Page 35 of Our Bay Will Come

But as Cilla launches into a story about her department politics, part of my mind stays fixed on the possibility that has quietly taken root inside me—a future I never expected to want in a place I never expected to belong.

"Fine, fine," Cilla laughs, picking up her coffee. "But you should know, I'm fully prepared to be the cool aunt who spoils your future children rotten."

"You're impossible," I mutter, but I can't help smiling.

Our server arrives with our lunch—a Cobb salad for me and Cilla's usual turkey club—providing a welcome distraction from my sister's matchmaking. As we eat, I notice how at ease Cilla seems here, greeting other patrons by name and exchanging pleasantries with our server about her dog's recent surgery. She's integrated into this community in a way I wouldn't have thought possible six months ago.

"So," I say, changing the subject, "how's the dissertation coming along? Still on track to finish by spring?"

Cilla's eyes light up the way they always do when discussing her research. "I think so. My advisor loved my last chapter. She thinks I have a solid contribution to the history of the"

"Look at you, all academic and impressive."

"Says the woman whose design was just featured in Seattle Home Magazine."

I wave her off. "That was just a small spread."

"Don't downplay it. It's a big deal." She points her fork at me. "You've built something special with your business, Prue."

"Thanks." I push a cherry tomato around my plate. "I've been thinking about taking on another partner. The workload is getting to be a lot."

"Really? That's a huge step for you. It took a lot for you to trust Rory with your precious business."

"I know. Me, sharing control—who would've thought?"

Cilla gives me a knowing look. "Sounds like someone's learning to let other people in."

"Maybe," I concede. "Or maybe I'm just tired of working sixty-hour weeks."

After lunch, Cilla suggests we walk along the waterfront. The August air is surprisingly crisp but not yet bitter, perfect for strolling. We pass families flying kites, couples walking hand-in-hand, tourists snapping photos of the lighthouse.

"I went whale watching with Rowan a few weeks ago," Cilla says, her voice animated. "We saw a pod of orcas—it was incredible, Prue. They were so close to the boat."

"You and your orca obsession." I bump her shoulder affectionately. "I remember when Mom and Dad took us to that marine park, and you refused to leave the orca tank."

"I was five! And they're magnificent creatures." She pauses, watching the horizon. "Rowan's talking about getting his boat certified for tours. Says I've given him the idea."

"Sounds like you two are making plans."

"Small ones." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives me a goofy smile. "It's scary how easy it is with him, you know? Like I don't have to try so hard to be understood."

I think of Fox and how he seems to read my moods without me saying a word. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

We stop at a bench overlooking the bay. In the distance, fishing boats are returning with their day's catch, seagulls swooping overhead.

"Mom called yesterday," Cilla says after a moment. "She wants to know if we're both coming home for Thanksgiving."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I wasn't sure yet. Rowan's invited me to spend it with his family." She looks at me sideways. "Would you hate me if I stayed here?"

"Of course not." I squeeze her hand. "But Mom might disown you."

"I think you could come here instead. Bring Fox to meet the family?"

I nearly choke. "Meet the parents? We've been dating for like five minutes."

"It’s practically two months. That’s hardly five minutes. And it doesn't have to be a big deal." She shrugs. "Just an idea."

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