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Then last night, while he posted on his Instagram account about the possible marriage of restoration and green architecture, he saw a buddy from Cornell had been listed by Architectural Digest as an architect to follow on social media.

Mitch Dawson? Really? The guy turned in every project late.

Caleb pulled a couple of all-nighters just to help him out.

Comparison was the devil’s playground—Grandma’s mantra—but he still took a ride on the Why-Me Whirlybird and the Regret-o-Rama.

In the good news column, Lulu Chan, the muralist he’d contacted, happened to be free the first week of February. She quoted Caleb the friends-and-family rate, which Simon loved, especially since Duke’s contribution covered two-thirds of it.

Back in his office, he realized he’d not texted Emery lately. Which was surprising since he thought about her often. She’d gotten under his skin the day they met at the carnival. Making him ride the Ferris wheel—again—and wrapping her hand around his arm, leaning so close he could kiss her.

Yet he had doubts about taking up where they’d left off sixteen years ago. The summer of “then” was about two teens falling in love—at least for him—their first kiss, and making his troubles at home fade away.

Caleb:

Hey, Em. Can you put something in the paper about the next Main Street meeting on the 30th? The mural project is moving fast. We are lucky we caught Lulu between commissions. How’s your day?

Emery:

Can get the announcement in the Wed. edition. Visited more businesses about advertising. I’m not a salesperson. Blergh! That’s how my day went. You?

Caleb:

I have faith in you. Go get ’em. Things are slow here except for cleaning up after an 11 yr. old.

Emery:

Ha! I bet.

He stared at his phone, wanting to invite her to dinner, then Lizzie’s voice ran through his head. That he needed help. That he didn’t do relationships.

Was Sea Blue Beach his final stop? Was it Emery’s? Chances were the Gazette was a springboard for a larger paper.

Back in his office, he emailed the Main Street group about the next meeting. “Lulu will want preliminary ideas from us. If you have , get them to me now.”

By the time Bentley dashed into the house, calling, “I’m home” and dropping his backpack on the hardwood with a thud, Caleb had a dozen emails from Adele, Mercy, and Ivan.

One from Duke. Two from Simon. Most of them suggested images of the prince and Malachi Nickle, of the Starlight, the Sands Motor Motel, the Tidewater, and the Sunset Bowling Parlor.

Simon insisted on Immanuel being included.

“We’re not Sea Blue Beach without Him. He is ‘God with us.’ He saved the prince from drowning by washing him onto our shores.

Then sent Malachi Nickle to bring him home.

I think that’s the part of our heritage we’ re forgetting. So Immanuel must be included.”

Caleb wrote down all the suggestions, circling Immanuel , God with us.

Coming out of the office, he greeted Bentley, who had a fresh bowl of cereal sitting on the coffee table while he worked Minecraft magic.

“Take your bowl to the kitchen when you’re done, buddy,” Caleb said before he wandered into the crisp, cool air of the back porch.

Growing up in Sea Blue Beach, every kid and every adult knew about Immanuel, God with us.

The mural at the Starlight depicted Immanuel as a woodsman of sorts, dressed in a long coat and a Crocodile Dundee kind of hat, his brown hair tucked around his collar.

But it was his radiating eyes that captivated and perplexed Caleb.

Prince Blue had hired a renowned Italian artist to paint a picture of Him on the panels of the Starlight, with children of every nationality skating toward Him.

The prince had experienced Immanuel with his own eyes, walking toward him through the storm, by the light of a single star, as the Gulf’s tempest waves washed pieces of his wrecked yacht ashore alongside him.

Was He real or the result of a desperate man on a desperate night? Caleb hoped against hope He was real. Mom and Dad believed. But not Cassidy.

Leaning against the rail, Caleb watched a new set of dark clouds roll in, promising to make a ruckus later.

The lawn’s winter grass needed to be cut, which seemed like a good chore for Bentley.

But since Caleb was restless, maybe he’d break out the old push mower tomorrow, clear his head with the scent of freshly cut grass, stretch out a few tense kinks.

Back inside, he was about to tell Bentley to do his homework when he paused by the first box along the living room wall. It was marked Mementos .

Mom sent him to Seattle with this box of football trophies, the medallion from winning the county-wide middle school spelling bee, his high school diploma, and the framed acceptance letter from Cornell. And the last family photo when Cassidy was Cassidy.

Ripping away the packing tape on the box, Caleb pressed the flaps back and laughed.

Sitting on top of his letterman jacket was the cheap belt buckle he’d won for enduring the carnival’s mechanical bull.

He’d forgotten all about it until the carnival came to town.

How had Mom known to pack it? He’d had it with him in Seattle that whole time?

Setting the buckle on the coffee table, he reached for his letterman’s jacket. He was struggling with the snaps when Bentley peered over the back of the couch.

“Hey, what’s in the box? Is that your jacket?” He wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t fit.”

“Yes, it’s my jacket. No, it doesn’t fit since I’m all the way grown. Hey, finish your game and then homework.”

“Can I try that on?”

Caleb regarded the dark blue and white jacket with the N letter and the cluster of pins he collected for the years he lettered in three sports. He shrugged it off and tossed it to Bentley.

“Hey, it fits.” Bentley stood on the couch, arms wide. “Almost. Can I keep it? Until I earn my own?”

“Sure, but, buddy, I don’t think Minecraft is a sport.”

“I’m trying to talk Principal Tucker into making pickleball a school sport.”

Caleb smiled. “Are you now? Good for you.” In that moment, Bentley was his mother. She was always coming up with new ideas, challenging the norms. Asking, “Why not?”

Back to the Mementos box, he found a picture of Cassidy and baby Bentley. He carried it over to the bookshelf. That was a nice memory.

Around dinnertime, Mom called to see if they wanted to join them. Caleb declined since they’d eaten at his folks’ five nights out of the last seven. But Bentley wanted to go, dashing out the door and across the yard before Caleb could stop him.

He heated up leftover lasagna, poured a glass of wine, cut off all the lights but the two framing the sofa, and lit a fire. Reaching for the remote, he turned on SportsCenter. But the house was still too quiet...

Which gave him too much head space to think of Emery.

Why didn’t he just call her? Ask her to coffee, or lunch, or dinner?

Nearly all of their interactions had been random.

The awkward yet surprising exchange at Alderman’s Pharmacy.

Running into her at the carnival. Then the town council and Main Street meetings, which she attended in an official capacity as editor of the Gazette .

Dude , just call her.

As he took a fortifying bite of lasagna, his phone rang. He smiled when he saw Emery’s name.

“I was just going to text you,” he said. “What are you doing? Torturing some man by making him ride the Ferris wheel?”

“No, no, I reserve that fun for you.”

“I feel so special.”

“I’m standing on your front porch, freezing.”

When he opened the front door, Emery stood under the amber-colored porch light, wearing an Ohio State hoodie and socks for gloves.

“No one told me Florida winters were so cold.” She held up her hands. “I left my gloves in Cleveland.”

“It’s the wet air. It sinks into your bones. Come on in.”

As she crossed the threshold, Caleb exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. She felt right in this space. She looked good in this space.

“Caleb, wow, your place is gorgeous.” She pointed to the boxes. “And I love what you’ve done with the corrugated cardboard. Very green-forward. Is that part of your sustainable design plan?”

He laughed. “No, but now that you mention it...” He started for the kitchen. “Have you eaten? How’s leftover lasagna and a glass of wine sound?”

“Like heaven.” She tugged off her sock gloves and tucked them into her hoodie pocket. “Hey, do you have any contacts at the amphitheater? I’ve called and called about press passes to an upcoming Beach Boys concert, but no one will return my call.”

“Really? You’re the editor of the Gazette . Don’t they know about the power of the press? And no, I don’t have any connections there.” He moved into the kitchen. Emery followed.

“I’d reach out to Mac Diamond or Alfred Gallagher, but I know their kind. Favors always require payback.”

“You’d do better trying to sneak in.”

“Is Bentley here? I’ve not met him.”

“He’s at my folks’.”

“Then another time.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “So why haven’t you unpacked those boxes?”

“She goes straight to the hard questions, ladies and gentlemen.” Caleb set a square of lasagna on a plate and popped it in the microwave. “I don’t know. Lazy? Or maybe because I’m not sure this is permanent.”

“Why isn’t this place permanent?” She leaned forward to see his face, her eyes bright and sincere.

“For one, business is not good.”

“But you didn’t know that when the boxes arrived.”

“Then I don’t have an answer. Maybe I should just throw all the stuff out. After Grandma died, I helped Grandpa clean out her things. And guess what, Emery? You can’t take it with you. Other people won’t want your stuff unless it’s near priceless or really sentimental.”

“Mom went through her things before she died. She hired someone to come in while Dad and I were at school and work. We didn’t know what she was doing for a couple of weeks.

Then I saw some photo albums and her high school yearbooks in a box marked Garbage .

I rescued those. After she died, we realized how much she’d given or thrown away, but the house .

.. the place where she cooked dinners and decorated for holidays and entertained was still there.

For me, it felt like she was still with us.

Then Dad met Joanna, got married, and we moved.

That was hard because it was like a final good-bye to Mom. ”

“But you kept the things that really mattered.” The microwaved beeped, and Caleb decided the lasagna needed another minute. “Look in that drawer by the sink for utensils.”

“I have her pearls.” Emery selected a fork from a rather nice collection. “I’ll be the fifth generation to wear them on my wedding day. I like to think Mom will be with me.”

“Do you want to get married?” He shot a glance her way but didn’t linger.

“I love the idea of being in a committed relationship with someone I love. And who loves me. My parents were a good example. But I’m not sure I know how to find that guy.

I’m starting to realize how much Mom’s death affected me.

Like I don’t cling to things. I reserve my heart.

I get scared the other shoe will drop, like something happening to Dad.

I want to move past that way of thinking, though, because Mom always chose to love. ”

“She’d be proud of you, Emery.”

“I’d hope so. What about you? Is marriage on the drafting table?” Emery followed him to the living room with her plate and glass of wine.

Caleb wished her bon appétit and considered his answer. With the fire and lamplight low, the living room was cozy and romantic, perfect for being vulnerable for half a second. And it was Emery Quinn. The one who made things right. The girl against whom he’d measured all others.

He washed down a bite with a sip of wine. “I want to get married.” He glanced over at her. “To the right girl.”

When she smiled, heaven help him, he wanted to set aside their plates and pull her onto his lap and hold her. Kiss her. But the slamming kitchen door ended that idea.

Bentley dashed into the room. “I’m home. Early.” He skidded to a stop, his eyes on Emery. “Hello.”

“You must be Bentley.”

“And who are you?” He glanced at Caleb with sly grin. “Is this why you didn’t want to eat at Grandma’s?”

“No. Emery stopped by just as I was getting ready to eat.”

Bentley’s sly grin widened. “How convenient.”

“Bent, politely introduce yourself, then get to the shower,” Caleb said. The boy was too clever for his own britches.

“I’m Bentley, the nephew,” he said, shaking her hand, then rocking the house as he bounded up the stairs and down the hall.

“Make sure to pick up your wet towel when you’re done!” Caleb called after him.

“I can see why you like having him around,” Emery said. “My little sister Blakely was always asking those poignant or embarrassing questions at his age.”

“So, what would you tell him if he asked why you came by tonight?” Caleb stabbed at his lasagna, waiting for her answer.

“I’d say to see his Uncle Caleb, my only friend in town.”