by Jacquie Gee
“So, who around here, hasn’t done that?”
“Yes, but, who’s done that wearing one of your dresses?”
Anna’s always been able to read me, ever since we made mudpies together in first grade. I kind of hate that about her. That, and the fact that she has super slim ankles.
I narrow my eyes and snap the lid on a canister I just stuffed, extra freakin’ loud. “Okay, so, I’m not as well versed in business-poker-face as you are. What can I say?”
Anna swats at me and misses. “Don’t despair.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and drags a hand across the air, illustratively. “Some day you’ll return from New York City to marry some hunk of American burning love you’ve found, right here on the bridge like you’ve always dreamed, after you made it as a big designer.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that Anna French.” I drop my head on her shoulder.
“Speaking of men, how’s is the search going?” Anna’s exuberant expression fails.
“I’m not currently conducting one.”
“I see. You know, you can’t get to that big wedding on the bridge without first meeting someone?”
Oh, great, not this conversation again.
“I mean seriously, Jules, When's the last time you’ve been out on a date?"
She knows the answer to this, she’s just being annoying.
It drives Anna nuts that I’m not exactly on the market. That I haven’t been “actively seeking a suitor” for the past—oh, I don’t know—three to five years. I gave up after Henry, a guy I dated from the village here, who wasn’t exactly the catch of the year, but was nice company. Henry got all weird around the one year mark and started talking matrimony—a house along the river, two kids and a dog. Visions of mediocracy danced through my head and I was out faster than he could get the proposal out of his mouth. Poor Henry, he really was a nice guy.
Ever since then, Anna’s been after me to keep dating. Blah blah guys, blah blah future. Yeah, right. Like there’s marrying material kicking around Heartland Cove. Besides, I don’t plan on staying here long term, so why disappoint another little, backwoods, farmer boy?
“Don’t start with me, Anna. You know I’m perfectly happy the way things are.” I wipe my face with my sleeve, smearing a streak of worm dirt beneath my nostrils. Not exactly the best move in my defense right now.
“Honestly?” She hikes up her brows.
Okay, so, I’m a little lonely, but she doesn’t need to know that. I scoop up a net of minnows, toss them into a canister, along with a reed and snap the lid down. “Besides, I’m too busy for men right now.”
"Oh, please…"Anna chokes.
"I am,” I protest.
"I see that.” Anna looks around at the empty shop—our mid-morning rush. “I’m talkin’ life here, Jules. You know that thing you should be living? "
“Oh, Anna, please.”
“Seriously, Jules, I’m getting worried about you. It's becoming chronic, this hiding from life thing you're doing."
“I’m not hiding from life!”
“Okay, so let me put it another way.” Anna narrows her gaze. “You’re a workaholic. All you do is work. You're thirty-two-years-old, and you should be out enjoying yourself, not stuck here in your father’s bait shop from dawn to dusk.” She gestures. “How long are you planning to cut yourself off from the outside world, anyway?”
“I’m not cutting myself off from anything,” I snap. “Besides I’m only thirty-one—until next month.”
“I rest my weary case.” Anna sighs. “Seriously Jules, do you think this is what your mother would have wanted for you?”
I whirl around. How dare she bring up the mother card. “Again, I’m not cutting myself off; I’m just busy,” I say through gritted teeth.
"Yes, I know.” Anna thrusts her hands to her hips. “Every moment of every day since your mother died.”
“That’s not true. There was Henry—”
“Oh, yes, Henry. The placeholder boyfriend. I forgot.” Anna smirks.
I singe her with a look.
“All I’m sayin’ is,” she moves closer, taking me by the shoulders, and bringing her forehead to rest gently on mine. “Your mother would have wanted more for you. I know that. You know that. Deep down I know you do. So what are you doing?”
My lips quiver at the very mention of my mother. I miss her so desperately, every day. So what if it's been a long time since I’ve formally socialized with the opposite sex. It’s not like I haven’t had boyfriends—okay, boyfriend. Still, I’m not a stranger to the concept. And what business is this of Anna’s anyway.
Besides, the whole soulmate thing is way overrated, in my opinion. I used to think I wanted a relationship like Mom and Dad. But now I think, what’s the point. Why go to all the trouble of finding your soulmate just to see him/her torn from your life.
"You have to try, Jules," Anna whispers, reading my mind again. "You’ve got to get back out there, and find some one.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I pull away. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want what you do?”
“Okay, then.” Anna gives up. “Suit yourself. But if you ever do, you’ll need to start by changing those clothes of yours.” Anna flits a disapproving finger toward what I have on.
"What? What’s wrong with my clothes?"
"Honestly?" Anna lifts a sarcastic brow. “Your entire wardrobe these days consists of hip-waders and lumberjack shirts."
“What are you talking about? It does not. These are just my work clothes." I look down at them.
"No, Jules. Those are your everything clothes. You just don't seem to notice it anymore.”
I suck back a shocked gasp and check myself out in the mirror. Slug-green rubber boots, worm-gut-stained cargo pants and red and black checkered men's flannel shirt. The only thing girlish-looking on me is the black strappy spaghetti 'T' I’m wearing under the flannel shirt.
All right. So maybe she’s onto something.
"Half the Cove thinks you're gay, you know that, right?”
“What?” My chin snaps up.
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Anna adds, in total acceptance mode. "It's just that I don't think you are, and I'm the only one who thinks that.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Totally.” She nods. “You aren’t, are you? Gay, I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“No. I am not.”
“And it's not just the clothes,” Anna goes on. “There’s that bat-winged tat that covers your shoulders, chest and neck. Not to mention the spider web sleeve.”
“What about them?” My gaze falls to my arm, to the silvery-grey, metallic-looking spider web etched into my skin, adjoining butterfly wings. "I'll have you know some guys think tats are really cool.”
"I’m sure they do,” Anna barks. “Just not here in backwoods Heartland Cove."
“Who says I want a man from here, anyway!”
Anna crosses her arms. “Look, all I'm saying is maybe it's time to give the non-conformist look a rest for a while. You know, try exuding a little more Julieta and a little less Jules.”
“So, what, you’re suggesting I sell my soul in order to land a man.”
“No. I’m not suggesting that at all. Just a few changes here and there.” She clutches me by the chin and twists my head. “Maybe let the chunky haircut grow out and lose the piercing in the nose.”
“What? No!” My hands fly up, protecting both. I love my severely angular-cut bob. It was an original design by a hair artist in a shop up in Toronto, where I holidayed last summer. I’ve struggled hard to keep the look up—the higher on one side of my face than the other blunt cut, with its too-thick, too-short bangs, and ink black dye job. The hair stylist called it her twenty-seventeen interpretation of Aubrey Hepburn's classic look, in a punked-out sort of way. I quite like the way it turned out, and I'm quite unhappy to learn that Anna didn’t. What else doesn't she like about me?
&nb
sp; “And those freckles.” Okay, there it is. “We need to do something about those freckles.” She skews her mouth to one side and taps her chin. “Maybe add a few more, you know, really define them so they really show. I hear freckles are all the rage these days with the younger set in the bigger cities,” Anna sings. “And you know how you love tattoos.” She looks at me hopefully.
“No! No way.” What is she nuts? I hate the freckles I already have. What would possess her to give me more? I narrow my eyes and glare into her. “Shouldn't you be selling real estate, or something?"
"Omigosh!” Anna gasps. “Yes! Yes, I should!” She drops my chin and scurries away, snagging her purse from the stool where she was sitting and heads for the door. "I gotta run!” She blows me a kiss, breezing past me. “I have an appointment up at old Caldwell Manor at eleven-thirty."
"The Caldwell Manor?"
“Yeah, you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?” She winks, sarcastically.
“You’re not seriously gonna sell somebody the Caldwell Manor?”
"That's right. Why? Got a problem with that?" She dashes back into the room after her sweater, locates it, slings it over one shoulder, and dashes back toward the door.
"No. But the buyer might.”
"What are you talking about?" Anna stops mid-dash to glare. "It's a fine piece of real estate. A stately Georgian manor, turn of the century, right on the beach, overlooking the Cove—"
"With its very own ghost." I bob my head on my shoulders.
"Oh, please." Anna waves the thought away. "That's nothing but a rumor."
"Is it?” I rock back on my heels. “Not according to CNN."
“CNN makes up fake news, haven't you heard?" Anna scowls.
“Funny. So does the guy who makes that claim."
"Whatever.” Anna rolls her eyes and reaches for the door handle. “Gotta go.”
“Wait!” I slam the opening door shut. “You’re not seriously gonna sell the place to someone without spilling the beans about Old Man Edgar, are you?”
Anna tips back on her heels. "Well, it’s not really the sort of thing a realtor divulges on the first date.”
"But you will eventually, right?“
“Maybe.” She diverts her eyes.
“What do you mean, maybe?”
"It's just a rumor, Jules. It's not based in fact!"
“Oh,” I grasp my hips, “that explains why the last owners ran screaming from the building?”
"That was over ten years ago—"
“And it's been abandoned ever since for good reason.”
“It's been abandoned ever since because we haven’t been able to find the right buyer for it. Yet.” Anna winks. “Besides, if I sell the place, I'll be a regional real estate hero. The boss has promised me a trip to Hawaii. All expenses paid.” She reaches for the door.
“Still, you have a duty to disclose." I stiff-arm stop her.
"I tell you, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that place, Jules. I’ve been up there, myself.”
"Except for the fact that a ghost stalks its corridors at night, screaming out the name of his dead wife."
"Oh, stop, please?" Anna frowns. “At the very most he whines a little. Nothing worse than a brisk North wind."
“Who is the poor sucker, anyway?" I cross my arms. “The buyer, I mean.”
“I dunno. Just some guy. He contacted me over the internet.” Anna flips a flighty hand. "Sounded Swedish or German or something.”
"Over the internet?"
"No, silly, over the phone when he called to finalize the appointment. Though come to think of it," she taps her lip and squirrels up an eye. “His accent may have been British."
"Those are three very different things.”
“Okay, so he had an accent, I don’t remember which.” Anna stings me with a frustrated look. “Nevertheless, it doesn't much matter, whoever he is, he's about to become my all expense paid trip to Hawaii, and possibly the downpayment on my new car.” She skips over the threshold and glares back at me. “I swear, if you ruin this for me, Jules, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“How could I possibly ruin it for you?” I raise my hands up in surrender. “I just think you should tell the poor soul the truth. Seems only fair. Where's he coming from, anyway?”
I just have to ask. Partly because I’m nosey, and partly because I know he can't possibly be from around here. No one in their right mind from around here, would ever buy that place. The story of Edgar Locklear and his endless quest to find his missing wife, Arianna, is sort of a legend around these parts. Edgar, can still be heard up and down the shoreline most nights screaming the name of his long-lost wife. It drives the neighbors insane.
According to the legend, he and Arianna had a terrible fight, and she ran from the house, never to be seen again. Some believe she disappeared into the waves. But poor Edgar refused to believe it. He kept searching for her until his dying day, combing the shores of the Cove and beyond for his beloved Arianna.
Poor man. He lost everything over it—his business, his money, and finally his mind. Rumor has it, he was found hanging from the rafters of the coach house— the old garage structure on the property. And thus, the house has been haunted ever since. The thought of it gives me the willies.
Anyone within fifty miles of this place knows the story, which means the buyer is either a total fool, or fresh blood is coming to town.
“I dunno,” Anna answers. “He identified himself as an ex-pat from Europe, currently displaced in Mississippi and looking to buy in small-town New Brunswick. That’s all I know.”
“That’s quite the conglomration of addresses, don’t you think?” I squint. A European ex-pat living in Mississippi, looking to move to Heartland Cove? My heart begins to worry.
“Who am I to judge?" Anna rolls her eyes. “We meet all kinds in real estate. Besides, he insisted on seeing the place—and only that place. So, so be it.” She shrugs. “I’ve really got to go.” She checks her watch. “Don’t want to keep the rich, blonde buyer waiting.”
“How do you know he’s rich and blonde? Did you hear that over the phone, too?”
"Honey," Anna flips her curls back and pushes her newly donned sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, “once you've been in real estate as long as I have, you can just sense these things.” She lets go of the door. “Oh," she presses back through it, "I almost forgot. A bunch of us are getting together up at the Rope and Anchor Bar in Fredericton tonight. You’re invited to join us.”
I groan. Nothing like a night at the Rope and Anchor to remind you why you’ve given up on dating. “No thanks. But thanks for asking.”
Anna frowns. “Okay, well, if you reconsider give me a ring. It's not like Mr. Right’s gonna come bouncing through this door to find you, you know?”
"I'll take my chances."
“I’m sure you will. Later!” She waves and scurries up the street, stopping to rap on the window. “Oh, and, if you do happen to change your mind," she hollers through the glass. “No lumberjack shirts."
No lumberjack shirts? Whatever will I wear?
Chapter 3
Jules
I turn, catching a glimpse of myself in the broken-edged mirror that hangs on the sidewall of my father's bait shop. Anna’s right. I could probably do a few things to soften my look.
I raise a finger, covering the diamond stud in the side of my nose and unbutton the top of the lumberjack shirt, exposing the lacy-edged T beneath. Maybe? I tilt my head, reimagining myself. Or, maybe not. I rebutton the shirt.
I resolved long ago that if someone couldn't love me for who I am, then I’m just gonna skip the whole stupid love thing. And I’m sticking to it. Even if dressing brides for a living is my dream. However, when I made that pact I didn't realize how lonely it was going to be.
My gaze falls to the dark purple, pink, and blue-winged tattoo etched across my chest. I run a finger over its intricately twisted lines. I’ve always loved the way the image turned out—the way the butter
fly wings bleed so seamlessly into the soft, silvery gray of the spider web sleeve that stretches the length of my left arm. The tattoo artist really killed it.
Both the tattoos are a tribute to my mother. A nod to the characters in her best-selling novel—the butterfly woman and the spider man, and their story of impossible love. It was the last book she ever wrote—the one she didn't live to see published. The one I sleep with under my pillow most nights.
Hidden within the weave of the web in the crook of my arm, is my favorite quote from the book. I had the artist include the quote so only I could see. Life is what you spin of it, so weave, darling, weave… My life mantra after her death.
Only if you look very closely, can you detect the words. No one else has ever noticed it but me. No one’s ever noticed the tiny spider I had her add to the image, either. The tiny spider is me.
I gaze again at myself in the mirror, remembering the day I got the tattoos. No one understood why I was so obsessed with getting them, why at fourteen I couldn’t wait. At that age, I still needed Dad’s permission, and he wasn’t exactly on board. We fought long and hard over it. But in the end, I won, though he still thinks it was a rash decision. "You'll grow out of the idea, then what?" he'd argued. "It can't be erased, you know."
He didn’t understand. That was the whole point. Precisely why I wanted it so badly. Because, unlike Mom, my tattoos could never be erased. No one can ever take them away from me, like Mom.
As close as Dad and I were, and he was to Mom, and as much as he loved me, he couldn't comprehend why I needed to maim my body in her name. That’s how he saw it. Maiming. And at the time, I couldn't articulate it. All I knew was I needed it to happen, as badly as I needed to breathe. I needed to cocoon myself inside my mother's words, my mother's images, in my mother's dreams—for all eternity.
It was also my sign to her that I’d keep my promise, and that one day I’d chase my dreams like she did. And I will. Someday. When I can bear to leave Dad alone.