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Chapter 1
Clarice
The tiny tea kettle whistles on top of my single propane burner, making me turn my gaze from where I’ve been staring out at the window at the dark expanse of water. Another cool, pre-dawn breeze slips through the gap in my ancient van’s sliding door, making me shiver. At the same time, a drop of water from last night’s storm leaks through a hole where the last owner unsuccessfully tried to install a solar panel on the roof. It lands on my head and drips down my cheek, like an icy tear.
This is fine.
And as soon as I have my green tea steaming in my lone, chipped mug, the sun starts to come up, illuminating the waves, just a hundred yards outside the window. I breathe out a long sigh and watch the water roll in over the packed sand. It’s just me and my beach at sunrise and everything really is fine. For this moment, anyway.
Ever since Grandpa died, all I have are these fleeting moments, and my beach. I don’t know how much longer that will last, but I’m willing to stay here in this leaky tin can to soak up every last one of them.
It’s not much longer before the sun is blazing and I scramble over to push aside the curtains and unroll the front windows to get some fresh air. Throwing off my nightshirt, I pull on a tank top and shorts, slather on the necessary sunscreen and flop out onto the sand. It’s still early in the season, and very earlyin the morning, but pretty soon I’ll no longer be alone on the swathe of Whitecross City Beach that sprawls out between the coves to the north and the brand new development that’s been steadily encroaching higher up the blue sky to the south.
I scowl at it, not wanting to spoil the peaceful morning mood, and turn my eyes back to the water. I purposely close them longer than a normal blink so I don’t see the scorched slab that’s all that’s left of the only home I ever knew. I like to pretend the house is still there, and I’m only camping in my van for fun. That Grandpa is keeping an eye on me from the wraparound porch, and hollering at me to get inside when the rain starts.
Because living in this van isn’t really fun, but I refuse to leave my beach. And Grandpa isn’t here anymore. “Because of you,” a small voice in my head taunts, but I shut it down (for now).
My stomach rumbles, but I put off breakfast for a bit longer, and head to the public restrooms that Grandpa built before I was born. There used to be a crew that kept up with them, but now that’s on me. It doesn’t take long to make sure they’re cleaned and ready for the day’s tourists, but I sigh when I notice one of the showers in the ladies’ room is leaking worse than it was yesterday when I tried to fix it.
So much for YouTube tutorials on how to fix a shower head by yourself. I can’t afford to call someone in to fix it, and I definitely can’t bring it up to Uncle Oliver. That would just give him more ammunition to sell the land, which will infect my beach with the rash of condos that keep springing up all along the coastline.
After washing up, I grab a breakfast taco from the bakery a half a block away, and a bag of ice from the corner store, then start setting up. It’s going to be a bright, scorching day, which I’m hoping translates to big business. Or any business, because I’m only a few days away from being broke.
Dragging the cooler full of bottled water and cans of soda a few yards away from my van, I then unfold the metal card table and spread out the big lace doily I found at a thrift shop. Laying out my waning stock of handmade necklaces and bracelets, I frown at how sparse the selection is. The presentation isn’t how I usually like it, but I can’t make more jewelry appear out of thin air. If I completely sell out of everything, I still won’t have enough to buy more beads and wire, unless I start skipping dinners as well as lunches.
Everything comes down to my biggest draw, and last but not least, I haul the heavy massage chair from its home in the storage unit behind the restrooms, and place it next to the jewelry stand, under the shade of a big palm tree. I drag my hand painted sign out and kick it into place on the sidewalk, just a few yards away.
Ice cold drinks!
Hand beaded jewelry!
Relaxing neck and shoulder massages by a licensed professional!
The last part is almost true. I made it through massage school but then everything went up in flames right before the final exam. I was like a zombie, with an undercurrent of panic running through me when nothing turned out the way it should have. Losing Grandpa and the house to the fire was like a hurricane on top of an earthquake, but I pulled myself together after the funeral. I wanted to be strong for Grandpa, who took in a scrappy, angry ten-year-old who’d just lost her father and whose mother didn’t want anything to do with her. I was a real pistol, as he said, but when I look back on how I acted that first year living with him on this beach, I could accurately use much meaner words.
He was already elderly, and probably looking forward to peaceful golden years, but when his estranged younger sondied of a freak aneurysm, he stepped up and not only raised his only granddaughter, he gave me a dream childhood. Spring and summer days of splashing in the waves, autumn sandcastle construction marathons, winters nestled next to the fire as the surf crashed angrily against the sand and the icy rain needled against the picture windows. He put up with my noisy friends, helped me take on my archnemesis trigonometry, drove me to art classes and gymnastics, and didn’t blink an eye when I said I wanted to go to massage therapy school instead of college. Even though both his sons had done the whole academic slog with high honors, he rallied behind my more hands-on dreams.
As much as I hated it, he always, always let me know that when he was gone, I’d be taken care of. He let me live in my little bubble of believing he’d always be there for me, but also made sure I accepted the reality that I’d be fine without him, at least financially.
So, why am I living in a leaky van? A little thing called probate that Uncle Oliver, my dad’s older brother, is still taking care of. Once Grandpa’s will is finished being sorted out, I’ll be able to rebuild the house, finish up my exams, and get a proper job. Live the life Grandpa wanted for me. Even though it stings to have to live it without him, I know I was lucky to have him in my life for all those years.
For now, I sit in the chair, but as tourists and locals who are off for the day start to trickle onto the beach, I’ll get up and walk around, calling out greetings to them. The first people to arrive are a group of girls about my age and I wave at them as they pass.
“I’ve got cold drinks for just a dollar. Handmade jewelry, too.” I see one of them has a volleyball. “Shoulder massages if you get sore playing.”
“Okay, maybe later,” one says, and they hurry away to the waterline, giggling.
Pulling my long, dark hair into a ponytail as it gets warmer, I see someone rounding the low cement wall and try not to get my hopes up. This man isn’t dressed for hanging out on the beach, but maybe he’ll want to look over the jewelry selection for his wife.
As soon as he gets close enough to recognize, the wind goes out of my sails. It’s just Uncle Oliver. Not that I’m disappointed to see him, but I’d rather have a customer. He’s got an odd expression on his face as he gets closer, a mixture of grim resignation and excitement.
He looks over the sign that I only made a month ago, and that he’s never seen. We’re not close, since he and my father never got along, and he’s never been overly warm to me. He hasn’t even bothered to check up on me since Grandpa died.
“When did you get your license?” he asks, skipping all pleasantries before stopping in front of my chair.
It feels like a jab and I get a flash of guilt for the lie. I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s not like I didn’t go through the complete course. I just didn’t get to take the exam. Yet. As soon as everything is worked out, I can go back and finish.
When I had the bright idea to offer massages on the beach, a lot of people got the wrong idea. Men would wag their eyebrows and nod to my van, asking for more than just neck and shoulders. Women would scoff at me in my shorts and halter tops— I mean, it gets hot out here all day in the sun— and drag their husbands and boyfriends away. Ever since I put that I’m licensed on the sign, that’s mostly stopped, although some skeezy guys still think I might be up for more if the price is right.
