The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  “That must have been fun,” Jill offered.

  “It wasn’t.” The woman grimaced. “The poor man didn’t know the first thing about making wine—could have given us all brain damage. Anyway, my point is that it used to be a magnificent tree, substantial, you know? Now look at it.” The woman tutted. “Nancy’s tried everything—special fertilizer, pruning, staking—even hired a specialist to come out, but nothing helps. She’s going to lose that tree.”

  “Is it sick?” Jill asked.

  “It’s not sick. It needs sun,” the woman replied simply.

  Jill looked again and understood what the woman meant. The neighbor’s garden—the majority of her side yard, in fact—was cast in shade, overshadowed by the structure of Marc’s house.

  “Folks around here call that thing ‘The Monstrosity,’” the woman continued. “And we’ve been complaining about it for years.”

  “Complaining about this house?” The news was surprising and not in a good way. “Complaining to who?”

  “Anyone who’ll listen. Not that it’s made any difference, mind.” The woman’s frown deepened. “We even filed a petition once, with some state agency. Dick and Nancy Pellish were the ones who started it. Dick’s an attorney, so he drew it up. Nancy was charged with gathering the signatures and she collected quite a few, I’m told. But in the end, nothing came of it.”

  Jill groaned. Petitions would surely influence a house sale and not in a good way.

  The woman misunderstood Jill’s groan as one of solidarity. Bolstered, she continued her story. “I was there the day the new foundation was poured, you know. Two houses stood on this lot, both destroyed by the hurricane. The man who built this house stole them both.”

  “That sounds terrible.” Jill hoped the woman was exaggerating.

  “Oh, it was. We were in such a state after the hurricane. You can’t imagine the chaos.”

  “The hurricane? Do you mean Hurricane Sandy?” Jill had a vague memory of watching the news coverage. “That was so long ago.”

  “November of 2012.” The woman’s expression faded. “Years by the calendar maybe, but not so long ago in memory. Many of us residents are still recovering. The storm’s destruction was physical and lasted less than a week, but what came after lasted much longer and ripped our hearts out.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at what Marc had built. “That house right there is plunder. The man who built it was a pirate, all there is to it.”

  “You mean it was illegally built?” Jill held her breath, awaiting the answer.

  “No, it was legal.” The woman scoffed. “But legal and moral can be two very different things. That house would never have been allowed to go up if Hurricane Sandy hadn’t come along. That man took advantage of a terrible situation. Of course the planning commission should have stopped it, but they didn’t.”

  “Why not?” Jill asked. “Why didn’t they stop it?”

  “It’s a long story and not a pleasant one.” Abruptly, the woman shook off the memories and her mood lightened, like a sunbeam peaking from behind a storm cloud. “Oh, listen to me go on like we both have nothing better to do. The day’s too nice to talk about all that.” The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Here I am talking your head off, and we haven’t even been introduced. My name is Betty Grable.” She dropped her voice and her cheeks dimpled as she grinned. “No relation to the movie star, though I have been told the resemblance between us was remarkable, especially in my younger days.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Jill said, laughing. “I’m Jill G—” She stumbled a bit on her new name but recovered in time. “Jill DiFiore.”

  The woman tilted her head as she considered. “Don’t believe I know a DiFiore. Are you new in town or are you visiting?”

  “I’m visiting, just for a little while. I’m a photographer. The scenery here is beautiful.”

  “I believe you picked the best time of year to come. Dewberry Beach is at her best in the fall if I say so myself. Much less crowded. A person can breathe in the off-season.” Betty nodded, good humor restored. “I’ll let you get to it then. You don’t want to waste a day as beautiful as this chattering with an old woman. Go—enjoy the scenery.”

  They said their goodbyes and the woman continued her walk.

  Suddenly the idea of immersing herself in the sights of the shore was too compelling to put off. She’d done enough. Everything else could wait. This light would not. She paused a moment to make sure no one was watching. Then she ran up the beach stairs and slipped into the house to retrieve her camera.

  Within a few minutes she was outside again. As the autumn breeze drifted up from the ocean, Jill closed her eyes to breathe in and she was transported to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney’s house. The best summers of her life had been spent there, without a worry in the world. She could spend whole days on a lounge chair outside, lost in the pages of a book. Afternoons were spent on the screen porch with Uncle Barney listening to approaching thunderstorms and guessing how far off they were. At night there was camping in a backyard tent with cousins, and flashlights, and ghost stories. Jill remembered blankets of fireflies at night and itchy mosquito bites beneath sunburned skin.

  The same briny scent laced the air in Dewberry Beach, but this time of year it was threaded with woodsmoke and the snap of fall. She zipped her jacket, shouldered her camera case, and made her way to the dunes. There, she found clusters of wild roses growing in a sheltered corner of the beach stairs. Jill readied her camera and started to work, experimenting first with texture and then with color, framing shots of crimson rose hips against sugary sand. She kneeled to capture the delicate petals of the last remaining rose flower against a backdrop of splintery wooden stairs, then wandered to the tidepools near the jetty. There, she photographed grumpy hermit crabs defending their shell homes with their tiny claws raised, and seagulls scavenging through clam shells. And when the angle of the sun changed, she switched to a telephoto lens to capture the curl of a perfect wave as it reached for shore.

  She would have happily spent all day behind her camera. The sky was the bluest she’d ever seen it, and the rumble of the ocean filled her soul. There was so much to photograph—the wispy beach grass, the play of light against the ocean, the determined sandpiper by the jetty. But of course she couldn’t—there was still work to do at the house before tomorrow’s meeting and she had to get going. She gathered her things and packed them away, intending to return to work, but her stomach growled, reminding her that the only food in the house was unappetizing leftovers in the caterer’s pantry. She’d had enough of that. It was time for real food. Jill turned away from the house and headed into town to find lunch.

  The shops in Dewberry Beach were a few blocks from the beach, and all of them had been decorated for Halloween. There were bright orange pumpkins carved with triangle eyes and snaggle-toothed grins displayed at the entrances, bundles of dried cornstalks tied to the light poles, and a banner stretched across the street advertising an upcoming fall festival. The town itself was small, with less than a dozen shops, and only a handful of those were open. In the center of town was a bakery that seemed to be doing a brisk business. Next to that was a tiny newsstand with its door propped open. Across the street was a firehouse next to a wide grassy field.

  About a block or so before the fire station was a sandwich shop that looked interesting. It was a small cedar building with a few tables set on a patio and a sturdy overhead sign that read “Dewberry Deli,” and Jill was drawn in by the smell of fresh bread, oregano, and garlic. Her stomach rumbled again, as if it could barely believe its good fortune. When was the last time she’d allowed herself to eat a real New Jersey sub? Years, probably. There was always a dress to fit into or an event to attend. Not anymore.

  Inside, the shop was a hum of activity as customers placed their orders and the man at the counter scribbled them on a tiny pad. He ripped the page from his order pad and passed it across the counter in one fluid movement, as if he’d perf
ormed the same action a million times before. On the back wall were wire baskets filled with crusty Italian bread, and above that was a three-panel chalkboard that served as a menu. Jill bit back a smile as she noticed the chalk had faded in places, making many of the selections almost unreadable. It seemed to Jill that customers either ordered from memory or they ignored the menu completely, ordering whatever they felt like.

  As Jill waited for her number to be called, she turned her attention to the display case in the front of that shop. It was beautiful, with a gently curving glass front, soft wood trim, and white enameled shelves. Inside the case was food reminiscent of Jill’s childhood summers—bowls of pesto and peas, marinated peppers and mushrooms, spiced olives, Caprese salad with fat chunks of fresh mozzarella. Toward the end, where one might expect dessert, there was a simple sign in black print that read “Go to Mueller’s.”

  Ellie would love this place.

  “Fifteen.” The man’s eyes were sharp, but there was humor behind them, as if he were on the edge of laughter and, if asked, he just might share the joke with you.

  “That’s me.” Jill held up her slip of paper as proof.

  “What can I get ya?”

  It had been a very long time since Jill had ordered a deli sub and she was out of practice. “Um. Turkey, please. With provolone. Do you have provolone?”

  “’Course we do.”

  “Okay, then provolone too—but not a lot. Just a slice or maybe half a slice.”

  His brow creased in confusion. “You want half a slice of cheese?”

  “Yes.” Jill nodded firmly. “I do.”

  He sighed as he scribbled on his pad. “Half or whole?”

  “Half. I just said.”

  “Sub. Do you want a whole or half sub?”

  “Half. Definitely half. With vinegar only—no mayo—lettuce, tomato, peppers, black pepper, and oregano. And a pickle on the side if you have them.”

  The man’s brow arched as if he were waiting for something.

  “Please,” Jill offered.

  He laughed at that, deep and rumbling, and she smiled in return.

  “What do you want for your side?” He gestured to the case filled with salads. “Pesto ziti and peas is fresh this morning. Marinated tomatoes, peppers, and mozzarella just put out. Feta with fresh oregano’s coming if you want to wait for it.”

  “Oh, no thank you. Just a green salad please. No dressing.” The choice was automatic, from years of dieting.

  He looked up, frowning in confusion. Jill assumed he hadn’t heard so she repeated herself, louder this time. “Green sal—”

  “Yeah, I got it.” The man’s green eyes danced with mischief. “What’s the matter, you don’t want to try my nonna’s food?”

  “What?”

  “My nonna.” He pointed his stubby pencil toward the display case. “She makes all the salads.”

  “I’m sure they’re very—”

  “So you want to at least try the pesto?”

  “No, I do not,” Jill spluttered. Who did this guy think he was?”

  “Tell ya what.” He shrugged as he ripped the page from the pad. “I’ll throw in the pesto, gratis. You come back and tell me if it’s not the best piatto you ever had.” He shifted his focus to the man filling orders. They looked similar and Jill assumed they were brothers. They had the same dark wavy hair, the same muscular build, the same cheekbones.

  “Fine,” Jill said, annoyed. She’d accept it, but she didn’t have to eat it.

  The man smiled as he turned. “Petey! Order up.”

  As she waited for her order, Jill wandered around the small shop. She eyed the rack of chips and browsed the cooler of drinks. She passed a side table with a collection of shakers filled with red pepper flakes, oregano, parm, and bottles of vinegar. In the back, near the door, was a bulletin board, tacked with a haphazard collection of notices. Most were old, offering babysitting services or surf lessons. The ink on some of them was so faded, the cards so layered that Jill wondered how many summers they’d been posted.

  Just as she was about to turn away, a simple notice tacked to the corner of the board caught Jill’s attention. Written on a recipe card in neat script, the ad made her breath catch.

  Photographer wanted for fundraising project.

  Minimal experience required.

  Jill’s pulse quickened. Photographers for any job were never hired without experience. Even with references, the best she’d ever managed was an assistant’s job, loading film or memory cards and changing lenses. To be the one in charge? That never happened, certainly not without formal training.

  “Do you know anything about this notice?” Jill turned to a young woman wiping the tables. “The photographer job?”

  She shook her head. “I think it’s been there for a while. You can take it if you want.”

  Jill tucked the card in her pocket as she collected her order from the front counter. Then she made her way to a table outside to enjoy her lunch in the crisp autumn air. The sandwich was delicious, perfectly made and even better than she remembered. Afterward, she crumpled the papers and rose from her chair.

  As Jill returned her tray to the table by the front door, a thought occurred to her and she felt a smile spread across her face. Despite her initial feeling, she’d tried Nonna’s pesto. The man behind the counter was right: it was the best she’d ever eaten.

  Jill chose a more indirect route back to the house because she was distracted by the colors of fall leaves against the blue sky. She meandered, turning down one side street and then another just because they looked interesting. Before long, she’d taken out her camera and tucked the lens cap into her pocket. The work she’d done earlier that morning at the beach was good and she was pleased with the photos.

  But it was time to widen her scope.

  The town of Dewberry Beach was so small that there didn’t seem much chance of getting lost, so Jill let herself wander, following the pull of curiosity. It was a glorious afternoon, and as she got swept up in her work, she felt the weight of uncertainty and worry slip from her shoulders. She followed a path across a narrow footbridge and spied a man helping his daughter free a tangle of crabs from a net. They were happy for her to take pictures, so she did. Her first photo showed the pride in the little girl’s face as she held up her catch. The second captured water dripping from the net and spattering on the wood below. The third was a picture of them together, with the man’s arm around her shoulders, the love clear on his face as he looked down at his daughter.

  As the afternoon waned, the air cooled and the sun began its descent. It was clear that the chores she’d been putting off couldn’t wait any longer. The house agents would be arriving early the following morning and she needed to be ready. It was time to make her way back.

  Tucking away her camera, she returned to the main street, knowing she could find her way from there. At the corner, she came upon a white clapboard church and she stopped, captivated by its charm. She followed an oyster-shell-lined path around the building to a tiny courtyard garden with a stone bench beneath a shady tree. The last of the summer sunflowers grew against a picket fence, their heads bending under the weight of the seeds. Jill watched a clump of seagrass fronds sway and a moment later felt a gentle breeze brush across her face. Everything about this church was understated, except the stained-glass window just below the spire. A puzzle of deep red and vibrant blue, it was an unexpected pop of color in the simple building. She stood for a moment, watching the sunlight work its magic. The colored glass panels absorbed the afternoon sun, then cast it back across the sidewalk in a wash of purple.

  It was the perfect ending to her day in Dewberry Beach, unexpected and surprising.

  It was dark by the time Jill returned to the house, and her mood shifted. The teak deck furniture was much too heavy to pull down from overhead storage, no matter how hard she tried. After a few attempts, she abandoned the project and left tomorrow’s appointment to fate. She pulled a blanket from a trunk an
d settled herself into a loveseat in a hidden alcove, lifted the window to feel the breeze, and pulled out her camera to review the images she’d taken that day. After a moment, she put the camera down, satisfied with the work she’d done.

  As she listened to the roar of the waves and the last of the summer crickets, she closed her eyes and let herself drift off to sleep.

  Fifteen

  The real-estate agents arrived exactly on time, in a sleek black Mercedes they parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. Their website said they specialized in upscale vacation properties for affluent clients. Their client reviews were good, and the number of houses they’d sold was respectable. All that was encouraging. But the reason Jill had selected them was because of the three firms she’d emailed, they were the only ones willing to meet with her right away. She hoped that would be lucky.

  Jill greeted them at the front door, eager to get to work.

  “You must be Jill DiFiore.” The man wore a conservative dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tasteful paisley tie. As he extended his hand, Jill noticed the gold watch on his wrist, heavy and circled with tiny diamonds. Hopefully bought with commissions. “I’m Seth Ackerman.”

  “Yes, thank you for coming.” Jill shook his hand. His grip was warm and reassuring, a good sign.

  Seth turned to the woman beside him, who was wearing a simple black dress and blazer. She had a briefcase slung over her shoulder and a tablet in her hand, ready to get started. “This is my associate, Sheri Kessler.”

  “Hello, Sheri.” Jill smiled. “Please come in.”

  “Great house.” Seth’s gaze swept the dramatic front entry, the two-story window above the wide front doors, the blue-slate flooring, and the original Picone on the opposite wall.