Elise Douglas liked to think of herself as a team player. She knew that in marriage, this was an essential trait. And if anyone had asked her on that late-spring morning what the most important thing in her life was, she would have said, without hesitation, her marriage.
The problem was that if someone had asked what the second most important thing in her life was, she might have said her home. It had taken a lot of time and luck to find Shell Haven, a glorious eighteenth-century house. Three years into their life in Provincetown, the two of them had moved in and devoted themselves to lovingly restoring it. It had been intended as the place to start their family. Now, two summers later, they were moving out.
“It’s temporary,” Fern had reminded her.
“It’s for the entire season.”
“A minor inconvenience, considering how much our tenant is paying.”
Fern was right, of course. She had a way of being maddeningly practical no matter the situation. For Elise, renting out the house felt like a personal loss, like they were giving away a piece of their lives for the summer. For Fern, it was just business.
When Fern had her mind set on something, it was very difficult to argue with her. And that’s why, for the past few months, ever since the house-renting plan had been put in motion, Elise had simply pushed it to the back of her mind. She didn’t think about it at all, pretended it was not happening.
But now it was move-out day.
They were supposed to have left the previous day, ensuring that the house was in pristine condition for their summer tenant. But Elise had begged Fern for one more night under their own roof, and Fern acquiesced. They slept in the guest room and woke up early to change the sheets and pack any last-minute things they might have forgotten. It had been, Elise had to admit, a true indulgence on Fern’s part. It was, Elise had to admit, Fern being a team player.
Elise knew she had to let go. But earlier that morning, watching Fern retrieve their spare set of house keys and leave them in the mailbox for their tenant, something in her snapped. In the past year, she’d given up so much. Too much. She did not want to give up her house too.
And so, after Fern left for work, Elise opened the door and walked out onto the porch. She blinked for a moment in the sunlight, hesitated for just a few seconds, and then reached inside the black metal mailbox just outside the door. She felt around until her fingers touched the house keys, pulled them out, and dropped them into the pocket of her robe.
What she’d done next, well—she wasn’t proud of it. She realized, as she walked to the tea shop to join Fern, that she had perhaps crossed a line by displacing their tenant. But there was nothing she could do about it now, and she was already late for work.
She climbed the front steps of the two-story Colonial in the middle of Commercial Street that housed Tea by the Sea. Their shop had been open for business for exactly one week.
Elise had dreamed about owning a tea shop for over a decade. In her twenties she’d waited tables at Boston Seaport restaurants, one of which offered a small selection of specialty teas. It was the first time Elise understood that Lipton didn’t define tea any more than Folger’s defined coffee. She broke up the long hours on her feet with tea breaks between shifts. Tea forced her to slow down, be mindful. She learned about velvety white tea, the earthiness of green teas, the complex flavors of oolong.
The dream of owning her own shop was fanciful, and she’d never imagined it would become a reality. And then Fern made it happen.
The shop was all white walls with ceiling fans, tin ceiling tiles, rows of shelves with the shop’s own brand of artisanal tea, and, in the back of the store, a long white counter. On one side, two big chairs were arranged in front of the large picture windows with unobstructed views of the bay. And everywhere, the aroma of fruity tea leaves.
Looking at the beautiful space they’d created, she realized how badly she’d behaved with the house. She could practically feel the keys burning in her pocket.
She had been impulsive and now she had to fix it. She had to confess to Fern.
But Fern was busy. She was sitting across the room in front of the window with a notepad, interviewing yet another applicant for their part-time position. The young woman was very dressed up for an afternoon in P’town, even for a job interview. She wore a pastel print skirt and matching ballerina flats.
It was that time of year; a tide of young people swept into town for the summer, and enough of them were looking for jobs that small businesses and restaurants could staff up after the long, DIY winter. Fern had interviewed almost a dozen late-teen or twenty-something women in the past two weeks. She’d offered the position to a few but lost them to restaurants, where they would earn higher tips.
Fern stood up and shook the applicant’s hand; the young woman left with a shy smile at Elise.
“How did that go?” Elise said. “She looks familiar.”
“We met her last summer when we were selling at the farmers’ market. Her name’s Cynthia. Family lives in Chatham but she wants to spend the summer here. She seemed unconcerned about tips as long as we can give her enough hours.” She looked up at Elise and smiled. “We’ll see.”
Fern climbed on a chair and reached above the front counter to write the iced tea of the day on the chalkboard: Chai Tide. It was a blend of black tea and spices like cardamom, cinnamon, fennel, ginger, black pepper, and cloves.
“I thought we were going to do the ginger peach for the iced today,” Elise said.
“We’re low on that,” said Fern.
“Listen, I need to tell you something,” she said, walking to the counter. She climbed up to stand on it so she was level with Fern perched on the chair. She took the chalk from her hand and drew a big heart on the chalkboard. “I love you.”
Fern smiled. “I love you too. Now erase that so I have space for the menu.”
“Look, I really tried to be ready to hand over the house today. But I still feel like I need more time. It’s a big adjustment. So I did something that—”
“Elise, I know it’s been a rough year. But try to be positive. Look at this beautiful place we have. Please—let this be enough.”
Elise nodded, swallowing hard. She turned back to the chalkboard and, with one sweep of her palm, erased the heart. Before she could say another word, the front door’s bells tinkled, announcing the arrival of their real estate agent, Clifford Henry. Clifford was a youthful forty-something with bright blue eyes and heavily highlighted brown hair that he wore slicked back.
Clifford Henry, who’d brokered the rental to Ruth Cooperman.
Elise began to perspire.
“My tea divas! What is that divine smell?”
“That’s our Strawberry Meadows, a green sencha tea with bits of dried strawberry in it,” Fern said. “Would you like a cup?”
“Of course! Iced, please. But ladies, we have a problem, do we not?”
“What problem?” Fern said, stepping down from the chair.
“I just got an earful from Ruth Cooperman,” Clifford said. “She’s at the inn waiting for me to straighten things out. So let’s do that, shall we?”
Fern turned to Elise. Clifford looked at Elise.
Elise climbed down from the counter, removed the keys from her pocket, and slid them over to Clifford.
Ruth carried her suitcase up yet another set of front steps to yet another porch, aware on some level that the Beach Rose Inn—a three-story gray-shingled house with wide steps leading to a wraparound veranda—was quite charming. But she was in no mood.
Her real estate agent had not, by her estimation, been sufficiently outraged by this turn of events.
“I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding,” he’d said when she’d shown up at his office. “It’s the start of the season and things can be…glitchy. It’s nothing to be upset about. I’ll take care of it.”
Considering what she was paying for the house, she certainly hoped so.
She opened the front door of the inn and almost tripped over a sleeping chocolate Lab. Across the room, a barefoot young woman stood on a step stool, hanging a mosaic-framed mirror on the wall.
“Rach, that’s too high,” said a man standing near her.
The woman turned around with a toss of her long, golden-brown hair. She reached her hand down to the man, and he passed her a nail.
“No, it’s not. It’s eye level,” she said.
“In what universe is that eye level? You’re standing on a stool.”
The woman noticed Ruth. “Oh, hello there. Can I help you?” she asked, stepping off the stool.
Ruth, completely worn out, let go of her suitcase and sank onto a cushioned ottoman. The lobby was warm and welcoming, with white walls and woodwork, framed black-and-white prints of historical Provincetown, pale gray couches flanking a white wicker table. Ruth appreciated the decorative accents of antique copper candlesticks, glass bowls filled with seashells, a wide bookshelf with well-worn hardcovers and warped paperbacks. But the most arresting aspect of the space were the mosaics, some made of tile, others made of stone and shells. One wall featured a large stained-glass starfish. Spectacular. “I was told to ask for Amelia,” she said.
The woman and man exchanged a look.
“I’m Rachel Duncan,” the woman said. “Amelia’s granddaughter. She didn’t tell me we had a guest checking in today, but come on in. This is my husband, Luke.”
The man had taken her place hanging the mosaic. He climbed down, smiling warmly at Ruth. He looked to be in his midthirties and had sandy-brown hair and bright green-blue eyes.
“Luke Duncan,” he said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, well, I’m not staying here,” Ruth said. “There was just a misunderstanding at my house.”
Again, the woman and her husband exchanged a look.
“You should probably talk to—” Rachel said.
“I’m here, I’m here,” a voice called from somewhere. And then an old woman entered—a very old woman. She walked briskly toward Ruth. She had long white hair and creased skin and wore a green-and-purple-batik sundress. She smiled at Ruth; her eyes were dark with a twinkle of mischief. “You must be Ruth. I’m Amelia.”
“I was just explaining this is a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, yes, it will all be straightened out,” Amelia said. “In the meantime, I was just putting out a bite to eat.”
Ruth, accepting the fact that she had completely lost control of the day, followed Amelia to the backyard. Really, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the odd turn of events. Provincetown was nothing if not quirky. Yes, it was the place where the Pilgrims had first landed. But it was also a haven for the artistic and the downright eccentric. Over the decades, Provincetown had developed its own unique rhythm, its own code. It was peaceful and welcoming, and at the same time, there was always the sense that anything could happen.
The bay stretched out before them, sun-dappled, dotted with distant sailboats. The backyard, with a long wooden table in the center, extended to the edge of the beach. The table was set with a pitcher of iced tea, a coffeepot, several small tins, a few coffee mugs, an assortment of glasses in pale translucent colors, and a bread basket.
Ruth, too hungry to politely hesitate, sat facing the water and poured herself coffee. Amelia passed her the bread basket, its contents enclosed in a folded cloth napkin. Ruth unwrapped it to find a round yellow loaf, half of it sliced into thick pieces.
“Broa,” Amelia said. “Portuguese corn bread. There’s butter and jam in those tins but I honestly don’t think it needs a thing.”
Ruth reached for the bread and took a bite. It was rich and buttery but not too sweet. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’m not staying,” Ruth said. “I’m supposed to move into my summer rental today. Well, technically I already moved in. I sent my things and I was going to get the keys this morning, but there was a delay. I’m just waiting for my real estate agent to sort it out.”
“Fern and Elise’s place. I heard. It’s a lovely home.”
“There you are,” a man called from the back porch. He walked toward them holding a large blue cooler. Ruth found herself straightening in her seat. He had thick dark hair, chiseled features, and dramatic dark eyes. He looked to be about thirty. “As requested, two dozen oysters fresh off the water.”
“Marco, you’re a lifesaver,” Amelia said.
“Anytime.” The man kissed Amelia on the cheek and set down the cooler. “Marco Barros,” he said, holding out his hand.
Ruth shook it, trying not to beam like a teenager. “Ruth Cooperman.”
“She’s renting Fern and Elise’s place for the summer,” Amelia said.
“Nice to meet you. I have to run, Amelia. My father just helped me pull a bunch of cages and you wouldn’t believe the condition they’re in.”
“Rough spring?”
“Not ideal. But I’m managing.”
“I’m sure you’re more than managing. Tell your mother I said hi.”
When he was gone, Amelia said, “Marco’s family runs the boatyard. A few years ago he started an oyster farm. His sister just finished her first year at Princeton. Good kids.”
Ruth nodded.
“Do you have children?”
Momentarily thrown by the question, Ruth looked down at her coffee mug, turned it in her hands. “I do. A daughter. Olivia.”
“Will she be visiting this summer?”
“No, she will not.” She didn’t have the heart to tell the woman that the last time she had spoken to her daughter was months ago, and that had been just a perfunctory conversation. Her daughter did not even know she’d moved to Provincetown.
Ruth’s phone buzzed with a text from Clifford. I’m bringing over your keys. Meet me at Shell Haven.
Well, there was no time for sentimentality. Or further conversation. She pushed the bench out from the table and stood up to leave.
She had a house to move into.