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

  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,” Ell
en 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.”

  At this, I laughed. I’d cheerfully strangle Ellen sometimes, but my sister was funny. Plus, I knew Ellen loved me. And Kathryn. That counted for more than a little.

  “Anyway,” Ellen said, “we all need a fresh start sometimes. Regardless of our age or how successful people think we are.” I heard the rapid-fire clicking again and was so preoccupied trying to calculate how many words-per-minute my sister must’ve been typing—I was almost positive I was a hair faster than Ellen at that, if at nothing else—that I almost missed Ellen’s last sentence. “No one wants to stay in a rut forever,” my sister murmured. “Not even a gold-plated one.”

  ~*~

  A mix of cerulean with teal for the furthest watery depths.

  A dabbling of silvery sunlight, whiting out patches of sea and sand like a spotlight.

  Gil Canton studied the shoreline with the practiced eye of an artist. Which was what he was, he reminded himself. Never mind the low, deep voice from decades’ past that told him otherwise. That told him he should be using his powers of observation on “a worthier, more lucrative cause.”

  Bullshit.

  A faint blend of burnt umber and goldenrod in a subtle line underscoring the crisp cottony tufts of rolling waves.

  A flash of gray and green as the sunfish tangled with the seaweed just below the surface.

  Anyone with a heart knew the creatures of the ocean were as worthy as anything out in the world. That the Gulf was not only a visual feast for a painter, but it was a composer’s symphony, a poet’s playground.

  Anyone with a heart...ahh. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

  Gil grimaced. Calf-deep in the warm water and strolling languidly along the Siesta Key shoreline, he picked up his stride to outrace that old, familiar voice. It didn’t work. It never the hell worked. But he turned his attention to the passersby in hopes of a distraction.

  Shades of skin color in a palette of creams, tans, bronzes, chocolates and, sometimes, sunburned reds.

  The fascinating discordance of fabric hues and textures and patterns, draping the wearer in a manner that left no question as to whether the individual wanted to be noticed...or wanted to blend into the seascape.

  He knew he looked at the beach differently than he had when he’d first moved here twenty-six years ago. And, unlike the appreciative but unobservant gazes of the bikini-clad tourists, he needed to distinguish between the various ranges of blues and greens, the buffet of multicolored accessory images and the differing degrees of whiteness from the sand to the bungalows—for the sake of his passion. His paintings.

  Why was it so easy, so natural for him to be both loving and discerning in one area of his life but not in another?

  With a canvas, he could step back and assess it. If he saw he’d done something wrong or, more frequently, had neglected to do something completely right, he would be able to see the problem area with the help of a few feet of distance and, then, correct it.

  With relationships—parental, romantic, professional or otherwise—it was never that simple. Stepping back was harder for the other person to accept. And it tended to create more damage, even when the objective was to do just the opposite. To achieve a fresh perspective. Clarity.

  Art and life? Not so much the same.

  He kicked lightly at a broken conch with the tip of his water shoe. Even with a chunk of its shell missing, it was still beautiful. There was almost heartbreaking beauty on this shore.

  Seagulls squawking above and around him in a flying dance of circles and landings.

  Children splashing and frolicking, often with a battalion of siblings and water toys.

  An old woman dressed all in white, someone he’d seen many times, stood several yards from him, chatting with an attractive younger lady—an obvious newcomer. He couldn’t help but check out the new woman. She was a tad overdressed in her pinkish t-shirt and navy shorts. Untanned and pensive. Awed by the Gulf setting in that mystified tourist sort of way. The coast was full of visitors like that. Nothing wrong with them, he supposed. His business depended on them, after all. But it was hard to get to know many people well in such a transient environment.

  With a shrug, he returned his focus to the water—the rhythmic breaking of the waves trying their darnedest to drown out his father’s voice once and for all until, a few minutes later, a sound he couldn’t ignore pierced his concentration.

  ~*~

  The white sand enveloped my feet.

  It was so powdered-sugar like that my poor toes, unprotected in flimsy pink flip-flops, weren’t safe from the thousands of granules of warmth that attacked them and my heels with every sinking step on my trek to the water’s edge. Warm sand, yes, but not scorching. That surprised me.

  Ellen was right. Sarasota was not Mirabelle Harbor. And the Siesta Key beach was not remotely like a visit to the chilly, rocky shores of Lake Michigan. I felt myself to be a stranger in a strange land.

  I’d barely had a chance to register this thought when, in spite of the jarring differences between my home state and this all-natural water park, I began getting caught up in it.

  The colors grabbed me first. Had I not known better, I would’ve sworn they were fake. I gazed out into the Gulf and that blue was so vibrant, so very azure that I was sure it’d been dyed. Nothing in the real world could possibly look that blue. I recalled photos of tropical places I’d seen in magazines like National Geographic and always figured they’d been touched up somehow. Tinted, so as to make the landlocked Northerners envious.

  But I could see now that—no—reality actually could be this stunning. This utopian. And that the photographs were only able to capture the images, not the pervasive scent of sand, salty water, and sunscreen. Not the sound of the squawking seagulls and chattering beachcombers. Not the feel of the hot sand granules, the sweat beads sliding down my arms, neck, and spine. Not the shocking warmth of wading into the Gulf, like sinking into the most amazing Jacuzzi ever.

  A giggle rose in my throat, and I was that five-year-old girl again, discovering the world freshly after our move to Mirabelle Harbor. How magically different my new home had seemed to me then...as this one did now.

  With a degree of impulsivity I hadn’t felt in a while, I kicked off my flip-flops and carried them, stepping along the undulating seam where the waves lapped rhythmically against the shore, caressing it. Every stride was a brand new stitch, connecting me, however tenuously, to this exotic, amphibious fabric of a place.

  The further I walked, the faster my blood pumped. I could feel my heart rate increasing, and not just from the exercise. My pulse was matching the heartbeat of the sea—the ebb and flow of the Gulf’s ever-shifting tide—marking the passage of time like a ticking grandfather clock. The waves were a swinging pendulum of seconds, beating the minutes, hours, days, and reminding me of years that had passed, of relationships that had come and gone, of emotions I’d once felt and now ceased to feel.

  And then the harmonious unity of my footsteps in flawless synchronicity with time came to a crashing halt.

  “Ow!” I squealed aloud, the pain in the sole of my right foot too sharp to ignore.
>
  Admittedly, I hadn’t been looking at where my feet were landing, but I knew I’d have to remember not to lose focus in the future if I wanted to keep my toes.

  I spotted the offending object jutting out of the water-packed sand. The jagged edge of the twisting shell was serrated enough to cut flesh. I inspected the bottom of my foot for blood. None, although there was an indentation where I’d stepped on that thing. I rubbed my sole for a moment then reached to pick up the shell. On first instinct, it reminded me of a funnel cloud, like a palm-sized Midwestern tornado. I dipped it into the seawater, shook the sand and grit from it, and held it up to the light.

  It was beautiful.

  I’d seen shells like this before in shops, but I never imagined just finding one in the wild. On closer inspection—save for the broken ridge I’d stepped on—the shell was so perfect, it was almost edible. Brown lines drizzled dark color down the cream and gold sides, like chocolate syrup over a vanilla and caramel cone. The top swirled into a point, managing to make it look at once both delicious and dangerous. Tempting enough to wish I could take a bite.

  “That there’s a lightning whelk,” an old lady’s voice informed me. “It’s unusual to find a nice one like that this late in the day. Best shelling is in early morning.”

  I shaded my eyes against the sun’s glare and squinted at the woman. She was probably about the same age as Mr. Niihau but, unlike his dark hair and deeply bronzed, weathered skin, this woman was a study in white. Her hair was as snowy as Mrs. Claus, worn in a bun and covered with a wide-brimmed sunhat. Her milky complexion was textured with dry, pale wrinkles, and her swimsuit and wrap were varying shades of ivory. Standing next to her in the burning midday sun reminded me that I desperately needed to buy sunglasses, a beach hat, and more sunscreen. SPF 50 at least.

  “Thanks,” I said brightly. “I didn’t know its name. It’s pretty.”

  The woman nodded. “You looked like an out-of-towner, girlie.” She pointed further up the beach. “If you get out here at five or six in the morning and keep walkin’ about a half a mile that a-way to the rocks, you’ll find some real stunning ones.” She motioned toward my flip-flops. “And you’ll wanna put them back on or get yourself some Beachwalkers like me.” She lifted up a foot to show the only dark piece of clothing she had on—slip-on water shoes, like the kind marine biologists or serious snorkelers might wear.