Page 7 of Every Beautiful Mile

I’m reaching out because I read your write-up in American Restaurant on local ingredient sourcing for Mainely Local. I’m wondering if I can pick your brain on logistics. We have a restaurant in Florida that we'd apparently like to change.

Thanks, Penelope Crawford

Two

The words my dad says stick in my head like an annoying song I can’t shake all afternoon and into the evening as I make dinner.

Go through his things.

Let yourself have fun.

Let your kids have fun with you.

Let him go a little.

I look around the familiar kitchen. The same kitchen Travis had walked into every afternoon of our entire marriage. Like every day in the last year, my heart waits for him to walk in while my head knows he never will.

“Well, Nel…” he would say, loving the way the words rhymed. “Tell me how you broke the hearts of every man on this island today.”

Then I’d laugh and pretend I didn’t love how he thought that’s what happened when I was behind the bar.

The fabricated memory expands then pops like a bubble with a lash to my heart.

As I grab the carrots from the refrigerator, a faded newspaper clipping beneath a gaudy seashell magnet catches my eye.

Key Largo Pilot Travis Crawford Aids in Hurricane Irma Relief Efforts

The title is bold, just like he was, above a picture of him with his token broad smile as he leans against his seaplane wearing a Columbia shirt. His sand-colored hair is handsomely messy, and permanent dimples are carved into his cheeks. It’s not in color, but I can imagine the green of his shirt, the tan of his skin, and the gray of his eyes against the bold red stripe of the plane.

I wipe my hand on a dishtowel and trace the faded lines with a finger.

Most of the time, he had flown private charter planes in and out of the Keys, but when a hurricane hit a few years ago, he used his seaplane to help in relief efforts to deliver supplies to islands with closed bridges. He became a hometown hero.

The sound of the front door opening and closing pulls me back to reality.

“Hey, Mom!”

Marin drops her backpack on the floor and tugs at the scarf that ties back her stylish blonde pixie haircut.

I drop my hand from the clipping and smile at her. “Hey, kid! How was school?”

“Meh. The usual. Girls are dramatic, boys are idiots, my teachers are clueless.”

Her strawberry-colored lips smile, dropping when she sees the cutting board I’ve been working at.

“You cut a cucumber?”

It’s more of a question than a statement as her blue-gray eyes—Travis’ eyes—widen slightly, and she steps toward me.

“Umm, yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’m making a salad to go with burgers tonight. I thought we could eat on the patio and grill.”

I try to say it nonchalantly. I try to say it in a way that ignores the fact that for a year, most of my cooking was in the form of boxes of macaroni and cheese, frozen pizza, or reheating something I brought home from work.

“Okay,” she says, dragging the word out with skepticism.

She looks between the bowl of chopped vegetables and my face then gives me an unexpected hug—as though I’ve done something amazing—before wordlessly walking to the table and spreading her books across it to start her homework.

I stop, mid-rinse of the carrots, and look at her.

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