Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4)

  STRANGER ON THE SHORE

  (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4)

  By

  MARILYN BRANT

  Stranger on the Shore

  (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4)

  Copyright 2016 by Marilyn B. Weigel

  Twelfth Night Publishing

  Editor: Hamilton Editing

  Proofreader: Kimberly Dawn

  Cover Designer: E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

  Ebook Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9961178-6-9

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, businesses or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Learn more about New York Times & USA Today bestselling author Marilyn Brant on her website: www.MarilynBrant.com and sign up here to receive her free newsletter for book releases & giveaways: www.marilynbrant.com/contact !

  Table of Contents

  About Stranger on the Shore

  Dedication, Thanks & Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Other Books by Bestselling Author Marilyn Brant

  About the Author

  Story Excerpt

  About the Book

  STRANGER ON THE SHORE is Book 4 in Marilyn Brant’s Mirabelle Harbor series, but this story and all of the contemporary romances in this series can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels.

  On the verge of turning forty and having just lost her job, Marianna Gregory flees Mirabelle Harbor for the summer with little more than a suitcase, her beat-up car, and the blessings of her good friend Olivia Michaelsen. Her ex-husband is living a new life in California. Her college-aged daughter is spending her vacation with her boyfriend in Michigan. And the house Marianna once called her own finally sold, so she has nowhere to live in Illinois now anyway.

  However, her wealthy sister Ellen owns an empty bungalow on the beach in Sarasota, Florida, so Marianna turns to the sea for a chance to go shelling, regroup, and figure out what to do with this new chapter in her life. She doesn’t bargain on having to face down several family crises while she’s away, nor does she count on meeting a handsome beachcomber who bears a striking resemblance to Elvis. Just as surprising is the craft project she gets roped into volunteering for and the new group of friends who might just change the way she views the world and her future.

  The most unexpected gifts can be found where the land meets the sea. STRANGER ON THE SHORE, a Mirabelle Harbor story.

  A NOTE TO READERS OF THE SERIES: This story takes place during the same summer as THE ONE THAT I WANT (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 2), so Chance and Nia from Book 1 (TAKE A CHANCE ON ME) are already together, but Blake and Vicky from Book 3 (YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME) haven’t met yet.

  Dedication, Thanks & Epigraph

  For my family, my good friends, and my amazing readers & early reviewers—I appreciate you all so much! And for my mom and her sisters. This story is for the three of you.

  My deepest gratitude goes out to my wonderful critique partner and friend, Laura Moore, for her notes on this manuscript, and to another talented friend, Karen Dale Harris, for reading the opening chapters of this book in one of its earliest drafts.

  Last but not least, much love and thanks to my husband for introducing me to the beauty of Sarasota, Florida. I know why you love visiting there, Jeff... Thank you for sharing those long walks along the beach with me & for teaching me where to look for the prettiest shells.

  ________

  “Sit in reverie, and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon

  the idle seashore of the mind.”

  ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  ~*~

  “Today is a smooth white seashell; hold it close and listen

  to the beauty of the hours.”

  ~Unknown

  Chapter One

  Nautilus and Conch

  I scanned the nearly empty living room and picked up my favorite clock—a peachy conch shell, tough on the outside, a delicate pink on the inside, with slightly scalloped edges and a circular clock face with hour and minute hands implanted into the center of it. My sister Ellen had given it to me years ago, a gift from Florida’s Sunshine Coast.

  It read 3:42.

  Huh. What could be a more unremarkable time in the middle of an unremarkable day, week, year and, let’s face it, life?

  But I’d saved this clock until the end for a reason. Its ticking had kept me company and, now, it played the role of the marker for my final task.

  In spite of myself, I felt a heady zip of excitement rising inside me as I rolled up the clock in bubble wrap, nestled it into the center of the very last of the cardboard packing boxes, and taped the top shut. Sealing the flap of that box was like slamming the door on all four decades of my existence until now. The past tucked safely, firmly inside.

  Most everything here, shell clock included, was to be transported to the storage facility this afternoon. Only my one large suitcase, my oversized purse, and my frayed windbreaker would be stuffed in the trunk of my car and would make the trek to Ellen’s Florida bungalow with me. God willing. The engine of my nine-year-old Civic was about as reliable as one of those mystery vehicles from Louie’s Used Car Lot at the edge of town. But, still—it was my mystery vehicle.

  I heard a honk from the driveway. Ah, they were here.

  My good friend Olivia Michaelsen waved from the passenger seat before hopping out of the moving van. Her husband Derek slid out from behind the wheel, and two of his brothers—Chance and Blake—jumped out of the backseat. All of them grinned at me as I stepped out of the front door to welcome them.

  “The Michaelsen moving crew is here,” Olivia announced.

  Chance nodded and immediately flexed his muscles, which were sizable, owing largely to the fact that he was a professional fitness trainer at the local gym. And Blake, who was a DJ at 102.5 “LOVE” FM in town, mocked his kid brother by imitating him with the muscle flexing, then pointed to his own biceps and said, “Just look at these guns.”

  Derek snorted. “Lightweights,” he said, striking a weightlifter pose.

  Chance,
the quiet one of the family, raised a dubious brow at both of his brothers.

  Olivia rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation before turning toward me. “Marianna, please point these charming Neanderthals toward all the things you wanted loaded into the van and consider it done. And, oh!” Olivia reached back into the vehicle and pulled out a paper bag and two large to-go coffee cups with plastic lids. “These are for us. Just a couple of Greek pastries from The Gala, compliments of Chance’s girlfriend Nia.” She winked at me. “And Mocha-Cocoa Lattés from Not the Same Old Grind. I figured you probably already packed your coffeemaker and mugs.”

  It was so like Olivia and her family to be extra thoughtful. Not only volunteering to help me move my furniture and boxes to the storage facility, but to stop by Mirabelle Harbor’s popular coffee shop to bring me a gourmet drink and send me off with baklava, too. I felt a deep pang of loss, missing my friends already.

  The guys got to work right away, loading up the van with my many boxes and the few large pieces of furniture I hadn’t sold, given away, or tossed out. Meanwhile, Olivia prattled sweetly about all the fun I was going to have this summer and how refreshing it would be to get a break from the usual Midwestern scenery and have a Floridian adventure.

  “And that gorgeous beach!” she enthused. “I envy you the white sand, the time to stroll along the shore, the many new people you’ll meet...and maybe even some hot and very tanned men, who’ll bring you Mai Tais while you dip your toes into the blue Gulf waters.”

  We laughed together, drinking our steaming coffees on this unseasonably cool June day.

  I listened to her optimistic spin on my circumstances with appreciation but, admittedly, few words. What was there to say, really? You’ve painted such a nice fantasy, my friend. Too bad I’m not a big believer in fairy tales anymore...

  As the Michaelsen men carted away my belongings, I took a deep breath and studied the living room in all its bareness and vulnerability. So strange to be doing this again—making a real move—especially after all of these years.

  Only twice before did I have to pack up all of my belongings this way and leave home. Both times it was summer. Both times I knew where I was headed. Both times I’d shared the journey with someone else.

  When I was five and my sister was ten, our parents moved us from our two-bedroom apartment on the south side of Chicago to a sturdy house in the upscale suburb of Mirabelle Harbor. Nice neighborhood. Good schools. Time proved this was a smart move.

  Then, when I was eighteen, just a week after high-school graduation, I moved again, this time with my boyfriend Donny, also eighteen (at least chronologically—his maturity level hovered somewhere around age twelve), into his parents’ basement, two days after our secret elopement in Atlantic City. Time proved this was not such a smart move.

  I’d gotten our daughter Kathryn out of the marriage, though, and that was worth something. Quite a lot, really.

  But Kathryn was going to college in Michigan now—thankfully on scholarship, smart girl—and the upkeep of a house was too much. Especially being all alone and with no source of income. So, I found myself packing up all of my belongings and moving once again.

  Like the first two times, it was summer and, for seven weeks at least, I knew where I was headed. Unlike the first two times, I was not sharing the journey with a single soul.

  I could still hear the faint ticking of the conch-shell clock, even trapped as it was in the last packing box by the door.

  Time. It did have a way of pressing forward whether I was ready or not, didn’t it?

  “So, after we unload everything at the storage place, you’re going to drop off the house keys at the realtor’s office and then...what?” Olivia asked. “Drive directly to Sarasota?”

  I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Isn’t there anyone en route that you might want to stop and see? To break up the long trip?”

  “I don’t think so,” I murmured, taking a final sip of my latté and setting the cup down on the ticking cardboard box.

  Olivia was the type of person who was forever visiting people and inviting others to her house. She was beautifully, generously, and relentlessly social. Once upon a time, I was more like her. Now, not so much. The demise of both my marriage and, more recently, my job had drained me of some of my former extraversion. These days, I was like a sea mollusk, happiest when hiding in my shell.

  I rubbed my hands together, contemplating the best way to try to explain this change to my friend. We’d talked about it before, of course, but with Olivia, these reflections never quite seemed to sink in. My fingertips caressed the spot where my wedding band had once been, but there was no longer any visual trace of it. Didn’t mean I’d forgotten it, though, or stopped mourning the loss of the more innocent, hopeful girl I’d once been.

  Before I had a chance to say anything else, she brightened and, literally, snapped her fingers as if a big idea had just popped into her lovely head. “You remember Abby Solinski, right?”

  Vaguely.

  “The name sounds sort of familiar—” I began.

  “She’s Chandler’s ex-girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure she lives in the Sarasota area now. You should look her up when you get there!”

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  Bungalow 26

  “Here’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 unenthusiasti
c 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.