little colder than I would have liked. “You told me all about how you lived in Savannah awhile before your foster parents moved out to Blue Marsh when you were ten. I remember everything you tell me about your life down here.”

Bria eyed me, picking up on my hostile tone, but before she could call me on it, a waitress came over with our food—a steamy plate of shrimp scampi with a basket of deep-fried hush puppies for Bria and a Jamaican jerk chicken sandwich with thin, crispy sweet potato fries for me.