About half the beachfront houses were lived in year-round, and she often saw familiar faces as she walked. She even recognized some of the dogs, a friendly bunch as a rule. Stopping for a quick hello and a chat about the weather was not unusual, but Mercer did not want long conversations in the sand. She was there for a purpose, a walk to clear her head and, occasionally, give her inspiration. A story, a name, a place, perhaps even a subplot. As a writer she was always on the prowl for material, which had been sparse lately. Nor did she want to get close to her neighbors, most of whom were retired and usually eager to drop whatever they were doing for some gossip or maybe even a glass of wine. She wasn’t looking for new friends. Her cottage, one that she owned with her sister, was a second home, a getaway and a refuge where she craved quietness and solitude.
But the damned thing was also becoming expensive. Upkeep on a house at the beach was never-ending. Thomas wasn’t much with a hammer or a paintbrush, nor was Connie’s sorry husband. So the two owners split the costs of all repairs and renovations, and the bills were getting bigger. They had never discussed the idea of selling it, though Connie had dropped a few hints. Her husband rarely came to the beach and her family was using the cottage less and less. It had been built by Tessa fifty years earlier and meant far more to Mercer than to Connie.
Fifty years of salt air and storms were eating away at the wood, tiles, and paint.
Mercer was on the back porch, ignoring the blank screen of her laptop, sipping green tea, and instead of writing she was staring at the ocean and listening to the waves, her favorite sound. In October she left the windows open at night and fell asleep to the sounds of the sea. The happiest moments of her childhood had been at the cottage with Tessa, who regardless of the heat didn’t like air-conditioning. When the humidity was down, Tessa opened all the windows and they listened to the waves in the dark as they talked in bed.
Once again, a memory of Tessa came and went. She smiled, tried to shake it off, and looked at the blank screen. She had written the first chapter twice and tossed both drafts. She needed more time with Lovely, whom she would meet with tomorrow, at Bay Books, of course.
The paint was peeling. Everywhere she looked around the porch, the deck, the doors and windows, even the pine flooring, there was old paint either peeling or fading. Larry, her part-time landscaper and handyman, got an estimate from a lower-end painting contractor. The thief wanted $20,000 to repaint and seal the exterior, but Larry said that was about right. Mercer had to giggle at the thought of asking Thomas for his entire check from
She forgot about her laptop, and her unwritten manuscript, and walked around the cottage. A fresh coat of paint was desperately needed, so she made a decision. A firm one. An unpopular one. She and Thomas would spend their Christmas break on Camino painting the cottage. If he couldn’t figure out a paintbrush and a roller, then she would be more than happy to give lessons.
Her phone was ringing on the porch. She was expecting a call from Thomas but instead got one from Bruce Cable. “Hello, dear,” he began in his usual hyper, chipper way. “When did you get on the island?”
“Yesterday, Bruce, and how are you?”
“Swell. Books are selling. Someone saw your car in the driveway. Guess you drove down.”
She was always amazed at how little he missed on the island. He had spies everywhere. “Yes, got in last night.”
“How’s Thomas?”
“He’s not here.”
“Left him already?”
“He’s in Australia these days, on assignment for
“Awesome. Finally got the boy to work. Look, Noelle’s up for a light dinner, on the early side. Just the three of us. Catch up on the gossip, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce, but I’m tucking in. Got a good book. Give me a rain check.”
A long pause on the other end, because no one said no to dinner with Bruce and Noelle. “Okay. Fair enough. See you tomorrow.”
