For years, the Crab Pot had been “their” restaurant. In the hot, lazy days of a Northwest summer, they’d walked there, strolled along the beach at low tide, often having contests along the way. There were prizes awarded, usually a two-scoop ice cream cone, for the first one to find an agate, a sand dollar, a perfect white rock.
In years past, Michael had come with them. He’d carried brightly colored buckets, plastic shovels, armloads of towels, and bags of sunscreen. But in the months since his father’s death, he’d changed. Maybe if he could go back in time for just a second, just long enough to remember, he could give Jolene the one thing she needed most tonight: her family together before she left. She needed to know that Michael would do a good job with the girls, and that he would be waiting for her return, that she still had a husband to come home to.
“Come on, you guys,” Jolene said again. “Let’s go to the Crab Pot for dinner.”
Only Lulu cheered.
“It’s too cold,” Betsy said, thumbing through the songs on her iPod, adjusting her earbuds. “No one goes to the Pot until summer. Only old people will be there.”
Michael pointed the remote at the TV, flipping through channels. In the silence, he shrugged.
That was enough agreement for Jolene. “Perfect. We’re going, then. Get your coats, guys. It might be cold out.” She spent the next ten minutes herding her family through the checklist—coats, boots, and blankets. She threw four beach chairs in the back of her car, just in case, and ten minutes later they were driving down the winding road that followed the shoreline.
The Crab Pot diner was a local institution. Built fifty years ago by a Norwegian fisherman, it was a small, shingled building positioned on a perfect lip of land between the road and the sand. A weathered gray deck fanned out all around it, decorated with picnic tables and surrounded by fencing draped in fishing nets and strung with Christmas lights. In the summer, red and white plastic tablecloths covered the tables, but in the off-season, when only the locals stopped by, the tables were bare.
Inside, the uneven floor was a thick layer of sand, reportedly brought in from the wild coast near Kalaloch. The wooden walls were barely visible beneath multicolored bits of memorabilia—pictures, expired fishing licenses, dollar bills. Whatever someone wanted to tack up was fine. There were even a few bras and panties stuck in amidst the papers.
Lulu knew just where to go. She marched into the place as if she owned it, went right to the window by the cash register, and pointed up. “That’s us,” she said to anyone who might be listening. There were only a few patrons in the restaurant, and none of them looked up.
The waitress, a white-haired woman who’d been there as long as anyone could remember, said, “Of course it is, Lulu. It’s my favorite picture of you, too.”
Lulu beamed.
The waitress—Inga—led them to a table by the door. “You want the usual?” she asked, pulling a pen out of her hair. It was just for show, that pen; no one had ever seen Inga actually write down an order.
“You bet,” Jolene said, trying to sound happy. “Two Dungeness crabs, four drawn butters, and two orders of garlic bread.”
They took their places on the twin benches—Michael and Betsy on one side, Lulu and Jolene on the other. All through the meal, Jolene tried to keep up a lively conversation, but, honestly, by the time they were taking off their plastic bibs, she was disheartened. Really, only she and Lulu had talked. Michael and Betsy had pretty much communicated by shrugs and grunts. They were both unhappy on this last night, and they wanted Jolene to know it. At least that was what she figured. Michael was paying the bill when the Flynns walked into the restaurant.
“Perfect,” Betsy said, slumping forward in her seat, letting her hair fall across her face.
“Tami!” Jolene got to her feet and stepped around the table, hugging her friend tightly. She should have known they’d all show up here together. Pulling back, she smiled, said, “Photo op!”
Tami and Seth and Carl immediately came together, looped their arms around each other and smiled brightly for the camera. Jolene captured their image in the clunky old Polaroid camera the Crab Pot kept for its guests’ use. It was another part of their tradition; every visit included a family photo to be tacked on the wall. “Got it,” she said. The Flynns gathered around her, watching their picture develop. When it was done—and it was a good one—Carl pinned it to the wall by the door.
“Your turn,” Tami said, taking the camera from Jolene.