We arrived in Carmel just after noon.
The fog had mostly burned off by then, leaving the coastline bright and windswept, the ocean glittering blue beyond the cliffs.
Martin immediately rolled the car window down the second we hit downtown.
"Oh, this place is aggressively charming," he announced.
"That's because half the city exists solely to sell expensive candles to retired attorneys."
"I love it already."
I laughed quietly as I parked near Ocean Avenue.
Our reservation at the inn wasn't ready yet, which honestly didn't surprise me. Nothing in Carmel ever seemed particularly rushed. The entire town operated on the assumption that everyone had nowhere important to be.
So I decided to walk Martin through downtown while we waited.
The streets looked almost exactly the same as they had when I was younger — little cottages tucked between art galleries, flower boxes overflowing beneath windows, tourists wandering in linen clothing pretending they'd discovered hidden California sophistication.
I pointed out restaurants as we walked.
"My mother used to drag me there after piano lessons," I said, nodding toward a small Italian place. "And that bakery over there basically funded my emotional survival during high school."
Martin looked around with open fascination.
"It feels fake."
"That's because Carmel was designed by wealthy people who think poverty is visually unpleasant."
He laughed loudly enough that a woman walking a tiny white dog glanced at us disapprovingly.
"Oh my God," Martin whispered dramatically, "even the dogs here look rich."
"They probably own property."
We kept walking slowly through downtown while I pointed out pieces of my childhood I hadn't thought about in years.
The bookstore where I used to hide after school.
The little wine shop that never carded anyone properly.
The café where my mother once screamed at a city council member over zoning permits.
And then—
"Jonathan Stern."
I froze.
Not metaphorically.
Actually froze.
Because there are some voices your body recognizes before your brain does.
Slowly, I turned around.
"Hi, Mom."
My mother stood a few feet away wearing enormous sunglasses, a cream-colored coat that probably cost more than my first car, and the exact expression she'd worn my entire life whenever she believed I was personally inconveniencing her.
"Well," she said, lowering the sunglasses slightly, "so you're not going to tell your mother you're in town for the weekend?"
I already felt tired.
"Well, originally it was supposed to be a weekend for Elliott and me."
At the mention of Elliott, her expression shifted instantly.
"Oh God," she said flatly. "That man."
"Mom," I replied automatically, "he is a perfectly respectable spouse."
"That remains to be seen."
Martin made a visible effort not to laugh.
Unfortunately, my mother noticed him immediately.
Her eyes narrowed.
"And who is this?"
Then, without missing a beat:
"Please tell me you're finally having an affair."
"Jesus Christ, Mother."
"What? At least affairs are interesting."
"I am not having an affair."
I gestured toward Martin.
"This is Martin. He's staying with us temporarily."
Martin smiled politely and extended a hand.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am."
My mother looked him up and down with terrifying efficiency.
"French?"
"Canadian."
"Ah," she said. "So adjacent."
Martin blinked once, clearly trying to determine whether he'd just been insulted.
"We met through friends," I continued quickly. "Elliott couldn't make the trip, so Martin came instead."
"Mm."
That single syllable somehow communicated:
- suspicion
- judgment
- disappointment
- and amusement simultaneously.
It was honestly impressive.
"Well," I said briskly, "it's been lovely catching up, but we're heading to the aquarium now."
The second I mentioned the aquarium, Martin visibly lit up.
My mother noticed that too.
"Oh," she said dryly. "So you're not having dinner with your mother tonight."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"When you phrase it like that, it sounds like I don't have a choice."
"You don't."
She pulled her phone from her purse.
"Six o'clock. Cannery Row. The usual place."
"Mother—"
"Don't be late."
I sighed.
"Thankfully the aquarium is nearby. What a magical coincidence."
She looked at me over her sunglasses.
"Jonathan, after forty-two years of giving you life, I'm fairly certain I know where the aquarium is."
Martin physically turned away at that point because he was obviously trying not to laugh.
I grabbed his arm before my mother could continue verbally dismantling my spirit in public.
"Well," I said quickly, "we should go."
"Mm-hm."
"Goodbye, Mother."
"Martin," she called as we started walking away.
He turned cautiously.
"You seem delightful."
"Thank you?"
"I'm so sorry you've gotten involved in this family."
And with that, she walked away down the street like some kind of emotionally devastating socialite phantom.
Martin and I made it halfway back toward the car before either of us spoke.
Finally, he looked over at me carefully.
"Oh," he said. "She seems sweet."
I stopped walking and stared at him.
"Sweet," I repeated slowly, "is not a word I would use to describe my mother."
Martin grinned.
"I think I'm obsessed with her."
"You absolutely should not be."