ALLISON
A couple of mothers sat at a small round table near the turtle sandbox, which didn’t actually have sand in it, while their two little girls played. I took a table on the opposite end of the shop, pulling out my laptop, relieved to see the strong internet signal pop up at the top of the screen. I hadn’t seen that for days at the house.
Tammy came around from behind the counter, retying her apron. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you came back. I’ve been thinking about you.” The door opened and a group of customers swarmed in. “Let me take care of them, okay? Do you want the same thing as last time?”
I logged in to my email while I waited for my drink. Annie had been nagging me to update my résumé and email her producer-patient, which required both internet and coffee. She seemed confident that her lead would work out. Vaughn is eager to see your résumé! she’d texted me the day before. But did my résumé even sound good? I’d lost all ability to judge myself. And what would I say when a potential employer asked why I’d left my last job? Once Vaughn (which sounded like the name of a villain from a 1980s movie) figured out what I’d done, would he change his mind about giving me a chance?
Still, I went through the motions like a dutiful sister, sending Vaughn a friendly but professional email and attaching my résumé as promised. I hope to hear from you soon! I wrote, then replaced the exclamation point with a period and hit Send.
Patty had written, asking how everything was going at the house. How’s my Catarina? John says the basement smell might just be dampness. He says you can run the floor fan to air it out if you want. Yes, I’m so sorry, the internet is properly terrible. We’ve all complained. They give us a new reason every time for why it’s so weak. I hope it’s not too inconvenient.
I logged in to Facebook, but there wasn’t much to check. Since the incident, I’d only kept the closest of friends and family in my circle and changed my privacy settings so that I wouldn’t even show up if someone searched for my name. I considered posting a photo of the beach, but I was afraid that someone who shouldn’t know where I was would find me.
Tammy was still busy, so I checked the television station’s website and saw smug Ms. Brittany, my replacement as meteorologist, on the home page. She wore an Easter-pink sheath dress, a bright attempt to hide the fact that her forecasts were not as accurate as mine had been.
I knew I shouldn’t take it out on Brittany. It wasn’t her fault. I was once the Brittany. The young perky meteorologist hardly able to believe my good luck at snagging a job at a local major news station. I shouldn’t take it out on Duke’s mistress, Maron, either—my other replacement in life—although she was as thick as a concrete slab. She was young, too, and I’m sure Duke put on all the charm—
“How’s house-sitting treating you?” Tammy stood above me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She handed me a coffee with a scoop of ice cream in it.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I quickly closed my laptop. “It’s good. The house, I mean. But the internet doesn’t work so well, so I feel a little cut off. Weird to be in such a big place by yourself.”
“I bet. Those houses out there are as big as city blocks. You’re near the Bishops’ place, aren’t you?”
“Right next-door. You know them?”
“I know just about everyone around here.” She smirked, then fiddled with her bangs. “Grew up here, so I’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“I’m house-sitting for the Worthingtons.”
Tammy nodded. “Dolores told me.” She paused, then took a seat across from me. “I’ve been thinking about you. It must be lonely staying up there by yourself.”
“Oh,” I said. “It’s okay, I guess.”
“Opal Beach is not exactly a bustling metropolis, especially in the off-season.” She smiled shyly. “But there are some fun things to do. Would you maybe want to hang out sometime or something?”
“Sure,” I said slowly. Her eagerness was a bit unsettling—I wasn’t used to people seeking me out to do things. But it was also nice to be asked. It would be good to have someone to talk to. I missed Annie’s constant presence. Hanging out with a stranger could be horribly awkward, of course, but it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. “I mean, my schedule is pretty free. Except for trying to find a part-time job.”
Tammy’s eyebrows shot up. “During the off-season?” She threw back her head, letting a peal of laughter burst from her lips. Like a little kid. It was right from the tummy.
“Okay, well, that doesn’t sound very promising. So what did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know...wait! Yes, I do. Well, maybe. If you’re up for it. Are you up for an adventure?”
I shrugged. “It’s my middle name.”
She clapped her hands together and made a squeal. “Awesome. Dolores has a bout on Friday.”
“Is she a boxer?” I thought of her tattooed, muscled arms.
Tammy laughed again. “Oh gosh, no. Roller Derby.”
“Roller Derby. Huh. I’ve never seen that before. Interesting.”
“It’s great. You’ll love it.” She stood up, slapping her dishrag against the edge of the table. “Dress casually. We’ll go out for drinks after. It’ll be fun.”
On my way out of Tammy’s shop, I noticed an old man standing next to the driver’s side door of my car, hunched over as if examining something in his hands. His face was anchored with a dark puffy beard and he wore a dirty, oversize navy blue sweatshirt. The knit cap perched on his head came with a tassel on top that made him look a bit silly. I hadn’t seen any homeless people in Opal Beach yet, but every town must have them.
I approached cautiously to avoid startling him, but he seemed deep in concentration. I coughed, fumbled around in my purse to find a few dollar bills. In Philadelphia, the homeless often gathered in pockets near cars, hoping people would offer up some loose change.
The man finally fixed his eyes on me. He was smoking, and when I caught a whiff, my eyes raised in surprise.
“Medicinal,” he said, unashamed. “Helps my joints.”
He took another hit, still taking up rent in front of my car door. His sweatshirt collar was frayed, and the front had Opal Beach Surf Shop in fading print across the chest. He seemed in no hurry to move.
“Do you know,” he said, “that building right there has been flooded out and gutted no less than four times and is still standing? You can see the waterline right there from the last time.” When I didn’t comment, he looked over at me. “Not used to the beach in winter?”
“I’m sorry?”
He pointed at my hands. “No gloves. No hat. I’m guessing you’re not from here.”
I blinked, taken aback by his candid tone. “I suppose I stick out.”
He gave a short cough, a puff of smoke bursting from his nostrils. “Nah. Just teasing. My daughter Dolores tells me I’m not funny at all, but I sometimes forget she’s right.”
“Oh,” I said. I dropped the dollar bills I’d been clutching into my sweater pocket. “Dolores is your daughter? You must be Jim Gund? The artist?”
He put a dirty finger to his lips. “Shh, don’t tell anyone. I’m sure I owe someone money.” He offered me his joint, and I shook my head quickly, scanning the road. There was no one in sight, but smoking marijuana in public still didn’t seem like the smartest thing to do. It would be just my luck to get arrested during the first month of my “new” life.
“I’m house-sitting for the Worthingtons? Up on Piper Sand Road? They have your art all over their house.”
“Good people,” he said. “Patty makes a mean deviled egg.” He took a slow suck on his joint and exhaled it above our heads. “Yeah, they must have, what, I think five pieces of mine now.”
“They are very striking. I love carnivals, Ferris wheels, all that stuff. I guess in the summer the pier really gets busy?”
“Oh, that wasn’t the pier.” He narrowed his eyes. Standing closer to him now, I could see the deep creases in his face, cracked like dried clay. “That was a traveling carnival that used to come through here. Back in the day.”
I could sense that Jim Gund was one of those people who absorbed the history of a place, the kind of guy who, if you let him, could spend hours telling stories down to the tiniest details.
“The beach evolves. The ebbs and flows. I try to capture it all.” Gund took another hit on his joint. He would’ve been terrible on television, a nightmare interview for the reporters. The kind of guest that prefers slow, deep thoughts over soundbites. I imagined Marty, our cameraman, sweeping his arm to signal we only had forty-five seconds before the next commercial break. “Back in the day that carnival was the thing. Came for years, as predictable as the tides. Then they had some scandal in another town—one of the owners killed a young girl. Beat the hell out of her, raped her, whatever. The works. Real scumbag. They tried to get another carnival in here, but it never caught on the same, you know?”
“That’s horrible,” I shivered.
“Eh, was probably good in the end. Made way for the pier folks—gave them more business.” He dropped the stub of his joint on the curb and crushed it with his paint-speckled boot. “Anyway, I’m heading back in. Want to come see the gallery?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d love to. I definitely want to stop by while I’m in town. But I’ve run out of cat food.” I held up my car keys.
“Ah, yes. Can’t keep those felines waiting.” He smiled crookedly and pointed at his sweatshirt. “Surf shop has hats and gloves if you need ’em.”