Page 48 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

She decided this blaming Gran had to stop. Not only was it pointless, but she was probably as much to blame as Gran for a lot of rushed phone calls that morphed into simply touching base. After all, she’d left the landscapes behind when she headed off to design school. Had they been that important, she should’ve packed them up and taken them with her. Besides, hadn’t Gran sold her granddad’s beloved pickup to a farmer? Maybe at some point, Gran had decided decluttering the garage was more important than hoarding a bunch of ugly paintings or holding onto a sentimental hunk of junk.

Feeling better, she glanced around the living room and realized the new furniture had completely transformed the space. The old couch and chair had been bulky and outdated, but this new set had a modern look to it that made the room feel fresh and inviting. She leaned back against the cushions again and closed her eyes, enjoying the softness of the material against her skin. She could already imagine herself lounging here for hours, reading her favorite books and sipping a glass of wine.

But first, she had to do something about the dreary paint on the walls. She dug out the paint chips from her bag and tried to find the shade that worked. She needed something that made the whole room seem larger than it was while at the same time making the room pop. Never afraid to go bold, she picked three contrasting colors—butterfly blue, Coventry gray, and a pale yellow called Hawthorne. The next step would be spreading the colors onto the walls. She picked up her phone and dialed Ferguson Hardware, asked for Matty.

“I’m giving you a heads-up on the colors ahead of time if you need to mix them up,” Rowan explained.

“Thanks for that,” Matty said. “I could get them over to you tomorrow morning. Would that work?’

“That’d be great. Thank you.”

“You’re sure these are the ones you want to try?”

“I’m sure. Why?”

“Because they’re very different from each other.”

She stared at the cracked paint on the walls. “You’d better throw in a couple of tarps, goggles, a safety mask, and gloves. And some of that painter’s tape. And paintbrushes.”

“Are you sure you aren’t dealing with lead-based paint?” Matty asked. “A lot of the old houses around here contain lead paint, and the owners don’t even know it.”

“I’m sure. Gran had it tested back when I was in high school. I think. No, it’s just the result of a lousy paint job.”

“Or the weather,” Matty infused. “Living coastal presents its own challenges. Using top quality paint even for the interior spaces is critical.”

“Good point. But this paint has been in place for twenty-five years, maybe longer. Although I do need exterior paint for the front and back doors.”

“Wow. Are you sure you don’t want to hire professionals? It wouldn’t hurt to get an estimate from Tradewinds Construction. They’re pros at painting.”

“They’re the guys who upgraded my kitchen,” Rowan muttered.

“Do you still need the numbers?” Matty asked. “I have one for Ryder, one for Zach and one for Troy.”

“I have their business cards around here somewhere.”

“Do you want me to hold off on sending those samples?”

“No, go ahead and deliver those but leave out the other stuff for now. I’ll need to decide on colors even if the pros do the work.”

“You got it.”

She ended the call just as Daniel sent her a text reminding her about how they planned to spend the evening. He offered to pick up dinner as a bonus.

Overjoyed at not having to cook, she decided it was time to explore the garage and shed and find out what she could toss. Thinking of spring cleaning, she marched through the laundry room, which was an offshoot of the kitchen, large enough to hold a full-size washer and dryer. She hesitated before stepping into the one-car garage, half expecting to see Gran’s old Chevy Lumina still parked in its spot, even though she knew better. She’d been the one to call the tow truck to haul it to the salvage yard.

She breathed in the dank smell of mold and mildew and studied the walls that had seen too many spider webs during her lifetime.

After lifting the garage door to let the air rush in—hopeful the breeze would chase away the musty odor—she made her way around the clutter left behind in December. She stepped over a pile of old newspapers and stacks of cardboard boxes. Scanning the back wall, she went in search of the familiar shape of her bicycle.

She caught a glimpse of silvery metal, tucked away in the corner, a forgotten part of her pre-teen years. It was a Huffy Walmart cruiser in periwinkle with silver trim. Until learning to drive, she had spent her teenage years riding it all over town, traveling every street and alleyway, usually by herself.

But now, dust covered the bike in thick layers of dirt and cobwebs. Its once shiny chrome now rusted and dull. After realizing the seat had split and it had two flat tires, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness as she remembered all the good times she had riding up and down the street.

Funny how memories could alter a mood, she thought as her eyes landed on the box of Christmas decorations that hadn’t hung on a tree for at least four winters. She flipped up the lid on the cardboard and realized the strings of lights were as dusty and cobwebbed as everything out in the open.

Moving outside to the driveway, she walked around the corner of the house to the weathered shed at the side of the garage. Located in the middle of the wall, it leaned at an angle. She couldn’t remember when that had happened, probably after one too many earthquakes.

Once used as extra storage for his gardening supplies, Jim Dewhurst had built this shed by hand using a mishmash of lumber he’d collected over the years. Pine or maple, it didn’t matter now because most of the wood was in various stages of rot.

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