resurface

7

Overnight everything changed.

The press picked up on Ivy's return, and almost immediately cameras, helicopters, bloggers and true crime nuts disguised as wide-eyed tourists rolled in.

Summer came to Seaside early.

Saturday morning just before seven am, I locked my bike on the rack just outside the boardwalk entrance and smiled at Sheriff Platt who was leaning against the railing. From his usual perch, he could see everything going on down the boardwalk in one direction, and he had a clear line of sight down the main road in the other.

"Thank you, Emma," he said as I climbed the steps. He had a thing for riding bikes or skateboarding or rollerblading on the boardwalk. It was "not allowed."

"Of course," I said. I had a thing for convenience so I compromised by doing what I wanted during the winter and listening to him in the summer. He didn't really see it as a compromise, but he'd been pretty hard pressed to prove to my grandmother that riding my bike on the boardwalk was illegal when he tried to ticket me a few years ago.

I was in a good mood, almost dare I say...ready for a little excitement. I was two weeks away from graduation and all I had to look forward to was community college—or really, high school 2.0. I was ready to stop hearing about everyone else outside of Seaside who was off to a real university with a dorm and a roommate they didn't know and a meal plan curtesy of the their parents.

During the summer, I would be too busy to think about all the fun plans I didn't have. And with Ivy back, things would be better. She was still back. She was alive. It didn't get much better than that.

At least, that was how I felt until I opened up the saltwater taffy shop, and found myself working with Grady Bennett.

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. He and I worked together most of last summer too. But I was. Summer kids usually only slummed it for a few weeks before deciding a Seaside job was less glamorous than they'd imagined. Grady lasted a full year, sure, but I didn't think he'd be back for more. Especially since he was in college now. He would have finished his freshman year. I couldn't remember where, even though he'd talked about it quite a bit last year, some Ivy League school though. I expected him to be interning in the city or traveling across Europe instead of here making taffy with me.

I was wrong.

"Top of the morning to you!" he said with his traditional enthusiasm as I held the door open for him. He was wide awake, smiling his entirely too friendly trademark smile. His light blue eyes stood out against his dark skin making them too intense and too alert for so early in the morning. He paused in the doorway, as he extended a paper cup my way. "For you, with skim milk and a lot of sugar."

It was warm in my hand, the aroma of caffeine automatically brushing some of the sleep away from my eyes.

"Thanks," I said because he was waiting for me to say something.

"You're welcome!" He was so enthusiastic, he practically bounced as he came inside.

He was back and he hadn't changed a bit. Even his fashion sense had the same quirky preppy look: gray t-shirt, pink tie, cargo shorts and a pair of old beat up vans.

I flipped the lights on and headed to the kitchen. Most of the taffy we sold now was made by a bunch of guys off site. It was an automated assembly line process and they shipped boxes of the stuff all over the country to fill our internet orders in addition to dropping them off for us to sell from the store.

But it still tasted better when it was handmade and Anderson's was famous for more than just being that little boardwalk shop that had sold salt water taffy since 1885. We let tourists come stand out on the boardwalk and stare into the picture window to watch us in action. We made several batches each day.