18
THE DAMP MARINE LAYER THAT shrouded Summer Beach in a damp morning mist was burning off early under the warmth of the summer sun. As Ivy approached the Starfish Café, Megan waved. The filmmaker was already seated at a table midway down the hillside that sloped to the beach. The cafe had once been a private residence—probably built in the 1930s, Ivy thought, judging from the Victorian fretwork and cupola that overlooked the ocean. She breathed in the sweet scent of jasmine as she made her way toward Megan
Ivy followed a garden path through a riot of bougainvillea and rose gardens that dotted the hillside. She had always loved the gardens and ambiance, though it had been years since she’d been here. Her parents had brought her and her siblings here when she was a child.
Megan stood to
