by Grace Palmer
Angela crossed the room and bumped her aunt’s hip with her own. “Come on. This place is Instagram-worthy. People would eat this up.”
“I don’t have an Instagram account.”
“Which is something else we need to talk about,” Angela said, narrowing her eyes and leveling a pointed finger. “We need to build a solid social media presence for the business. People want to see pictures of the food and table displays.”
“We have a website.”
“Which no one sees. I’ve seen the traffic, and it’s abysmal. We’re existing on word of mouth right now, which has worked wonders for you so far. Your organic advertising has gotten us here, but if we want to go further, we need to focus on more pointed advertisement and promotion.”
Liza didn’t like all of the business talk. She’d left her job in the restaurant industry to start her own business, but she’d never had a mind for it, exactly. She simply made food people wanted to eat at large functions, and that had been enough to avoid advertising and shameless self-promotion and business cards.
But considering even the best reviews on her website included small comments like “She’s difficult to get in touch with, but…” and “She’s off the grid, but her food is incredible…” Liza recognized Angela’s advice was probably for the best. Which is how she’d ended up in this cottage in this strange town in the first place.
“Enough business talk,” Liza said, waving a quick hand through the air. “I’ll let you handle that side of things, and I’ll trust your discretion. Right now, I just want to eat. Are you hungry?”
“Starved!” Angela checked the clock on the wall and groaned, shoulders slouching. “But I have to go. I have to drop off this U-Haul and pick up my rental car, otherwise I’m going to be a zombie in class tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t have kept you here as long as I did. I could have cleaned by myself. And now I can’t even cook you something. I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be. I talked you into this arrangement, so it was only right I come and make sure it wasn’t all an elaborate setup to lure you to this beach house and have you murdered.” Angela grabbed her purse and jacket from the blue velvet couch and smiled.
Liza arched a brow. “You thought there was a possibility this could be a murder plot?”
Angela shrugged, her blue eyes sparkling in amusement, and Liza could see why everyone thought they were mother and daughter. They had the same curly brown hair and ocean-blue eyes, though Liza thought Angela wore both better.
“Very comforting.” Liza couldn’t help but laugh and open her arms for a hug. She kissed the top of Angela’s head. “Promise me you’ll at least pick up something to eat on the road. I left cash in the center console to pay for gas for the truck. Take whatever’s left and buy yourself some food.”
Angela promised she’d do just that, and Liza waved to her from the porch until the truck was gone. Finally, she was alone.
The cottage looked small from the outside, but there was more room to move around than Liza had expected. Especially in the kitchen.
L-shaped cabinets lined two of the walls with a sizable island in the middle with a butcher-block countertop. It was clear the owner of the cottage liked to cook. Or, at least, had liked to cook. Her knives were dull and unsharpened, and most of her appliances were fifteen years old, minimum. The kitchen hadn’t been updated in a long time, and Liza was grateful she’d brought so many of her own supplies.
She stopped by the grocery store on her way out of town and picked up a few staple pantry items, some fresh produce, and some frozen meat, so she had the supplies on hand to make her favorite basic shrimp pasta in an avocado-lemon sauce.
Cliff never liked the dish. He complained every time she made anything from the ocean, and claimed the avocado sauce made him nauseous.
Liza stopped making the dish eventually, but since the divorce, she made it at least once a week. The majority of the time, she could convince herself she wasn’t bitter or angry with Cliff for blowing up their lives the way he had by bringing their unhappiness to the forefront and calling it what it was, but when she made the shrimp pasta dish, the jig was up. Her bitterness rose to the surface, and this pasta dish he would never know she’d made became her way of getting back at her ex. Her way of sending a cosmic middle finger to him and letting him know he couldn’t control what meals she made for dinner anymore.
It didn’t matter, of course. He’d never know the difference. Even if Liza called him up and told him about the dish, she knew he wouldn’t remember it. Cliff never had a memory for things like that. He was a big-picture guy, not one for the details.
More than anything, though, Liza was bitter that when she cooked, her thoughts were of Cliff.
Before, cooking, whether for work or at home, had been the one time she was able to get out of her head and find joy. Now, she couldn’t help but focus on the fact that she was only making enough food for one.
Liza sank into the mattress, which was possibly the softest one she’d ever felt. After their trip through the washing machine, the blankets smelled fresh and clean. Still, Liza couldn’t fall asleep.
She laid in bed for hours, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, wishing sleep would bring a reprieve. But it never did.
Eventually, Liza climbed out of the covers, pulled on a pair of flip-flops with her matching flannel pajama set, and walked out onto the back porch.
The sound of the ocean washing against the shore was muffled inside the house, but outside, Liza could hear it perfectly. It was nature’s sound machine, the rhythmic pulse of water reminding you to inhale and exhale.
So many people adored the beach and would talk endlessly about tropical vacations, but Liza never understood the appeal. The sun beating down on you and sand sticking to the sweat. Not to mention crabs and jellyfish and sharks and crowds. No thank you.
This view of the ocean, however, was one Liza had never seen before.
The beach outside the cottage was deserted and quiet. Birds swooped across the sky, black dots on the deep blue horizon, and the moonlight cast the water in a thousand different shades of blue and yellow and white.
Liza could get behind this.
All day—all month, really—Liza had been dreading this move. Her chest had been tight with anxiety that never seemed to ease. On one hand, she knew Angela only had her best interest at heart. She wanted Liza to find her passion for life again, and Liza wanted to find it, too. But it was hard.
For years, she’d made decisions with the single goal of remaining secure. Selling your apartment to house-sit for a stranger was close to the least security she could ever have. Especially since, according to Angela, it carried with it the risk of being murdered.
Now, though, staring out at the water, Liza could breathe.
For the first time in weeks, she felt light.
The wooden stairs groaned under her weight, and she kicked off her flip-flops before she even reached the small gate.
How is this for finding passion? Liza thought. Walking barefoot in the sand under the moon was the kind of romantic, spontaneous thing people wrote inside of cards and used as filler for their bucket lists. It was the kind of thing she’d dreamed about as a young woman; the kind of thing she’d done as a young woman before she learned romantic moments didn’t always lead to happiness.
Before she learned the true meaning of heartbreak.
Liza took a deep breath of the salty, cool air and shook off the negative thought. Now was not a time to focus on her past. As Angela said, it was time to focus on her future.
Tomorrow, she’d go into Willow Beach and get to know the town where she’d be living for the next month, at least. She’d done some research on the place back in Boston, but she wasn’t sure what Angela expected her to do while she was here. The town was mostly a tourist destination, it seemed, which she suspected was the reason Angela sent her here. Even if Liza wanted to work, she wouldn’t be able to. The only thing to do was explore the town and relax by
the beach. And meet with a client. But one client in a month was hardly what Liza would call work.
As it turned out, thinking about the future didn’t exactly fill Liza with a sense of ease, either. She liked to know what to expect, and she liked to stay busy. Here in Willow Beach, she couldn’t do either.
A rock outcropping rose out of the sand, a natural barrier that forced Liza to veer closer to the water to get around it. She thought about turning around, but she wasn’t quite ready to go stare at the bedroom ceiling again. Besides, with the way her legs were burning from walking through the wet sand, Liza hoped she’d be tired enough to fall right asleep when she did finally go back to the cottage.
Walking through the sand became more of a slog the closer she got to the shoreline, and Liza kept her eyes focused on the ground to make sure she didn’t trip over her own feet and face-plant in the sand. With her head down, she didn’t see the figure on the sand ahead of her until a foot that was not her own came into view.
Liza jumped back with a surprised yowl, but the wet sand held onto her foot, and she fell on her butt with a squelch.
She expected to look up and see a dead body on the beach. Or, perhaps even worse, the murderer Angela had joked about earlier. Perhaps they’d been waiting on the beach to attack her.
Before she could run either possibility through her mental processors, a pretty woman with curly hair extended a hand to her, face pulled back in an apologetic wince.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “I saw you coming, and I debated saying something, but I thought maybe you’d seen me, and I…I’m sorry.”
Liza’s heart hammered in her chest, but her fear was quickly shifting to amusement at herself for falling and thinking she was about to be murdered. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”
The woman extended her hand again, and Liza accepted, letting her pull her to her feet.
In an upright position, Liza could see the legs of the easel shoved down into the sand with a canvas resting on it. Bottles of paint were scattered on the ground, and the woman still held a palette covered in paint.
“Odd time to paint,” Liza blurted more rudely than she intended, brushing sand from her butt.
“It’s the only time to paint a moonscape. And I could say the same to you,” the woman teased back with a friendly grin. “Most people don’t take walks on the beach in the middle of the night. I’ve been coming out here most nights for the last couple of weeks, and you’re the first person I’ve seen.”
Liza told her she was staying at the cottage just down the beach before she realized that might not be the smartest idea. The woman seemed nice enough, but Liza shouldn’t be letting strangers know she was staying in a secluded cottage alone.
“Right, Mrs. Albertson’s place. I haven’t met her yet, but my boyfriend told me she was going out of town. He’s the town’s mechanic, and she asked him to take her car out for a drive once a week or so to keep it from sitting idle the whole time she’s gone.” She bent down and started throwing the paint bottles in a tote bag. “She also mentioned she had a woman coming to watch the house, so, I guess that’s you.”
“That’s me. I’m Liza.”
“Stella,” the woman smiled, pointing at herself with a blue-dipped paintbrush. “Nice to meet you, and sorry to scare you. I’ll go a bit further down the beach next time so I don’t disturb you on your evening walks.”
“I don’t walk every night,” Liza said. “Or, at least, I don’t plan to. I just had a hard time sleeping in an unfamiliar place.”
The canvas must have been dry because Stella plucked it off the easel and tucked it under her arm without a second thought. With the other hand, she collapsed the easel and slid it under her other arm. She nodded to the bag on the ground. “Do you mind? I seem to have run out of hands.”
Liza picked it up and dropped the handle around Stella’s wrist.
“Thank you.” Stella paused, truly taking Liza in for the first time. She studied her the way Liza imagined only an artist could, absorbing every detail to the point Liza felt uncomfortable and crossed her arms.
“Well, if you don’t manage to get to sleep tonight, you’ll be dying for caffeine in the morning, and there’s no place better than The Roast. Vivienne makes the best lattes and almond croissants you’ve ever tasted. It’s half the reason I moved here,” Stella admitted, her voice low. “Don’t tell my boyfriend I said that.”
Liza mimed zipping her lips together, and Stella winked.
“Good to meet you, Liza. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Liza waved as Stella disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving her alone again.
The interaction had been pleasant, but Liza still couldn’t shake the uneasiness the surprise had left in her. She’d never been good with surprises, and she didn’t want any more tonight. So, she walked back to the cottage at a quick clip, locked the door behind her, and slid back into bed.
Just as she expected, she stared at the ceiling until morning.
3
The Roast was a warm hug of coffee and sweetness. Liza paused in the doorway to fully enjoy the moment. And to take a break. After her sleepless night and her midnight walk on the beach, the walk into town and down Main Street had left her exhausted and in desperate need of caffeine.
“Hi there!” A tall woman behind the counter threw a towel over her shoulder and beckoned Liza inside. She was young—barely older than Angela—but she had a commanding presence. Liza obeyed her order and walked up to the counter. “What can I get you?”
Liza squinted at the menu, cursing herself for not bringing her glasses, and then remembered what Stella said the night before. “A vanilla latte and an almond croissant.”
“The latte, I can do,” the woman said, spinning around to the espresso machine and talking over her shoulder. “The croissant, however, you’re too late for. I’m sold out for the day.”
“Darn. A biscotti, then?”
The woman tipped her head towards the display case on the counter, letting Liza know she could serve herself. “If there’s anything you need to know about the people in this town, it’s that they do not wait around for their pastries. My customers come early and hungry. Especially on a Saturday.”
“I’ll remember that.” Liza used the tongs to grab herself a chocolate chip biscotti and nibbled on the end. It was buttery and crunchy and so delicious Liza felt positive the almond croissant would be to die for. “You’re Vivienne, I take it?”
“The one and only.” Vivienne spoke loudly to be heard over the sound of the milk frother. Then, with deft hands and a nimble wrist, Vivienne poured steaming milk into the espresso in the shape of a heart. She slid it across the counter to Liza. “And you are…?”
“Liza Hall.”
The two women shook hands before Liza gladly wrapped hers around the warm paper cup.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Vivienne said. “There are a lot of people I don’t recognize during the summer months, but tourism usually dies down a bit as it gets colder. The beach isn’t as fun in a winter coat.”
“I’m actually house-sitting at Mrs. Albertson’s beach house while she’s out of the country.”
“Oh right. She’s off to the south of France, I think?”
Liza shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never met her. My niece actually set all of this up for me. She wanted me to try new things.”
“Like living in a stranger’s house?” Vivienne grinned, her eyebrows raised.
“Exactly,” Liza laughed. “I’ll also be doing a bit of work while I’m here. I’m catering a wedding.”
Vivienne pressed a hand to her chest. “I had no idea I was serving a bona fide chef.”
“From what I’ve heard of your almond croissants, it sounds like you’re the chef.”
“Don’t flatter me until you’ve tried one.” The bell above the door rang and Vivienne looked around Liza to wave at the new customer before turning back to h
er. “Come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll make sure there is a croissant waiting for you.”
Liza thanked her, and Vivienne winked as she started in on the customer’s “usual order.”
She could have walked back to the beach house or explored Main Street, but Liza’s legs were still tired from the walk to the coffee shop. So, she picked a seat in the corner next to a bookshelf full of mass-market paperbacks, board games, and puzzles. She plucked a historical romance off the top shelf and thumbed through it.
How long had it been since Liza had read a book? At least a year, she thought. She used to read all the time. At the end of the day, she’d curl up on the couch in the living room with a blanket and a book while Cliff watched football or worked in the garage.
Liza had deluded herself into thinking the way she and Cliff circled around one another without any need to speak or interact in any meaningful way just meant they were comfortable with each other. Later, of course, she realized they were glorified roommates. And not even roommates who were best friends. They interacted as though they’d found each other through a Craigslist ad and were still waiting on the background check to clear.
Since the divorce, Liza didn’t allow herself enough downtime to read. Because, as was currently happening, her thoughts would slide away to the “would’ve, could’ve, should’ves,” as her mother would have described them. Liza would agonize over where things went wrong. Was it when they decided not to celebrate their ten-year anniversary? Did their relationship dry up when Liza started spending more time on her business?
None of it mattered, of course. There was nothing left to fix. Even if there had been, Liza didn’t want to fix it. Neither did Cliff.
She thought love would come to every couple eventually, if they spent enough time together and worked at it hard enough, but that wasn’t true. Some people weren’t suited, and after fifteen years, Liza knew she and Cliff were those kinds of people. Still, dwelling on the failure of her marriage left her with a deep sense of ennui that was hard to shake.