That Summer in Eastham

The letter came on a Tuesday.

I wasn’t expecting anything except maybe a pre-approved credit card or offer to refinance a mortgage I paid off in 1998. But there it was, wedged between a grocery ad and the electric bill—plain white envelope, no return address, and handwriting that stopped me cold.

It wasn’t familiar, not exactly, but there was something about the tilt of it. The kind of cursive you don’t see much anymore. Not the clean, perfect schoolbook kind, either—more like it was written by someone in a hurry, or someone who hadn’t picked up a pen in years.

Inside was one line.

“Do you remember that summer in Eastham?”

That was it. No name, no date, no clue. Just those seven words sitting there like a match dropped into dry grass.

Eastham. Jesus.

I hadn’t thought about that town in decades. Haven’t been back since my knees gave out and walking in sand became more of a punishment than a pleasure. But that summer—it comes back in pieces. The smell of fried clams. The way the screen door slapped shut at The Sand Dune Diner every time someone came in off the beach. Salt on my arms. Her laugh. Margaret.

Yeah, I remember.

She worked the counter at The Sand Dune. Wore her apron like a second skin, always stained with coffee or ketchup or something worse. Didn’t seem to mind. She had this way of rolling a Marlboro between her fingers while she poured coffee like it was a trick she practiced. Sometimes she stuck it behind her ear while she talked. Said it kept her hands busy when the place got slow.

I’d gone to Eastham to help my cousin repaint his rental cottage, though we spent more time drinking Narragansetts than working. One morning I wandered into The Sand Dune hungover and needing bacon like it was medicine. She was the one who served me. Called me “Boston” before I even said a word. Said I had that look—tired, over it, but still trying.

I told her my name. She told me hers. Then she told me I was sitting in her favorite booth and not to mess it up.

That’s how it started.

I stayed in Eastham longer than I was supposed to. My cousin didn’t care—he bailed after a week, left me the keys and a half-finished job. I didn’t mind. I’d spend mornings scraping paint and afternoons in that diner. Sometimes she’d sneak me a slice of pie when the owner wasn’t looking. Sometimes we’d sit out back after her shift, sharing a smoke even though I didn’t smoke. I just liked sitting with her.

She was older. Not by a lot, but enough that she didn’t waste time on things that didn’t matter. She had this way of looking at you like she’d already seen how it would all play out. Never made a big deal out of it—just knew things I didn’t yet, and didn’t rub it in. I liked that about her.

I didn’t ask too many questions about her past. She didn’t ask much about mine. That was part of the deal—we left the rest of the world outside when we sat on the hood of her old Buick and watched the sky bleed orange over the dunes.

When the summer ended, I didn’t say goodbye right. I think I told myself I’d come back. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit I was leaving something that felt like it could’ve been something more if I’d been someone else. Someone steadier. Someone who didn’t think there’d always be more time.

And now—this letter. After all these years. No name, no explanation, just a question.

I read it again, then made coffee I didn’t really want. The house felt too quiet, like it was waiting for me to do something. I walked out to the porch. Sat in the same chair I always sit in. Thought about calling someone, but there wasn’t anyone who’d understand why my hands were shaking just from a line of ink on paper.

I almost threw it out. Told myself it didn’t matter. That I was too old to be chasing ghosts.

That night I pulled the old road atlas out of the closet. The one I kept even though GPS made it useless. The pages were worn thin, especially around the Cape. I used to trace that route with my finger, take the back roads on purpose. There was something about doing it by hand that felt like a decision, not just a direction.

Next morning, I left it open on the passenger seat. Didn’t start the car. Just sat there. Letter was in my coat pocket. The good coat, the one I wear when I want to feel like I’ve still got somewhere to be.

I thought about calling someone. But there wasn’t really anyone to call. My brother would’ve gotten it, but he’s gone now. Most people wouldn’t understand. It’s not about chasing some old flame. It’s not about regret. It’s just… sometimes a part of your life shows up again, and you don’t know what to do with it.

I looked at the map again. Eastham was still there. The Sand Dune might be, too. Or maybe not. Either way, she remembered. And now, so did I.

I made breakfast. Took my time with it. Sat out on the porch with my coffee. It was quiet, same as always. But something in the quiet felt different.

The atlas stayed open. The letter stayed in my pocket.

I didn’t go that day. But I had the letter, the atlas, and nowhere else I really needed to be.