Page 14 of The Billionaire Is Back

I read it out loud: “The lobster training is takinglonger than expected. They’re telling me it’s in a very precarious place.” It wouldn’t matter how many times I look at it or say it, I will never understand what that means without guidance. But I don’t bother asking.

ME: So Dad’s doing okay?

MOM: Yes, he’s fine.

ME: Good. Where’s the cake?

MOM: Sweet Treats on Main. By the flower shop.

ME: I know where it is. I got it. See you soon.

MOM: See you soon honey. Oh, I just can’t wait! I love you!

ME: Love you too.

I climb back into my car. The fact that there is no one waiting here and that I have no idea what she’s talking about just confirms what a bad job I’ve done keeping up with the people I grew up with. I suppose I deserve to pick up my own welcome-home cake. I mean, at least theygotme a cake.

That’s the key to being successful. Don’t focus on what you don’t have or can’t control.

My father is alive, and soon he’s going to be well. I’m home. I’m getting cake. The deal is done, and I’ll have time to catch up with the people I love and care about.

Life is good.

I pull out of my parents’ driveway and make my way toward Sweet Treats, lookingforward to saying hi to Buddy and Ruthie. I wonder if I’ll see anyone from high school on Main Street.

As I get closer to the center of town, the buildings huddle closer together, almost like they’re jostling each other to get closer to the water. But instead of New York’s tall, aggressive, beyond-human-scale buildings that are in a life-or-death struggle for dominance, these buildings look like they’re hugging each other rather than throwing elbows.

The town is exactly as I left it, except it looks like it’s been Photoshopped to appear brighter and prettier. Maine itself is not a state that’s gaining in population, but small coastal towns like Beacon Harbor make enough money from tourists to stay thriving and vibrant.

The money doesn’t change it or make it grow into something new. The fact that it’s a coastal New England town where tourists come to get away from their hectic lives for a slice of seaside Americana keeps the town in stasis. It is literally the job of this main street to remain as cute as it is for all eternity. Whatever changes that have happened in the last few decades are invisible. I’m sure every business has broadband Wi-Fi and cable or satellite TV. But I’m also sure a snapshot of the streets would look almost the same in 1950 as they do now in the twenty-first century, aside from the make and model of the cars lining them.

I park right outside the bakery, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve gone to the wrong address. Now, this place looks completely different. Buddy was an old-school baker with an old-school bakery. It was all velvet drapes and looping cursive writing on the signage and menus. Ihave very fond memories of coming here as a kid for birthday cakes, cupcakes, all manner of good delicious stuff that no longer touches my body now that I know about nutrition. His storefront is completely transformed and nothing like I remember.

From the street I can see through the giant window that the interior walls are clean and white, the floors and furniture are weathered gray wood. It looks like all the houses at the end of those home-remodeling shows. He must’ve hired a young person to design it because it looks fresh and new. As I walk into the store, the bell above the door pleasantly announces my entry. It’s like walking into an Instagram post. I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed.

Half the lights are off, and it’s eerily quiet. I’m about to say something since the bell didn’t do its job, when the stillness is punctured by someone bursting through the swinging doors that connect to the kitchen in the back.

My heart seizes.

Claire. Claire Sweeney is coming toward me.

Those gray-blue eyes lock with mine, and she freezes.

I haven’t been going back in time—I’ve rocketed into the future.

Present-day Claire looks a lot like the Claire from my memory. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail, with little frazzled wisps escaping out the sides. Her skin has a sheen of sweat from working near hot ovens all day, and she’s paler than I remember, possibly because she doesn’t get out as much as she did when she was a kid. There’s a streak of flour on her jaw.

Always a streak of white flour.

I have to will myself not to reach out to wipe it away.

But she also looks very different. She’s filled out in all the wonderful ways a woman can fill out. Those slate-blue eyes are still intelligent and alive, but they have this new look of determination, like she’s been in a fight for something important and the battle isn’t over. It only adds to the life and energy Claire brings to this room.

I find it incredibly attractive.

And I findthatincredibly wrong.

Claire Sweeney isn’t the girl from my memory.

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