They aren’t exactly strangers, but they aren’t friends, either. The story of my life.

I know them all in one way or another. Carmela from the pharmacy. Mack from delivering his eggs and dairy products to Sunny’s—another idea of mine, local vendors—and his arguments with Cora over her inflating the prices. Colin’s face is plastered all over Seagrove, being the town’s only real estate agent. His wife, Tamsyn is a frequent customer at Sunny’s and a keen produce selector. We once got into a lovely discussion over finding the perfect cantaloupe. Their kids, Zach and Zoe, love the candy bar at Sunny’s. Luke practically runs Rebellion, the best restaurant in town. His wife, Willow, looks like a bohemian princess and frequents Sunny’s section of natural beauty products. I don’t see Elena often—she must shop at Food Lion—but I feel like I know her, considering Jim and his chocolate chip birthday cakes. I graduated from Seagrove High before Marigold, but after Gil—he’s the one I know best since we both worked on The Sound of Music together; he was in charge of sound.

Carmela reaches me, going straight for a gentle hug and then grabbing my free hand to pull me into the house. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

She means it, though I feel like a spare card mixed into the wrong deck.

“Come to the kitchen. It’s taco night. Hope you’re hungry.”

With me occupied, attention diverts to Grady—his father asking for his help with hay tomorrow, Colin reminding him about Zoe’s bake sale, Gil asking about a trip to GameStop, and other requests that I don’t hear as Carmela moves me into the kitchen.

“Hope you like tacos… I could warm up something if you don’t… How’re those headaches?”

I ramble off quick answers, dazed by her beautiful but intense attention. I see where Grady gets it from, though I imagine he wouldn’t like that observation pointed out.

Mom’s voice stirs in my head. “Let’s move south, find out if there’s anything to Southern hospitality.” Her idea took us to Virginia briefly. Then, six towns in North Carolina, like we were having trouble finding the elusive cliché. Until Seagrove, where I found it, but she didn’t. I wonder if Mom’s still searching.

The grand kitchen island seats eight with bar stools around all sides but one, where Carmela moves to turn off a burner and fixes me a plate.

Games resume in the great room. Pop music plays on the large TV perched above the mantel, and a light show matches the beats on the screen. Elena follows us into the kitchen, grabbing an open bottle of red from the drink station.

“Wine, Marnie?” she asks. “Are you a red or a white?”