| |
Bayshore Beach
book one
––––––––
Tia Souders
CHAPTER 1
––––––––
THE BALMY OCEAN BREEZE kissed Andi’s skin, a salve to her lingering grief. Far out, on the rippling surface of the inky blue, a sailboat glided through the water.
She’d always loved this view. Calloway Cove was the most solitary point in Bayshore Beach where sun and surf were among the most important things and everything else became secondary.
Time always had a way of slowing down by the water. It was no wonder that most who left eventually returned.
She glanced down at the papers in her hand—her mother’s will.
She couldn’t believe, after all this time, all her fight, her mother was gone. No more suffering through treatments. No more pain. And though Andi missed her terribly, she supposed she should be glad. After Dad died nearly six years earlier, Mom had never been the same. At least now, her parents were reunited. Still, knowing she was better off didn’t make losing her any easier. It did little to stifle the all-consuming fist of grief clenching in the gut.
Andi swallowed over the thickness in her throat and unfolded the papers once more, allowing her gaze to drift over the words. Most of it was legal jargon she didn’t have the time nor inclination to understand, but the bottom line was her mother left her the house and property. All in the hopes she’d stay in Bayshore Beach and pursue her long lost dream of becoming a published author.
Even from the grave, her mother hadn’t given up on her.
Movement caught her eye below. A crab scuttled across the sand, eliciting a smile and reminding her that even among the brokenness of life there was good.
Could she really stay here and abandon her life in New York? Andi always thought once her mother recovered again or passed, she’d go back to the city. To her boyfriend and her tiny, overpriced apartment, and the endless monotony of freelance work. She had buried her dreams for so long, she’d almost forgotten they existed.
Almost.
Now, she was thirty-six with very little to show for her life. No husband. No kids. No fancy career or hobbies. Not that Andi was old by any means. But for a woman who’d been an adult for nearly two decades, her life felt awfully incomplete.
If she’d learned one thing from her parents’ passing, it was how quickly time passed, and how quickly it could be taken away.
She’d be lying if she said all these years she’d been content. That in the back of her mind, her dream of becoming a novelist wasn’t lurking like a song she couldn’t forget. Sometimes Andi wondered if the only way to get rid of it was to sing it out loud—to finally give writing her all until she turned her dreams into reality. Then again, maybe that was fanciful thinking. Some things were much harder than they seemed. Andi had learned that lesson years ago through a pile of rejection letters. And sometimes life didn’t allow for the luxuries of dreams. They just weren’t feasible.
At one time, she’d tried getting published and failed. What if she failed again?
Andi tucked her chin into her chest as she remembered her mother, pale and wan, looking as if a stiff wind could crack her in half—the woman who had been such a driving force in her life. Seeing her as weak had been heartbreaking.
It was two days before she fell asleep and never woke up—the day she handed Andi the letter expressing her final wishes, which had everything to do with Andi and nothing to do with herself.
#
ANDI HAD WANTED TO be a writer from the time she put pen to paper, of which she blamed her parents. She was destined to fall in love with literature. Dad used to say she was born into words. He was an English teacher, and her mother single handedly lobbied funds to erect the town’s small public library, White Sails.
It was a miracle Andi didn’t enter the world reciting Tolstoy. Even in the womb, her father read to her—all the literary greats. In the summer as a child, she remembered hot nights on the deck when the air was thick and the evenings long, listening to her father read to her mother.
It was no surprise then that Andi was a natural born storyteller. At dinner parties, she’d conjure lavish stories for their guests. Characters often spoke to her in her dreams. She imagined whole worlds, created new and exciting dialects. It wasn’t unusual for her to drive her friends crazy either, with her tall tales and talk of faraway lands. By the time she was thirteen, she’d read Harper Lee, Dickens, Austen, and Brontë. Her nose was always stuck in a book, so it was natural—expected, even—when she majored in creative writing at New York University, then went on to get her masters.
Though she left home for school, she’d always planned to move back to Bayshore once she’d become successful. After all, her heart had always belonged to the beach. Saltwater ran in her veins. Sometimes at night, instead of the sounds of the city, she imagined the rush of the tide outside her door.
Time passed and the rejection letters came, and her notion of becoming a published author withered on the vine like dried fruit.
Maybe it was this failure to succeed that kept her away from home? She wasn’t sure. But then her father died just after her thirtieth birthday, and she used her grieving as an excuse to set her work aside.
It was too much.
She was broken.
Her heart empty.
So she allowed the chaos of the city to soothe her. The constant struggle of writing freelance to pay the bills kept her distracted. Until another bomb dropped and her mother was diagnosed with cancer only two years later.
Her early thirties quickly faded into a blur of doctors’ appointments, chemo treatments, hope, and despair. When she took a turn for the worst, Andi left her boyfriend—everything in New York—and moved back to Bayshore to care for her mother, and as her sole caretaker, there hadn’t been time for much else.
But now . . .
Andi had run out of excuses.
Not only that, but her mother’s final wish was for her to return to the thing she loved most and turn her dreams into fruition.
Andi sat on the beach with her toes in the sand. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing lulled her into a sense of peace. Above her, a gull cried, echoing the ache in her heart, while all around her, the sea oats danced.
She smoothed out the wrinkles of her mother’s lavender stationary over her lap. She’d read her letter so many times now, the paper was worn and soft. A small tear had started in the corner and the ink had smudged from her tears.
Dear Andi,
I’m writing this to you because I know if I don’t, you won’t take me seriously. Or maybe you won’t take yourself seriously. I’m not sure which.
Life has passed me by. One day I woke up and I was old.
I’m sick now, and though it’s my time to go, I can honestly say I have no regrets. I loved my life.
Can you say the same?
So often throughout the years, I’ve wondered if you’re really happy. I watched you go from a young, determined woman, bent on carving her path in the world, to an empty shell of yourself. You let the bumps in the road get the best of you, and you gave up. Then you allowed the sorrow of your father’s death as an excuse to never look back.
When you stopped writing books, I saw the joy leave your life.
My darling, did you really think your dreams would come that easily? Did you think there would be no pushback? No disappointments or hardships? No price to pay for success?
Words. Books. Stories. They are the greatest love of your life. Don’t lose them just because it’s hard.
So you tried and failed? You bounce back. You pick yourself off the ground, brush yourself off, and forge ahead with renewed vigor. I thought we had taught you that, your father and I, but maybe I was mistaken, so I’m teaching you now.
Go after your dreams.
Write.
Don’t stop until you succeed, even if it takes a lifetime. Because when you find yourself old like me or, God forbid, sick, you want to be able to look back at your life with no regrets.
The house is yours. Stay here. Let the beauty and solace of this place inspire you. Truly make Bayshore your home, instead of just passing time, and fight for your dreams.
Because if you won’t, who will?
Find your courage. Finish your book. And don’t stop until you succeed.
I’ll be watching with the angels.
Yours always,
Mom
A plane flew overhead, pulling Andi from thoughts of her mother. She glanced up and watched the small Cessna as it glided high above the water.
She knew what she needed to do. Maybe there was never really a decision to make.
Because her mother was right. Life was too short for regrets.