Page 77 of Stony Point Summer
She thinks it as she walks past the view of the sea on this cottage-lined street. In the morning sunlight, the water glimmers. What that golden sunlight also does is capture the salt water’s movement. The waves ever rolling in.
Always.
It’s the word around which she built her wedding vows two years ago. At the altar, she told Jason how she’d read about that word in an old leather journal.The words spoke about the waves of the sea, she’d said,and how they are always there. Always, no matter where life takes us, no matter how far we journey, those waves forever break on the beach. Always.And after promising to be his friend, his confidante, his love, to be by his side, she ended her vows with that one word.Always.
Now, the roots of that thought take her back to Neil. It washisleather journal she’d read, after all—the pages filled with Neil’s reflections on the waves rolling in. No matter what.
Always.
Well, isn’t that the truth in life, too. Sometimes those waves come in slow and easy, waves of moments lapping in our days. And other times they suddenly roll in and wash right over us, leaving us gasping for air. Like the wave that rolled over Elsa’s life this week, arriving in that pivotal certified letter. Maris worries again about how her aunt will break the news to everyone tonight, at the inn’s grand opening celebration. Oh, it won’t be easy. Hearts will be broken. Disappointment, heavy. Giving her star necklace a tug, Maris briefly closes her eyes. As she does, she hopes Elsa is breathing some of that cleansing salt air this morning. It’ll help.
Maris takes a deep breath herself as she looks past an imposing cottage out to Long Island Sound. Small swells ripple along the water’s surface. She nods hello to a mother wearing a floppy sunhat and pushing her baby in a stroller, the tires gritty on the sandy road. Up ahead, Maris also spots the little beach bungalow where Shane stayed during his two-week stay here. The cottage shingles are weathered; the cream trim paint, peeling. A narrow footpath of boardwalk planks runs through scrubby dune grasses alongside the bungalow, to that open back porch with the sloping roof.
And there it is, another wave washing into her life.
Because she can’t miss the pickup truck parked in the cottage driveway. The salty truck with Maine license plates. Walking past the cottage, she continues on toward Back Bay—where she’d planned to reread the chapter she wrote earlier. Read it clearly near the calm bay.
Instead, like an undertow pulling at her, she veers to the right and walks toward Shane’s cottage.
And stops.
And looks around.
And debates if she should go knock on the door.
* * *
Shane sits sideways on the porch half-wall. With a knee casually bent, he’s leaning against a tall wooden post and looking out at Long Island Sound while talking on the phone.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, Celia.” There’s a pause—a slight one—before his voice goes on. “Wish you woke up right next to me this morning.”
“Me, too,” she answers.
Then, nothing. Because what can either of them say to that? Those words said it all. Instead, the waves of the sea lap at shore on the little beach beyond the porch. The sun rises higher in the blue sky.
“I’m getting ready to have an early lunch with Elsa,” Celia finally lets him know. “She wants to review some last-minute details for tonight.”
Shane drags a hand through his hair, still damp from a shower. “Beautiful day for the event. I’ll stop by beforehand, because I have something for you.”
“You do? What is it?”
“Can’t tell you,” Shane says into his cell phone. Just then, he’s interrupted by a knock on the shingles at the bottom of the seven painted porch steps. Looking over, he holds up a finger to the woman standing there. To Maris.
“And I can’t wait,” Celia is saying, but she’s sounding distracted now. “I better get going, Shane. Don’t want to keep Elsa waiting.”
“Okay.” Another glance to Maris before quietly telling Celia, “So I’ll see you later.”
As he disconnects, he hops off the wall and turns to Maris waiting on the fourth step up. Wearing a sleeveless top half-tucked into a short denim skirt, she doesn’t move further.
“Hey, Maris.” Setting his phone on the nearby painted table, Shane motions to her. “Come on up.”
“Shane! I was walking by,” Maris explains from where she stands on that step. “And was really surprised to see your truck.”
“Your aunt invited me to the inn’s grand opening right before I left for Maine last week. Didn’t want to miss it, so I made the trip. For a lot of reasons.” Shane turns up his hands. “Including seeing my brother again. Making up for lost time with him.”
Maris nods, climbing the last few porch stairs. “Iknewyou’d be out back here, looking at the water,” she says, stopping again—this time on the painted porch floor.
“Get claustrophobic when I’m away from it.”
