Located next to one of the piers at Wrightsville Beach, Crabby Pete’s had been around for nearly forty years. Having barely survived one hurricane after the next, the structure might have been condemned had not numerous repairs of varying quality been undertaken over the years. The building sported peeling paint, a listing rooftop, and more than a few missing or broken shutters.
Despite its appearance, the restaurant was bustling and Maria and Serena had to squeeze through the crowd waiting for tables as they made for the stairs leading to the rooftop bar. Following her sister, Maria noticed the wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and personalized graffiti on the walls. From the ceiling hung items that the original Pete – who’d passed away years ago – had supposedly found in his nets while fishing: hubcaps and tennis shoes, deflated basketballs, a woman’s bra, toys, and scores of license plates from more than ten states.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Serena called over her shoulder.
“It’s certainly crowded.”
“It’s an experience. Come on!”
They climbed the creaking steps to the rooftop. Emerging into the sun, Maria squinted under a cloudless sky. Unlike in the restaurant downstairs, the tables up here were occupied by adults unwinding with open bottles of beer or mixed drinks in front of them. Three waitresses in shorts and black tank tops scurried among the customers, efficiently picking up empties and dropping off drinks. Half the tables had tin pails filled with crab legs, and she watched as diners cracked the shells to get to the meat.
“We’re in luck,” Serena said. “There are two seats at the bar.”
The bar was on the far side, partially covered with a rusting tin awning and fronted by ten stools. Maria followed Serena, winding between the tables in the fierce sun. It was cooler in the shade of the bar’s awning, though, and as they took their seats, she could feel the salt-tinged breeze lifting the long hair off her neck. Over Serena’s shoulder, Maria could see the waves breaking on the shore, blue changing suddenly to white and back again. Even though it was almost dinnertime, hundreds of beachgoers still frolicked in the water or sprawled on towels. The pier was jammed with people leaning over the railing with their fishing poles, waiting for something to strike. Serena took in the scene before swiveling back to Maria.
“Admit it,” Serena challenged. “This is exactly what you needed. Say that I was right.”
“Fine. You were right.”
“I love it when you say that,” she crowed. “Now let’s get something to drink. What are you in the mood for?”
“Just a glass of wine.”
“No, no, no,” Serena declared, suddenly shaking her head. “You’re not having a glass of wine here. This isn’t a glass-of-wine kind of place. We need to do something… beachy, like we’re on vacation. A pi?a colada or margarita or something like that.”
“Seriously?”
“You really have to learn to live a little.” Serena leaned over the bar. “Hey, Colin! Can we get a couple of drinks?”
Maria hadn’t noticed the bartender and her eyes followed Serena’s. Dressed in faded jeans and a white collared shirt rolled to the elbows, he was finishing up an order for a waitress on the far side. Maria noticed automatically that he was exceptionally fit, with well-defined shoulders tapering down to narrow hips. He wore his hair very short, almost in a buzz cut that revealed an intricate tattooed ivy design wrapping around the back of his neck. Though his back was turned, Maria was impressed by how efficiently he moved as he readied the cocktails. She leaned toward her sister.
“I thought you said you’ve never been here before.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then how do you know the bartender’s name?”