Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (2 page)

“Look up your brother-in-law’s ex?”

“Yes,” Olivia insisted. “Abby’s a sweetheart. Blond hair, late twenties, warm smile.” She lowered her voice. “Between us, I think Chandler was a numbskull to let her go. And I’m not the only one. If you ever want to get Chance talking—” She motioned toward the picture window, where they could see the Michaelsen men working together to get a chair into the van, “just start asking him about what a fool his twin was when it came to Abby. Chandler strung the poor girl along for, like, five years, and dragged her all over the country. No wonder she finally had enough and just stayed in Florida.”

“Well, maybe—”

“I think Shar might have her current number. I’ll get it from her and text it to you.” Olivia rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You never know when you might need a Mirabelle Harbor friend, right?”

It was hard to fight the persistence of one of the Michaelsens. I didn’t know Derek’s (and Blake’s/Chance’s/Chandler’s) sister Sharlene particularly well, but I knew she and Olivia were ridiculously close as sisters-in-law and that they shared a similar determination.

“Right,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

My good friend took our empty coffee cups to run them out to the overflowing garbage bin, and I had a brief moment alone.

With my heart beating in metrical synchronicity with the conch-shell clock’s second hand, I wandered into the kitchen to peer out the small window above the sink at the yard and at my favorite sugar maple tree in the back. The trees, flowers, and muggy atmosphere outside of this now-sold house were no more mine than the paint-chipped walls and dented floorboards. They, too, seemed to be waiting for me to leave the Midwest and Mirabelle Harbor behind for a summer. To see if anything at all awaited me a thousand miles—and a world—away, before I had to return to face the chill of fall and a nearly blank slate in a couple of months. 

Oddly, I felt so light with my possessions pared down, I was almost buoyant. For maybe the first time in the three years since Donny ran out on Kathryn and me, I felt genuinely unshackled. It was a hopeful thing.

So, I raised an imaginary wineglass and toasted the house, the yard, the boxes one last time:
Here’s to the past, with all of its good and its bad.

And, while I couldn’t quite bring myself to make a toast to the uncertainty of my future, I managed to raise my make-believe glass one final time:
Here’s to new beginnings.

Bungalow 26

“H
ere’s your key,” Mr. Niihau, the elderly proprietor of the Siesta Sunset bungalows, said to me, handing over a plastic keychain in the shape of a golden nautilus with a single key on the end. “It works for the laundry room, too.”

I nodded and tried not to look as unenthusiastic about the idea of doing laundry as I felt. As hard as it was selling the house and, with it, the washer and dryer that I’d scraped together enough cash to buy the year after Donny left me, I couldn’t say I was going to
miss
the appliances all that much.

“Here are bath towels to get you started.” He placed an assortment on the counter between us. “Garbage bags and a roll of paper towels.” He added those and pointed in the direction of the narrow parking lot. “There should be extras of everything in your unit. Garbage pickup comes on Tuesdays. Throw your bags in the green dumpster at the end of the lot. And there’s a big bin for recycling, too. Fresh towels and linens on Thursdays. Any questions?”

I inhaled and held the breath deep inside my chest for a moment. I was almost forty years old with no husband, no home of my own, and no paying job. My most pressing question was “Seriously, what am I gonna do with my life?” but I did not ask Mr. Niihau this.

“Looks like I’m all set,” I told him instead. “Thank you.”

He smiled kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling even further. The sun-weathered skin had seen seven decades at least, but he looked as though if someone were to say, “Surf’s up!” he’d grab his board and race them to the water. My sister Ellen had told me he was born in Hawaii and still had the heart of an Islander. Having met him now, I totally believed that.

“Your sister’s unit is number twenty-six,” he reminded me. “Let me know if there’s anything you need during your stay.”

I assured him I would then meandered down the outdoor walkway. The early June humidity was so oppressive—good God! A person would be crazy to think Mirabelle Harbor was muggy by comparison. I felt wrapped in a tight wool blanket, the sweat being squeezed out of me, until I got to the shaded canopy of the bungalow that Ellen and her husband Jared bought as a vacation unit over a decade ago.

With the exception of a few weeks every winter, my sister and her husband rarely visited this property. They just rented it out through the year with the help of Mr. Niihau and his staff—often to an assortment of regulars and to some others, mostly families, who were looking for a place to stay on their beach holiday.

But not this summer.

For seven weeks, Ellen kept the reservation book clear for me. A gift for which I had no earthly idea how I might ever repay.

The door to unit #26 creaked as I unlocked it. I twisted the knob, pushed my way in, and stepped inside a photograph.

I remembered this image exactly from a snapshot Ellen had sent one winter: A lush floral sofa with pretty buttercup throw pillows dominated the living room. A glass coffee table was parked in front of it. A small spotless kitchen was just beyond the front seating area with stainless steel appliances and a circular dining table jutting up against the main kitchen counter. A hallway could be found beyond that, with speckled tile floors throughout, an occasional throw rug, and stark white walls dotted with a few small seascapes to break up the monotony.

The only difference between the photo in my memory and this room was that, in the former, my smart, successful older sister was lounging on the sofa, drinking from a 24-oz. ceramic mug of extra-strength coffee, and glancing up from her collection of work pages scattered on the glass table in front of her.

I had no such papers in my own bag, just an invisible, ever-growing list of differences between Ellen’s life and mine. My sister’s ability to do work while on vacation was only one of them.

My loafers click-clacked against the ceramic tiles as I strode down the hall to where the bedrooms were hidden. There were two available: One with a queen bed and one with a double. I opted for the larger of them—well, heck, why not live large, right?—and tossed my suitcase, purse, and jacket in the corner. The only items I retrieved from my bag were my flip-flops, which I slipped on after kicking off my travel loafers. Much like the way Mister Rogers changed his shoes at the start of his famous show when I was a kid, I felt the need to do the same.

I smoothed down a few wrinkles from my short-sleeve shirt and shorts and inhaled. Yes, I was about as comfortable as I could get under the circumstances. Ready to enter the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

I squeezed the plastic nautilus keychain in my fist and pivoted toward the door, but the phone rang.

I don’t know why, but that intrusive sound just paralyzed me. I stood there for several seconds, my heartbeat racing to fill the gap between rings.
Who would call here? What disaster is waiting to befall me now?

Finally, I snapped out of my inertia and grabbed at the beige phone on the wall.

“Hello?” My voice sounded tinny and unsure, even to my own ears.

“Marianna!” came the energetic, good-natured growl on the other end, signifying my sister. “Welcome to Sarasota!”

I glanced out the front window, straining to spot Ellen’s wiry frame, her sharply defined jaw, her mischievous brown eyes. I didn’t see them. “Are—are you
here?
”

Ellen laughed. “No, silly. I’m home in Connecticut.” She paused, no doubt enjoying making me wonder and squirm, as always. “I asked Mr. Niihau to email me after you checked in. That’s how I knew you’d gotten there.” I could hear Ellen’s laptop keys clicking and the distinctive echo-y reverberation that indicated she’d switched me over to speakerphone already. Ah, my big sister, Queen of Multitasking. “So, what do you think?” Ellen asked. “Do you love it already?”

At this, I couldn’t help but grin into the receiver. “I arrived ten minutes ago, Sis. The Gulf looked very pretty from the car window—I caught a few glimpses of it on the interstate. But I haven’t been to the beach yet.”

Ellen half smothered one of her involuntary huffs of disapproval, but I still heard it. Much as I loved my sister, the woman was not known for her patience and, admittedly, I found myself relieved not to have to deal with her face to face. Was it too much to ask not to be judged for one day? By anybody?

“You should go out and walk around,” Ellen commanded. “You can call me back after you’ve taken a look.” She paused but not long enough for me to explain that this was exactly what I’d intended to do. “You like the bungalow, though, right?”

“I do,” I said truthfully. “It’s just perfect. Everything I need, and nothing I don’t. It’s simple. Uncluttered. Like Miss Garwood’s private cabin at Camp Willowgreen, only much nicer and without all those snot-nosed little kids and pesky teen counselors knocking on the door, asking annoying questions.”

My sister found this description very funny—laughing in delight, and even pausing (albeit momentarily) in her typing to get all sentimental about Camp Willowgreen and witchy camp director Miss Garwood. “Oh, man, those were the days,” Ellen said, as she waxed fondly over memories of tipping canoes and mosquito bites. Ellen had, apparently, forgotten that I didn’t share her love affair with summer-camp adventures, and it never did any good to try to explain to my sister that I’d been more ambivalent than not to those long weeks away.

However, Ellen had blithely given me the kind of gift worth the weight of Mr. Niihau in gold. My heart almost burst open in appreciation of it but, at the same time, being in Florida felt like an exercise in procrastination. Like I’d been sent off to summer camp when everyone else was busily working on something more productive. I wasn’t sure how anything I might do in Sarasota would help me when I got back to my
real
life in Mirabelle Harbor, any more than learning to play water polo, roasting marshmallows over a fire, or weaving placemats were skills of much use to me in high-school geometry or world lit.

“I envy your summer,” Ellen concluded on a sigh.

I rolled my eyes, glad my sister couldn’t see me. Once again, I told Ellen how grateful I was for the use of the bungalow.

“Then why the hell don’t you sound happier?” Ellen demanded.

What to say to this? Up until my senior year in high school, my sister had always been five years ahead of me. Thanks to our birth order, that was a given. I’d never thought for an instant that I’d catch up to her. Not really. But, if I were to be honest, I guess I’d hoped our experiences would eventually even out.

And, for a time, they seemed to. After my impromptu marriage, right around the time when Ellen, by contrast, was in the process of getting her very practical CPA, I almost felt
more
experienced. I was a married woman and then a mom, living an adult’s life, even if it was in my in-laws’ basement. Ellen, meanwhile, was still a student, living single with Mom and Dad at home.

But that soon reversed again—in Ellen’s favor.

When Ellen moved out, started dating Jared, became a tax partner, and began jetting off on international vacations to exotic locales like Bali, Ixtapa, and Prague...our five-year age difference seemed magnified to ten. And when Ellen and her man relocated to New Haven, Connecticut (Jared had once been a Yalie before his work took him to Chicago), had a lavish wedding, and moved into a McMansion overlooking Long Island Sound, the gap between us felt like decades. Ellen was a mover and shaker in her world, up in the stratosphere, while I was...well, nowhere close. And that always seemed to scratch at my insecurities. Which was something I sure as heck didn’t need right now.

So, I took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll understand this because you’re so...so
good
at everything,” I began, knowing this would probably be interpreted by my sister as “whiny” even though I was trying hard not to be. “You have a husband who loves you. A beautiful home. A career you excel at.” I frowned. “I mean, I’m sure your life isn’t
totally
perfect.” Although, to me, Ellen’s life had always seemed that way. “I’m sure you get tired of working so many hours sometimes and you need a break. But my being here isn’t fun like that. It’s not a
vacation
, you know? It’s a delay tactic.” I slowed my speech in hopes that the truth might sink in. “I failed at
everything
, Ellen. I have to start
all over again
. This isn’t a ‘happy’ kind of thought.”

There was a long pause on the line. Oh, damn. Maybe I was finally getting through to my sister, but I was managing to offend her in the process. “Sis, I’m sorry,” I added. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful because you’ve been wonderful to me. But I’m just—just—”

“Scared,” Ellen supplied. She exhaled. A long, slow breath. I could hear the air streaming out of her like a deflating balloon and knew I was the one responsible for puncturing Ellen’s good mood. I was a lousy little sister.

When Ellen spoke again, her voice had that clipped businesswoman tone to it that I always heard her use when speaking to clients on her iPhone. “Well, explore a little and get to know the area. Sarasota is pretty different from Mirabelle Harbor, so your first visit to Florida ought to be an eye-opening experience. Even if it isn’t
a vacation
.”

She was mocking me now. Great. I rolled my eyes again but succeeded in uttering a very cordial, “Okay.”

“And stop being so hard on yourself,” Ellen said, evidently unable to turn off the bossy big-sister gene for more than ten seconds. “You did not fail at
everything
. From what my niece tells me, you’re not even an
entirely
dreadful mom.”