Page 1 of Stony Point Summer
one
— Now —
YOU COULD ALMOST MISS IT. Nestled in a crook of the Connecticut coast is the merest stretch of sand. It forms a beach, a little crescent-moon-shaped beach called Stony Point. The salt waters of Long Island Sound lap at its shore in lacy waves, again and again. There is a cadence to those silver-tipped waves, a tempo as regular as breathing itself.
On the eastern end of the beach, a hill rises. At its base, a ledge of sea rock reaches across the sloping land. Century-old weathered cottages stand in that hillside, beyond the rock. But that stone shelf is a fortress of sorts, shielding the curved beach.
On Stony Point’s western end? A patch of woods. The trees, scrappy pines and seaworn maples, grow tall—keeping storm gales at bay, blocking the beach from surging tides. The trees rise behind another outcropping of rocks. These ones, boulders, look like they’ve been randomly tossed ashore by the sea itself. They are boulders to sit upon while casting a fishing line far out over the water. Barnacle-encrusted boulders—amidst seaweed and tidal pools.
Finally, like the finishing dabs on a painting, wild roses speckle the dune grasses edging the beach. Above it all, an endless sky sweeps over the Sound.
So nature’s done everything it can to protect this crescent-shaped beach. To make it a coastal Eden. A place of comfort and peace. Bits of seashells and flecks of mica glimmer in the sand here. You can walk across the beach and breathe easy. Watch the calm waters and set your mind free.
It’s what they’ve all done—every single one of them—every Stony Point summer of their lives.
But sometimes it’s not enough, Maris thinks now. None of it. No rocky ledge, no thicket of trees, no stone fortress is enough to protect the hearts they surround.
Today, especially, Elsa’s.
* * *
Only minutes ago, it was Elsa who knocked at Maris’ front door. The sight of her aunt standing there this Thursday afternoon was alarming. Elsa DeLuca is not one to drop by unannounced. So as soon as Maris saw her, she knew. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Further proof? Though Elsa looked chic in her black lace-trimmed leggings and sleeveless chambray tunic, her serious face was troubling.
Maris wasted not one second, rushing outside to the front porch and whisking Elsa over to the stoop. She sits beside her on the top step now as Elsa lifts her sunglasses up onto her head. It’s as though she’s buying herself a few seconds to collect her thoughts.
And finally, she does.
In the late-day sunshine, Elsa talks about an unexpected letter she received earlier this week. Explains how she’dthoughtit would hold good news, because why wouldn’t it? Everything in her life lately felt so right.
“But it wasn’t good news,” Elsa lets on while fighting tears. “Why is it we never see the bad coming?”
“The bad? Elsa!Whatis the matter?”
“Listen.” Elsa turns to Maris then. “Have you seen the photograph in the Fenwick cottage? The one of that massive hurricane wave towering over the beach?”
“Yes. Mitch showed it to me just today. The storm wave that washed those cottages out to sea?”
“That’s right. And that’s what my letter felt like. A monster wave crashing over my life.”
Shaking her head, Maris is afraid to hear more now. Especially with the way Elsa’s words quiet. But still, Maris reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Ihaveto know, Aunt Elsa. What was in that letter?”
A quick breath and sad smile from Elsa. Sitting on the porch stoop in the shade of a maple tree, she hesitates.
Only for a moment, though.
Leaning close to Maris then, Elsa finally reveals the contents of that letter—right as a summer breeze stirs the salt air. Maris feels that breeze move wisps of hair hanging loose from her low twist. She hears that gentle breeze rustle the maple tree leaves.
All while watching Elsa admit a difficult secret she’s been keeping.
* * *
“I’m shocked,” Maris whispers. “I mean, this just came out of nowhere. With no advance warning?”
“I should’ve known,” Elsa goes on. “It was all too good to be true. Moving here to Stony Point. Buying the old Foley’s cottage and turning it into my beach inn. Reconnecting with my nieces, having family close by. My son, Sal—dear Salvatore—staying here last summer. Almost having a daughter-in-lawandSal manage the inn with me. My sweet granddaughter, Aria. All of it, too good.”
“Oh, Elsa. You don’t believe that.”
“But I do. Love, love. Everyone here … together at last, by the sea.” Elsa pauses, fidgeting with her gold bangle bracelet. “Itwasall too good to be true. Oh, how I was cruelly reminded of that when Sal died. And now, this.”
