June 2, 2029.
Nyack, New York.
A kitchen full of light.
The windows are thrown open. The river shimmers. A storm passed through earlier, so the air is sweet--wet asphalt and honeysuckle.
Vee is barefoot. Like always, Elle's in one of Vee's old Columbia sweatshirts that falls halfway to her knees. There's pancake batter on the stovetop and something burning in the oven, but neither of them care.
Because Sam Cooke is playing on the little Bluetooth speaker stuck to the fridge.
"When the night has come..."
Vee holds Elle close, one hand on her waist, the other tangled in her black hair. Elle's cheek rests against Vee's collarbone, her almond eyes closed, breathing steady.
They don't speak.
They just sway.
"And the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see..."
Outside, gulls cry softly. The oven timer beeps. The song plays on.
Vee hums a little, low in her throat. Elle tightens her grip just a bit.
Two women. One life.
Finally.
Cut to: somewhere else. Sometime else.
A smaller room. Dimmer. A fan buzzes in the corner, useless.
Valerie Moretti sits on the edge of a motel bed, one boot off, hair damp, cigarette smoldering in an ashtray that says July or Bust.
The same song is playing on a dusty radio near the window.
But here--it's not gentle. It's haunted.
"No, I won't be afraid..."
She stares out across the parking lot. Not at anything. Just through it.
Because someone used to dance to this song with her.
Because someone used to hold her just like that.
And now she doesn't even remember which version of her it was.
Just the feeling. That ache of having been loved by a ghost.
"Just as long as you stand... stand by me."
She crushes the cigarette.
And shuts the radio off.
Seaside Heights, New Jersey -- July 1964
Valerie Before Del
The mornings always smelled like salt and burnt sugar.
Valerie Moretti stood behind the Tilt-a-Whirl with a broom in her hand and sand in her bra. It was already hot--shore hot, thick and low, the kind that clung to you like a damp sheet. She leaned on the broom like it was a cigarette girl's cane, watching a seagull pick at a funnel cake someone dropped the night before. Its powdered sugar had turned to paste in the humidity.
The boardwalk was half-dead this early. Trash trucks growled. Someone hosed off the sides of the hot dog stand, pushing ketchup-streaked napkins down into the cracks between boards. Frankie Valli floated in from someone's transistor radio, thin and tinny, like a memory.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, rolled her ankle out of habit. She could already feel the grit in her socks. Every day was the same. Open by nine, dead until noon, rush after sundown. She'd flirt with tourists for ride tickets, let the little kids get an extra spin if their moms were pretty or paid in cash.
When it was slow, she sat on the back steps of the prize shack and smoked.
Her hair never dried all the way in summer. There was always a little dampness at the nape of her neck, where sweat met seawater and settled into curls. Her uniform was a joke--striped blouse, cheap belt, pedal pushers rolled too high. Her mother said she looked like a beatnik trying to be a carnie. Her mother said a lot of things.
The motel was just up the road--Moretti's Seaside Motor Inn, seven rooms with stiff beds and rattling AC units. Her father was usually asleep in the back office, TV buzzing loud enough to chase the ghosts. Her mother vacuumed in heels. Her brother was in the Navy, which made him everyone's favorite, even though he only sent postcards.
She hadn't left town since graduation. Not really. Once to Philly with Denise, but that ended with a dead battery and a fight outside a movie theater. Another time to Cape May, but that was for a funeral.
People thought the Shore was romantic. They came for honeymoons, for secret trysts, for memories they wanted to take home in jars. Valerie saw the real thing--rusted pipes under the arcade, condoms in the tide, girls with bruises they didn't talk about. She saw the world sweat through its makeup.
Every boy she'd ever kissed had tasted like beer and boredom. None of them had known what to do with her mouth.
Sometimes she'd walk the beach alone at night, long after the fires died down. She liked the quiet. The pull of the moon. She'd take off her shoes and walk until the lights of the boardwalk blurred into distant gold. Her toes would go numb. Her thoughts would scatter like gulls. That was the closest she ever came to peace.
There was always a summer girl, every year. One that made things feel different for a week or two. A Boston redhead with long fingers. A Black girl with a laugh like church bells, who passed through with a jazz trio. A sunburned surfer from California who borrowed Valerie's comb and never gave it back.
But they never stayed.
Nothing stayed. Just the boardwalk, the waves, the hum of the Tilt-a-Whirl when it started to spin. Valerie watched it now, the sun glinting off the chipped paint, and sighed like a woman twice her age.
The broom handle was sticky. Her palms smelled like iron.
She wiped them on her thighs and said, to no one, "It's too damn early."
And then--just like that--the wind shifted.
The broom scraped over the boards like it had a grudge.
Valerie was almost done pretending to work when Johnny Caruso came swaggering down the boardwalk like he owned it. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, chest hair curling out like cigarette smoke, and that same ridiculous pompadour he'd been nursing since ninth grade. His belt buckle said Elvis in rhinestones, though Valerie knew damn well he couldn't carry a tune unless it came with a muffler and a roll cage.
He had a Miller High Life in his hand, which was just the kind of thing Johnny would call breakfast.
"Val," he drawled, drawing it out like he was savoring it. "Hey, babe. You're lookin' real fine this morning."
She didn't even pause her sweeping. "It's eighty-four degrees and I smell like fried dough. Real glamorous."
He leaned on the railing like he was posing for a crime scene photo. "I was thinkin'... maybe you and me catch that surf movie Friday? That new one with the chick in the bikini and all those longboards? I'll even spring for popcorn."
Valerie looked up slowly. The sun caught the sweat slicking Johnny's brow, and for a moment he shimmered like heat haze. Not in a good way.
"Thanks, but I'm working Friday."
He grinned. "I'll come by after. We'll go for a drive. Hit the dunes. Got a new blanket in the trunk, extra soft."
God. He really was trying.
She forced a smile. Not too mean. Not too encouraging.
"Look, Johnny... that's sweet, but I've got plans."
He tilted his head. "With who? You ain't still seein' that bozo from Wildwood, are you?"
Valerie kept her grip on the broom handle loose. "No. And none of your business."
Johnny shrugged, tried to play it cool, but his pride was already bruising. "Hey, just askin'. You know, people talk. Ain't nothin' wrong with a girl needin' a little... course correction."
And there it was.
She didn't roll her eyes. Didn't snap. Just leaned in slightly and said, low and even, "You ever try correcting a wave, Johnny? It'll drown you."
He blinked. Grinned like she'd told a joke he didn't get. "You're funny, Val. Always had a mouth on you."
She went back to sweeping.
Johnny stood there a beat too long, the way boys do when they can't believe they didn't win. Then he drained the rest of his beer and lobbed the can toward the trash barrel. It missed.
"See you around," he muttered, already walking.
"Yeah," Valerie said to the sand. "You probably will."
Back to stillness. The gulls screamed. Somewhere down the boardwalk, someone started up the carousel.
The broom made its slow, useless path across the planks. Valerie looked at the sun, wiped her lip with the back of her hand, and whispered to herself, "Jesus Christ. Is it not even ten?"
She didn't know it yet, but Del was two blocks away. Already watching the waves.
Later That Morning
The Boardwalk, Just Outside the Tilt-a-Whirl
Valerie had just lit her second cigarette when Betty Lou Fournier came clicking up the boardwalk like she was auditioning for a toothpaste ad. Her skirt flounced just high enough to say coquettish if you were feeling generous, and her hair was locked into a peroxide helmet that wouldn't have budged in a hurricane.
"Val!" Betty Lou chirped, dragging out the vowel like she was singing backup for the Angels. "Oh good, you're not busy."
Valerie took a long drag and glanced at the broom leaning against the booth. "You caught me between power meetings."
Betty Lou didn't get the joke, which made it better. She plopped down beside her on the low railing, crossed her legs like a lady, and let her foot dangle--just so.
"You notice anything different?"
Valerie blinked, squinted at her through the smoke. "...New perfume?"
"Guess again."
"Changed your shampoo?"
Betty Lou wrinkled her nose. "Shoes, dummy. I got 'em from that place in Neptune that always smells like mothballs and uncles."
Valerie looked. White vinyl slingbacks with a gold buckle detail. The kind of shoe that wanted desperately to be seen under candlelight but would end up squeaking down linoleum aisles instead.
"Very classy," she said, because sometimes it was easier to lie than to have a conversation.
"I know, right? I mean, I wouldn't wear 'em with just anything, obviously." Betty Lou swung her leg a little, admiring the curve of her ankle. "Thought they'd be perfect for the VFW dance this Friday. Jimmy Dee said he's going. Probably thinkin' I'll be there too."
Valerie blew smoke through her nose and let the silence hang.
Betty Lou glanced sideways. "You two still--?"
"Nope."
"Huh. Well. Can't say I'm shocked." Betty Lou smoothed her skirt and shifted, smug. "You've always been more into... solitude."
Valerie didn't bite. Just ash-flicked and watched the horizon. The gulls had quieted. The air had that weird hush to it--the kind you get just before something breaks. Somewhere down the boardwalk, a record switched tracks. The wind picked up, dragging the scent of suntan lotion and fryer oil through the slats.
A shadow moved past the ticket booth.
Valerie felt it before she saw her.
