He maneuvered the car onto the main road and drove off in the direction of the Seaside Resort, leaving only her breakfast to tantalize her. She tore a piece of crispy bacon in half, ate it, and immediately savored the smoky, salty flavors. No wonder Dalton’s dog had been wagging its tail.

She reached for her phone, reread the same ten emails she’d read before, and then set the phone facedown. The tethers pulling her back north felt as real as a phantom limb. “Let it go, Ivy. Focus. New life. Whatever that means.”

She ate her breakfast, scrounged a generous five-buck tip, and made her way out. The next order of business was shopping for food and cleaning supplies.

She had enough money in savings to last her a few months. Her birthday was in exactly fifteen days, leaving her at least a month or two of cushion until she sold the cottage.

As she walked out of the store, she grabbed the local weekly paper from the stand and headed to her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she switched on the heat, sipped coffee, and thumbed through the slim edition. Not much was happening this time of year on the Outer Banks, so the articles were mostly about winterizing homes, the odd business closing or opening, and, of course, gearing up for the season, which unofficially began the week before Easter. Used to be the season stretched from June to September, but virtual work and learning had stretched it from March to December.

At the hardware store, she grabbed a cart as she entered, located the moving-supply section, and made her way down the empty aisle. One trip down, and her cart was filled with moving boxes, garbage bags, and cleaning supplies. She ran her card at the self-checkout, crossing her fingers that it would go through, and when it did, she was $161 lighter and releasing the breath she’d been holding. First priority after selling the house would be paying her landlord and then settling her credit card debt. Ruth had lived her life balancing debts, and Ivy had done the same, though she was never comfortable with paying the minimum and being one swipe away from a denied purchase.

Vincenzo’s had cut back on employee salaries fourteen months ago in an effort to keep the doors open. They were slicing costs where they could, they’d announced at the nightly staff family dinner before the evening service. Being a team player, she’d gone along, but the smaller paycheck had deepened her reliance on credit. But times were supposed to get better; hang tough, and everyone would get a bonus when the restaurant paid down the bridge loans and started making money again. So far, no bonus.

She bagged up her purchases, wheeled her cart outside to her van, and tossed them in the back. She’d had little money in her pocket when she’d moved to New York twelve years ago, and she’d turned nothing into something. She’d do it again, only better.