Her dark hair was cut short at the collar, and her face was thinner than it had been last summer.

“Rebecca?

Is that you?” I said.

The pitcher tipped sideways in her hand and splashed cold water across the white tablecloth.

Frank grabbed his cloth napkin to sop up the spill.

“Careful there, miss.”

Rebecca Sullivan set the pitcher down on the wooden table with a loud click.

She didn’t look at Frank.