“Leaving already?” He offered her a cup of hot coffee, which she accepted.
“They’re expecting me at the Yacht Club.” She cradled the cup in her palms and felt the warmth spread to her fingers. “So yeah, I gotta go.” She noticed for the first time that she’d slipped into her old South Jersey accent and that Danny didn’t seem to mind. Marc would have.
“Thanks for helping me carry the stuff from the bakery,” he said easily as he handed her a blueberry muffin folded into a napkin. “Not sure the guys would have forgiven me if I had brought them cold coffee. Hey, listen…” His tone changed so abruptly that Jill turned her attention back to him. He gestured toward the bakery. “That thing back there with Aunt Irene and the muffins? That wasn’t anything. She’s always like that—she likes to kid.”
“Oh yeah, sure.” Jill shifted her gaze back to her camera, feeling a bloom of embarrassment rise from her chest. “I knew she was kidding. Anyway, I should get going. I don’t want to be late.” She turned and called over her shoulder, “Thanks for the coffee.”
Jill walked away, relieved. Danny was handsome, no doubt about it, but the ink on her divorce papers was barely dry and Jill had no interest in dating again.
Not that he’d asked, she reminded herself.
Nineteen
On her way to the Yacht Club, Jill planned to stop by the Bennett house to drop off the SD card. Kaye’s son-in-law Ryan needed the photographs Jill had taken already, and Kaye had texted Jill to ask that she bring them by. It seemed an easy enough thing to do.
The Bennett home was a modest house on a quiet street, not at all what Jill would have expected from such an affluent family. Just two stories, shingled with gently weathered cedar, and three windows on the second floor framed with slim black shutters. Pots of yellow chrysanthemums dotted the front steps, leading up to a welcoming front porch set with Adirondack chairs and carved pumpkins.
The front door was open to the crisp autumn air, so Jill knocked on the frame.
A young woman’s voice called from inside the house, “C’min. It’s open.”
Jill pulled open the screen door and stepped inside but didn’t venture further than the small foyer. Surely the woman hadn’t intended to let anyone all the way in. “Hello?”
A woman about Jill’s age emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and she was dressed in yoga pants and loose T-shirt. She seemed approachable and nice, and Jill liked her immediately. Under different circumstances, they may even have been friends.
“Oh, sorry.” She tucked the towel into her waistband as she walked toward Jill. “I was expecting someone else.”
“I’m Jill, the photographer that’s helping with the festival.” Jill withdrew the SD card from her camera case. “I was told that Ryan might need these pictures? For the website.”
“That’s right—now I remember. Mom texted that you might drop by. I’m Stacy. Ryan’s upstairs with the baby right now but he should be down soon. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
Jill wasn’t sure she should spend any time in the Bennett home. Even though she was certain they didn’t know who she was, the town was small, and people liked to talk. It was better to keep her distance. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. They want me to photograph the gallery set-up and I’m afraid I may already be late.”
“I get it,” Stacy answered easily. “Festival weekend is a busy time for everyone. Lemme just grab a new SD card to replace the one you’re giving Ryan, and you can be on your way. It’s back here.”
Stacy led the way to the kitchen and Jill followed, reluctantly.
As they entered the kitchen, Jill was surprised at how much the room reminded her of Aunt Sarah’s cozy kitchen at the Cape. The warm yellow walls, the lace curtains in the windows, even the sponge in the holder on the side of the sink. There were a trio of labeled canisters—flour, sugar, and tea—tucked into a corner beside a wooden bread box. On the refrigerator, a scatter of plastic fruit magnets anchored wrinkled finger paintings and snapshots of friends and vacations. The atmosphere was light, casual. If the kitchen was the heart of the home, then the Bennett home was genuinely welcoming.
“Here it is.” Stacy held up a small plastic case. “Ryan loves the pictures you’ve taken already. He said they’re just what he needs for the website and wants to know if he can get a copy of whatever you shoot today.” She held up a second case. “Do you need an extra card? We have millions of them.”
“No, that’s okay. I have a few myself.” Jill laughed, patting her camera bag. “I’ll make sure Ryan gets a copy of everything.”
“Great. And you said you’re on your way to the Yacht Club now?”
“I am,” Jill replied as she tucked the card in her case.
“Do you mind if I walk with you? I haven’t been out of the house since the baby was born and I’m dying for some fresh air. It’s not far.” Her expression turned mischievous. “And I can show you a secret shortcut.”
“How can I possibly refuse that?” Jill smiled, and it occurred to her that Ellie would have liked Stacy too.
“Let me just get my sneakers and we’ll go. They’re upstairs.” Stacy bounded up the stairs, leaving Jill alone.
Unexpectedly, an older man rounded the corner into the kitchen. They locked eyes, and Jill tensed as she recognized him. While Marc had been busy doing everything he could to orchestrate a meeting with the elusive Chase Bennett at the party, Jill had kept to herself. But in a quiet corner of the second-floor deck, she’d happened to run into a nice older man and struck up a conversation. They’d chatted about nothing in particular, and Jill had shared a memory of her summers spent at the Cape. The man had said that Uncle Barney seemed like an honorable man, an observation that had warmed Jill’s heart. The conversation had been brief, and she hadn’t gotten the man’s name then, but now, of course, she knew exactly who he was: Chase Bennett. The same Chase Bennett who knew Marc and had actively avoided doing business with him, for reasons Jill could only guess at.
One thing was for sure: Chase knew about Marc’s house and was aware that Marc had been trying to sell it. Now he knew that Jill was here it was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together.
Jill stared at him, her mind racing with all the ways this could fail.
The estate agents were showing the property to a potential buyer this very morning and the man standing before her had the power to stop everything.
Before either of them had a chance to speak, Stacy pounded down the stairs, sneakers in hand.
She glanced at her father and smiled. “Oh, Dad, you’re back. This is Jill DiFiore, the photographer helping Mom with the fall festival.”
“DiFiore, is it?” Chase’s gaze sharpened as he considered.
Jill swallowed. “Yes. It is now. I’m divorced.”
“Are you? How long have you been divorced?”
“Dad!” Stacy admonished. “Really?”
“No, it’s okay,” Jill rushed. “It only happened recently. I found out my husband isn’t who I thought he was, and I couldn’t be a part of it.”
“Is that so?”
I’m nothing like him, Jill wanted to say, but of course she couldn’t. Instead, she settled for, “He wasn’t honorable, like my Uncle Barney.”
Stacy blinked, confused. But the message wasn’t for Stacy.
“I see. Interesting.” He scrutinized Jill for another moment, then turned his attention to his daughter. “Stacy, I can’t seem to find the bag of mesquite chips. Do you know where it is?”
Unexpectedly, Jill felt a flare of annoyance—both at Chase’s casual dismissal of her and of the power he held over her. The power she’d given him to decide her fate. As owner of The Monstro—correction: the beach house, she could do whatever she wanted with it. Sell it. Live in it. Give it away if she wanted to. She knew neighbors objected to it—and she understood why—but the time to protest was over. Permits had been issued
, construction completed. The house was legally hers and if anyone tried to stop that sale, Jill would fight back. Somehow.
“Brad used the last of it on the ribs the other day,” Stacy answered as she bent to tie her laces. “The new bag is on the shelf—red label this time, instead of blue.”
“Thanks. I’ll look again.” His expression changed. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Finally getting out of the house.” Stacy pushed herself to a standing position. “Just a short walk to the Yacht Club with Jill. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you mind swinging by Applegate’s Hardware on your way back? I need a new grill brush for the cook-off, and I need to start the marinade before your mother comes home. Oh, and get another bag of mesquite, will you? I can’t afford to run out this year.”
“Sure, Dad,” Stacy replied. “Don’t overdo it though. I’m not sure Mom would be happy with all this activity of yours.”
“I could say the same to you, young lady.” Chase arched a brow, revealing a glimpse of the stern businessman underneath. “You should be upstairs resting.”
Stacy’s answer was to kiss her father on the cheek. “This is your third grandchild, Dad. I think I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back later.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later,” Chase answered. Then, because good manners dictated that Chase say goodbye to Jill, he turned to her, but his expression changed. It became more guarded. “It was nice to meet you, Ms. DiFiore.”
“And you too, Mr. Bennett.” Jill replied. He’d given nothing away and she couldn’t tell what he planned to do, if anything.
Stacy pushed open the back door. “We’ll go out this way. Shortcut’s through the back.”
Outside, Jill stopped.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathed as she took it all in. “This view…”
“Isn’t it great?” Stacy smiled at Jill’s reaction. “I never get tired of it.”
The backyard of the Bennett home bordered a salt pond with a bank of cattails growing from the muddy shore to frame the view. A mix of sturdy trees shaded the water from overhead sun, and delicate weeping willow branches provided a home for wildlife. In the shallows, fallen tree branches were left undisturbed, providing shelter for mallards and rest for turtles. The air was still this time of day, nothing but an occasional duck quacking or a fish splashing to break the silence. On the ground, water broke in gentle waves.
“This is magnificent,” Jill said finally. The front of the Bennett house was so unassuming. It gave no hint that this sanctuary lay behind it. What a treasure.
“I think the deck is the best part of the house, to be honest. My grandfather carved it by hand, as a gift for my grandmother because she loved to sit and watch the ducks on the pond.” Stacy touched the finished wood as they walked closer to the pond. “It took him an entire year of weekends to build it. I always remember that when I come out here, how patient and meticulous a man he was.”
Jill pointed to the nautical rope that served as a handrail, knotted at intervals and threaded through brass fittings. “The craftsmanship is unusual. These details…”
“My grandpa was a craftsman, a woodworker. He specialized in dock construction, and he loved being near the water.”
Chase pushed open the back door and called to his daughter. “Stacy, I can’t seem to find the molasses. Would you mind getting some on the way back?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Great. Just charge everything to the house account. I need a few more things for this weekend, do you mind getting them? I have a list.”
As Stacy crossed the deck to retrieve the list from her father, Jill realized that what she liked most about this house was its simplicity. Nothing was “curated for effect.” It was a simple house meant for family. And a family lived here.
“This deck is in such good condition,” Jill said when Stacy returned, “it’s hard to believe it was built so long ago.”
Stacy laughed. “Tell that to my brother—he’s the one who’s in charge of taking care of it. My grandfather was very exacting; he left detailed instructions on its upkeep.” She pointed to a small shed in the far corner. “That used to be his workshop. My brother Brad works there now; he runs his landscaping business from there.”
They continued across the yard and through a grassy lot that bordered the property. Overhead, ocean breezes had swept the sky clear of early morning clouds, leaving only a brilliant crisp blue. The air was fresh, touched with salt and filled with possibility.
“Do you live in Dewberry Beach full-time?” Jill started the conversation as they traveled a narrow footpath along the creek.
“Thinking about it,” Stacy replied as they fell into step together. “We’re staying with my parents until we decide. The kids are enrolled in school here and they seem to like it. It’ll be a big change from what we’re used to, but I think it’ll be good for us.”
“You all live with your parents?”
Stacy laughed. “We do. You know, if anyone had suggested that at the beginning of the summer, I’d have called them crazy. But yes, all of us—my brother’s here too—live with my parents at the moment. It’s tight, seven people and a newborn living in a small house with two bathrooms. Parts of it can get dicey, but it has benefits too. Mom and Dad are getting to know their grandchildren in a way they couldn’t have before, and I think it’s good for all of us. Ryan and I had been going in a million different directions where we lived before and we’ve slowed down. It’s nice. We’ve looking for a place in town, but I think my mom likes us all together in one house.”
“It seems like a sweet little town.”
“It is. My brother and I have spent every summer in Dewberry Beach since we were born. My parents met here as kids, in fact. They bought the house from my grandparents after they married, and we’ll probably buy it from them if they ever want to sell it. Well,” Stacy amended with a swish of her hand, “either my brother or I will. We haven’t decided, but the house will definitely stay in the family.”
“What a great legacy.”
“It really is. Growing up, I had a dozen mothers in this town, watching out for me, ready with a Band-Aid for a scrape or a popsicle on a hot day.”
“It sounds perfect,” Jill said, because it did. Her own childhood had been tumultuous, and it had been wonderful to spend summers with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney on the Cape.
To Jill’s surprise, Stacy laughed. “Not always. The same women who offered up comfort and reassurance did not hesitate to tell my mother if they saw me riding my bike too fast or crossing the street against the light.” She side-eyed Jill. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we don’t have a lot of traffic down here, but to this day, I still can’t bring myself to cross the street if the light is red.”
The path opened up to a residential street, another road lined with shady trees. The morning sun filtered through a tangle of bright autumn leaves clinging stubbornly to their branches, and the result washed the sandy street in shades of yellow and orange. The houses here seemed more like cottages, with shady porches and colorful front gardens. Almost every home had displayed carved pumpkins, and a few had taped crayoned drawings of cats and ghosts to the windows. But there was one homeowner who had opted to go all-out for the holiday. There, a pair of bony skeletons peeked out from behind the porch columns, a witch’s broom hung from the tree branches on the sidewalk, and orange string lights laced the front shrubbery.
Jill slowed to marvel, and Stacy snorted.
“We take Halloween very seriously here,” she explained as she waited for Jill.
They took Halloween very seriously in the upscale neighborhood Jill had shared with Marc too, but they celebrated very differently. Every year, landscaping trucks descended on the first of October, with work crews, ladders, and miles of tiny white string lights. Decorators from fancy nurseries arrived next, arranging wheelbarrows, straw bedding, and trendy fall gourds that looked nothing like the bright orange pumpkins Jill had known as a child. In all the
time she’d lived with Marc, Jill had never once been allowed to put up so much as a wreath on the door. The job fell to professional decorators and the result had been lovely but cold.
Jill preferred the Dewberry Beach version.
“It’s not all homey like this,” Stacy said, as if reading Jill’s thoughts. “This is one of the few original streets, untouched by developers.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is what Dewberry Beach used to look like when I was a kid, but it’s changed, especially near the ocean.”
“You mean because of the hurricane?”
“Yes, but not only that. People buy houses here then decide they want something bigger or different, so they expand the first floor or add a third. The remodels change the look and feel of the town, and it’s divided the town into before and after. But that’s a gripe for another time.” Stacy shivered as if to shake off the mood. “Anyway, that’s more than enough about me. What about you? What brings you to Dewberry Beach in October?”
“I came with my camera,” Jill answered truthfully. “When I stopped for lunch in the deli, I happened to see the notice for a photographer. That led to an interview and the festival job.”
“How lucky for the committee that you found the notice,” Stacy commented as they strolled. “Is it interesting, taking pictures? Do you like it?”
“I love it. It’s a hard industry to break into, especially if you want to do artistic work instead of commercial, which I do.” Jill shifted the weight of her bag across her shoulder. “What’s particularly nice is that your mom’s group is giving me artist credit on the website, and they’re letting me use the images for my portfolio.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It really is. And I’m grateful.”
“Brenda’s on the committee this year too, isn’t she?”
“Yes. I saw some of her work—she’s incredibly talented.”
“We have quite a few artists around here, believe it or not. If not in Dewberry Beach proper, then scattered around the area. The auction gives them a chance to show locally, because the closest gallery is miles from here.”
The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner Page 17