“Difficult. Angry. Grouchy Tripp,” he said. “Marigold has it right. After Emma, I defaulted to a shadow life. I thought it best to be numb, hoard my pain, and be what everyone needed me to be. But healing doesn’t happen that way. It’s a slow poisoning, holding the agony in. That’s what happened to me. It’ll affect you somehow, too. It’s better to deal with it as it comes rather than letting it fester into something worse.”

My head swam with questions, starting with something worse? But quickly circling back to him and wanting to know more about what he went through. Wanting to know more generally. What’s Grady Tripp like in love? In sadness? In heartbreak? Why does a man so kind and with so much to offer shut himself off from the world?

I couldn’t respond, but trapped by his signature soul-penetrating stare, I couldn’t move either.

A soft smile played on his lips as he took me in and said, “I’m here, Marina. Whatever you are. Whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready to fall apart.”

Then, when my silence assured him that it wouldn’t be tonight or ever, he left.

Now, similar misgivings swirl into a Marnie-thought-tornado. I don’t know how to be whatever and certainly can’t fall apart. No matter how much my edges curl under the heat of my general brokenness, I cannot and will not let myself become more vulnerable than I already am.

The best way to fight vulnerability and stay out of my emotional rapids is by staying busy.

I scoop up my phone again and go to my Instagram account. My Instagram account, not theirs, I remind myself, first changing the password.

I change my handle from MarnieLovesSunny’s to MarnieSavestheG&G. I share a tasteful post featuring a picture of the G&G and inviting everyone to follow my updates on its transformation.

Then, I gather my supplies and get to work.

Days pass in a blur of sketches, ideas, and research. I construct a strong reinvention plan for the G&G and schedule an all-hands meeting for Wade and company on Saturday morning.

A call to Alice Harvey of Lavender Fields Forever, a vendor I recruited for Sunny’s and a growing friend with many contacts, solves my transportation issue. Within hours of asking Alice if she knew of a reliable used vehicle for a good price, she and her husband, Jack, deliver his 1977 Ford Bronco, a rusty, dulled mint green convertible truck with rips in the leather seats, no working radio or AC, and a sizable dent on the rear bumper.

“She purrs like a kitten, though,” Jack assures me, starting her up. “And drives like a dream, especially on the beach.”

The truck doesn’t have the modern conveniences of my former car, but it oozes character.