Page 3 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

Half an hour passed, then another.

Over the howling winds slapping against the crashing waves, they heard a loud pop. It was a sound they both recognized all too well—the sound of the hull ripping apart.

Suddenly, they were both thrown into the murky waters.

Marty tried to swim toward the cabin but realized it was floating away. He fought to reach his kids. He thought he heard Hallie screaming for help, but he couldn’t determine from which direction it was coming. He soon lost sight of the cabin altogether. In the icy rain, he sank deeper as the waves carried him further out to sea. He couldn’t even see Royce anymore. As the current took him under, the air smelled like rotting seaweed mingled with the stench of diesel.

Panic took over. Marty’s last thought was to find Willie and Hallie before the sea swallowed him up forever.

Chapter One

Present Day

Pelican Pointe, California

It was growing dark when Rowan Eaton gunned the ten-foot moving truck into the driveway at 1821 Cape Geneva Drive and came to a stop. Bone-tired from sitting behind the wheel for almost seven straight hours without a stop, she had to pee—bad.

She reached across the bench seat to dig into her backpack, searching for the keys to her grandmother’s house, nestled between six others in the middle of the block.

With the last hint of light disappearing on the horizon, her fingers finally latched onto the keys. She made a mad dash toward the Arts and Crafts style bungalow, painted in a washed-out blue with white trim.

Rustic yet charming for a 1920s two-bedroom, it had held up well despite a few years of neglect. Rowan could take responsibility for the last twelve months of decline after Gran had passed away. But she was here now, ready to make Lynette Dewhurst proud.

Rowan ran up the steps, past tapered columns, to a covered porch. She instinctively brushed her fingers across the carved sign that read Driftwood Cottage, just as she’d done as a kid before going into her “I have to pee dance” in case any nosy neighbors were curious. One glance at the old wooden porch swing, and she fumbled the keys but managed to unlock the door in time.

Stepping into the living room, the musty smell of the old place enveloped her. Vacant now for the better part of a year, the cottage still reminded her of a dozen summers, playing in the backyard, spreading seeds in the garden, sipping lemonade on the back stoop, eating too much peach ice cream after supper until her belly hurt, making soup from scratch, or learning to sew homemade doll clothes for her Barbie.

Right now, her one-track mind barely had time to flip on the lights as she raced down the hallway to the bathroom before wetting her pants. Without bothering to shut the front door, like she’d done a thousand times as a kid, she skidded to a stop on the scarred maple hardwood floor by latching onto the doorframe to stop her progress.

“Made it,” Rowan muttered as she sat on the rickety toilet that always seemed to run after flushing. When she’d finished, she went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. She took a long, hard look at her image in the mirror and realized the last few weeks of insomnia had finally caught up to her. She looked exhausted. The dark circles under her hazel eyes were bigger than ever. Major decisions like this one had taken their toll. Her co-workers back in San Diego thought she’d lost her mind. For the past five months, they’d ragged her about giving up a six-figure salary as a graphics designer for one of the top advertising agencies in Southern California. They weren’t shy about dishing the same advice about opening up her own agency in the boonies. It wasn’t just risky but foolish. The consensus overall boarded on nuts. Long-time friends had used words like unrealistic, career-ending, and reckless to make their point.

So much for unconditional support, she’d let their opinions get to her. But that was over. She was here now, and she was determined to make it work. After all, she had a roof over her head. She’d left behind her noisy, urban loft for the slower pace of a more tranquil coastal community, a town where she had history.

She tried to tame her copper-colored hair, a sweaty, sticky mess that spiked in all directions. Before leaving San Diego a mere seven hours earlier, it had looked relatively normal, draped to her shoulders in a long, layered bob. But not now. After such a long drive with the windows rolled down, she looked like Ron Weasley had stuck his finger in a light socket. She couldn’t wait to take a shower and collapse into bed. Unloading boxes would have to wait until morning.

Rowan wandered back toward the front room, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards squeaking beneath her feet. One by one, she pulled off the white sheets covering the furniture. She stood back as the dust scattered everywhere, including her throat and lungs. Hacking and coughing, she took in the sagging sofa cushions and armchair. Both were outdated in style and color. Should she hold onto her grandmother’s things or donate them to the thrift shop? It was a question she’d avoided answering for over a year. She looked around at all the work that needed doing. Gran had replaced the wallpaper three decades earlier. What remained was an inferior paint job that cracked and flaked. Every room suffered from peeling paint. Instead of feeling joy at the prospect of a blank canvas and a makeover, she felt the weight of more decisions. Hands at her hips, she let out a long sigh. “A real artist would have a field day with this place,” she told herself.

“Be patient,” she whispered. “You just got here five minutes ago. Give yourself a break. It doesn’t all need doing at once.”

She walked to the entryway to shut the front door and turned in a circle. Maybe now she could fully appreciate those childhood memories. “Thank you, Gran. You knew this house was always my refuge. You always knew exactly the right thing to say to me.”

“You’re a little young to start talking to yourself,” Scott Phillips announced, his voice booming in a deadpanned monotone.

Rowan jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. Panic lodged in her throat. She whirled around to face her intruder. Her eyes darted around the room. But there was no one there.

“Who said that?” she shouted. Her voice echoed out into silence.

Her eyes zeroed in on the fireplace poker. She picked it up, heaved it over her shoulder, and charged down the hallway to the bedrooms, ready to send whatever trespasser on his way. He who dared enter without permission would suffer the consequences. Was it a vagrant or squatter who’d found an empty house and decided to make it theirs? Last time she checked, though, Pelican Pointe didn’t have a homeless problem. Gran would’ve mentioned it.

After checking each room, looking into closets, and even poking her head underneath the beds, she was satisfied she’d imagined the voice. There was no one here but her.

Puzzled, she turned on her heels and headed to the kitchen, the only room updated since her grandmother’s passing. Her stomach grumbled. But there wasn’t time to think about food. The sound of clanging against metal outside caught her attention.

What now? she wondered as she walked to the farmhouse sink and peered out the window into the backyard. She spotted a man standing in the shadows, fiddling with the latch on the back gate.

Still clutching the metal poker like a sword, her heart pounding in her chest, she threw open the back door. “What are you doing here? It’s a little late for the utility guy.”

“Huh? I’m not the utility guy,” he explained, looking confused and somewhat frustrated. He stared at the redhead, a looker at five-six with green eyes, ivory skin, and a faint trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “I’m your neighbor. Daniel Cardiff. I live right behind you across the alleyway on Seagrass. I own the ice cream shop in town. Logan Donnelly said you might be arriving late and asked me to come by with a few groceries to tide you over until morning.”

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