Page 1 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

one

The house stands like a beleaguered sand castle long forgotten along the shore. Its white paint is peeling, and the faded letters on a sign hung by the door spell out “Beach Haven.” I’m sure it was impressive in its glory days, but now, like so much else just off Route 1 in New England, the rental cottage looks like it could use a facelift.

That’s not to say I don’t love being here. My family’s been traveling to coastal Maine every summer of my life, and it’s always been beyond amazing. Well, except for last year. That was when everything changed.

The whole town is rife with memories—mostly pleasant, some less so. Dripping vanilla soft serve onto the hot sand as the waves petered out against my toes. Chasing my cousin Laurel up and down the beach while my grandmother patiently embroidered from the comfort of her chair.

Growing into an awkward teenager and glowering at my mom behind my beach book. Sneaking out at night to the antiquated dance hall down the block with Laurel, hoping to impress cute boys.

Bringing my college boyfriend here to meet the family, then realizing he wasn’t right for me when he was rude to my grandpa, who might have been the nicest person on earth. Browsing quaint bookstores with my grandmother and daydreaming about having my own someday.

Then, when things got tougher, watching my parents' marriage break down before my eyes. And seeing my grandmother slip away right after our trip last year, before the family splintered into fragments and decided it would be too difficult to come back.

But I grew up on this beach, and something about the way the waves lap against the shore has permanently altered the rhythm of my heart, pouring itself into my very soul. I can’t seem to stay away.

Plus, given what’s happened at work, with Kyle, I felt even more motivated to come back. To flee my hometown. No matter how much I tried to convince myself I was a strong, independent woman, I just couldn’t stomach an entire summer in Brookline.

Especially a summer with no one to hang out with because they all took his side, despite it being his fault in every way. Sitting around and remembering everything that went on, feeling trapped within the confines of my misguided faith and naïveté, didn’t seem like a great time.

And that’s how I find myself in the driveway behind Beach Haven on a sweltering July day with Laurel, rolling a battered purple carry-on toward the back door.

She tosses her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder. “Geez. It’s so humid today. I should have gone for a ponytail.”

I nod in sympathy. “I think I have a hair tie in my purse somewhere, if you want it.”

Laurel shrugs. “Eh, it’s okay. I’m planning to run straight into those waves,” she gestures toward the beach, just over a dune from the front yard of the rental, “when we’re done settling in here.”

I chuckle. “You and me both.”

“I’ve missed it. I can’t wait to get some vitamin sea.”

The pun makes me grimace, but I shoot her a conciliatory smile. I definitely share her sentiments.

We’re silent for a minute, and I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing. Ogunquit was our family’s annual vacation spot since time immemorial, up until Grandma Eleanor passed away last September. Then it became a place that pulled on too many heartstrings; brought forth too many painful memories. No one else wanted to come back this year, but staying away felt wrong, too.

A pang of sadness fills my chest as I remember my grandmother, reading on the beach while we played in the surf; sneaking us fudge at the rental cottage when our parents went out for the night; eyes sparkling, telling us stories of her misadventures up and down the shore with her sister, Janie, back when she was a teenager and used to come here, too.

It isn’t going to be the same without her.

Clearing my throat, I fish my phone from my pocket. “The caretaker sent me a code for the door,” I announce. “I’ll check my messages; I’ve already forgotten what it is.”

Laurel nods, coming out of what I’m pretty sure is a trance of family memories much like my own.

I scroll until I find “Maribel at Beach Haven” in my list of text messages. “Okay, it’s 6-5-3-1.” I type the numbers into the electronic lock and hear a satisfying click as it deems my entry acceptable.

“Ready?” Laurel asks, shouldering her duffel bag.

I nod. The minute I wheel my suitcase inside, I’m hit with a wall of stale air. “Ugh,” I grimace. “When was this door last opened?”

Laurel waves her hand in front of her face, as if she can clear the musty smell in favor of the sea air from outside. “God, I don’t know. I guess it’s been closed up for a while.” She drops her bag on the floor. “This is prime beachfront property. How is this not getting snapped up for rent left and right?”

“Maybe Simon’s too busy to deal with it?” I start down the hallway, flipping on light switches and peeking through doorways to see what we’re working with.

Beach Haven belongs to Simon Foster, a friend of our late grandparents. He had to move into a nursing home a few years back, but he hired a caretaker for the house. It seems like either the caretaker is cleaning less than she should, or perhaps Simon just doesn’t do much in the way of advertising. The house has the general aura of a time capsule that hasn’t been discovered yet.

“Do you want the room with the desk?” I ask Laurel over my shoulder. She’s currently finishing her dissertation, but she was able to slip away from TA duties this summer because there wasn’t enough interest in the women’s lit classes she usually teaches. Her faculty advisor signed off on our trip but made it very clear that Laurel needed to make some serious writing progress before the fall semester.

“Sure, I’ll take that one.” Laurel swooshes her duffel past me and slides into the room at the end of the hallway.