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gussied up the menu with a few “spring changes.” La Famiglia had already printed its spring menu in the Etonville Standard . The competition was really getting to him.
    I stepped outside, breathed in the nippy night air, and looked upward at a dark sky with a smattering of white specks. Not bad for north Jersey. Of course, it couldn’t compare to the wide expanse of the night over the ocean. I was still getting used to the idea that I lived inland.
    I took the long way home as I drove slowly through Etonville; it was one of my favorite times of day. People were off the streets, a certain quiet had descended, and I felt as if the town were all mine. Population 3,284. Home to a park, an art gallery, an antique shop, one bank, two churches, a post office, and a Saturday farmer’s market, Etonville was a placid, close-knit place, small enough to feel cozy but large enough to need its own police department. Etonville had its own personality.
    I passed Snippets, the Etonville Public Library, and my personal favorite hangout, Coffee Heaven—five booths, a soda fountain, a counter that seated eight, and a stack of local and national newspapers by the door, free for the reading. The Etonville literary society met in its back room once a month. Its only concession to modern times was the addition of a few fancy drink options to the standard menu. Caramel macchiato was my obsession.
    As I turned into my driveway, it occurred to me that I would have loved to curl up with a good man instead of a good book tonight. But that ship had sailed for me. Literally. The month before Hurricane Sandy struck, I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. Or, more accurately, we agreed to put things on hiatus. Jackson owned a charter fishing boat and had experienced great years and not-so-great years. When he received an offer to join his brother selling farm equipment, he decided to chuck the boat business and head back to Iowa. He wanted me to come with him. But I couldn’t leave the shore. At least that was the excuse I’d given Jackson. When Hurricane Sandy gave me the perfect opportunity to bail on New Jersey and join him, I opted to head north instead of west and held my breath as I crossed over the Driscoll Bridge, uncertain about a new life away from the sun and sand and saltwater taffy. North Jersey felt different from the shore: it knew where it was going and had only a short time to get there.
    I suppose I was admitting the truth about Jackson and me. He had been the longest, most serious relationship of my life, not counting a high school crush that lasted on and off through college days. I had begun to think that we might settle down, buy a little shore cottage, open our own restaurant.... Now I knew those were pipe dreams. Despite his foray into the boat charter business, he was tied to the Midwest while I had always wanted to be within spitting distance of the shoreline. True love was like a good pair of socks. It took two, and they had to match.
    I missed him for the first few months. We emailed and texted a few times, but we sort of fell out of touch. I turned the key in the lock of my front door and switched on the lights. The good book was calling me.

Chapter 3
    I had assured Lola I would be at the auditions for Romeo and Juliet by six-thirty since it was Benny’s night to close. Henry was in a foul mood: too much lemon in his chicken soup and the seafood supplier ran out of flounder. He had been forced to improvise, which he hated. It was a good night to vanish.
    I raced home to my unfussy but comfy home, large enough for me to have a decent-sized dining room and a guest bedroom, small enough for me to keep tidy on a regular basis. I showered and flung open the closet door, tugged on a black skirt and a black V-neck sweater, and studied myself in the mirror. I was Irish on both sides of my family, and my dark red, wavy hair came straight from my maternal grandmother. The green eyes were compliments