As a result of all my baking, Busy’s smelled like sugary pecans. The aromatic, spicy scent of cinnamon and nuts brought back fond memories of winters I’d spent with Penny and Chad, all of us tucked away in her parents’ kitchen, eating fruitcake and spilling sugar on the floor, then arguing about who would wipe it up. It was usually Chad, since it was Penny’s house and her parents’ stolen mulled wine, and in solidarity, she’d point out that it couldn’t be me since I’d made the fruitcake.

Still reliving old memories before closing time, I arranged some spice cake and hot black tea for Ralph to carry out, while Lucy made a gift arrangement of mango-macadamia cake and oatmeal-walnut cookies to deliver tomorrow.

The last of our customers skedaddled out the door into the navy-blue, ink-splotched sky. The days were getting darker earlier, and the air cooler, to match. From here, I could see autumn poking its head around the corner. The dog days of summer were behind us, replaced by shivery night chill and a vibrant carnival of colors. Pastel-colored houses, shrouded in leafy canopies of green and gold and merlot, glowed with a marzipan ethereality. Lampposts and restaurant windows slanted just enough shadows and illumination to look eerie, the boat on the beach the unsuspecting backdrop for accidental shadow puppetry.

Tonight was the Burning Boat Festival. Summer already seemed like a faded memory.

“Hurry! It’s about to start,” said Lucy.

“I heard you the first time,” I said with a laugh.

Within ten minutes, we’d locked up and run to the beach, our feet kicking up sand, our laughs caught and swallowed by the wind.

Down on the beach, a crowd had already gathered, stacking logs inside the boat so the fire would burn long and hard through the night, burning down to crackling embers by morning. This was Tom’s year to light the fire; he crouched down and started the blaze. White smoke would soon curl upward, swelling the air with the sweet spice of autumn, making everyone yearn for sweet apples, just off the branch, and pecan pies, warm out of the oven.

Our friends were already there, part of the circle that surrounded the bonfire. Penny stood next to Chad, her hair disheveled from the wind. With the light casting shadows on her face, her cheekbones and jawline looked sharp enough to cut a man. She wore a shapeless black dress that billowed around her thin frame. Penny fiddled with the sleeve of the cardigan tied around her waist before catching my eye. Her smile was a thousand things all at once: I’m sorry, I miss you, I love you, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.