Page 5 of Holiday Tides

My eyes widen as I suck in a pursed breath. “You know that’s a contentious subject.”

Some argue whether Virginia counts as a southern state.

“We’re below the Mason-Dixon line. We live in the South. Here.” Aldon hands me a box of accent tile for one of the four main bathrooms. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and take this inside?”

His gruff words might as well be fluffy mini-marshmallows.

“I’m planning on heading to the mainland once we finish out this afternoon. Do you need diapers, wipes, or more Sour Patch Kids for Jane’s stockpile?”

This was supposed to be Aldon’s jobsite, but since their beautiful daughter came two weeks early, I’m taking over. After years of trying, their miracle baby is here, and Aldon is taking a long-earned break—or he’s supposed to be, anyway.

Aldon pins me with a look. “Whendoesn’tJane need candy?”

“I’ll get her two jumbo packs,” I say through a growing smile.

All of us islanders have to travel to the mainland for supplies not available at Dotty’s small market. Which brings me back to this morning’s conundrum—what is Summer doing at her grandmother’s cottage? Probably just visiting, though I haven’t seen her brother, Sam, in a while. Before I have time to ruminate, the woman herself slips out of her side exit, cutting toward the back of the house. She’s wrapped in red runningtights, a light-gray half-zip, and a red snow hat pulled over her hair.

Summer’s choice in running attire makes me grin before I place the box of tile in my truck bed. “Text me if you need anything else. I’ve got to check on something.”

If Aldon sees what’s got me jogging away from an active jobsite in the middle of a reno, he keeps it to himself. All I know is that Summer didn’t walk back into my life—across the street from where I’ll be working for the next few weeks—for no reason. I’ve never believed in the ‘magic’ native islanders claim runs beneath our sandy shores, but I’m not wasting this opportunity. Not when I never thought I’d see her again. This is my chance to explain everything.

I just have to catch her.

four

Summer

“What do you mean there are a few things you haven’t kept up since you moved in? Having heat and hot water are pretty basic necessities,” I say, jogging down the sole main road on Wilks Beach because at least my frigid muscles will warm with a run.

“The electricity and plumbing still work.” Sam’s voice comes through my earbuds tucked beneath my running hat. “That’s something.”

And yes, my brother’s name also starts with an S—just like all six of us siblings. Sophia. Spencer. Simon. Samuel. Sage. Summer. My parents thought the alliteration was cute because they’d enjoyed it on their wedding invitations when Stephen married Savannah. All I know is that our family is a lisping person’s worst nightmare.

“Samuel Robert Owens.” I can almost feel his wince. Sam hates being full-named.

“Okay, so maybe I didn’t take care of a fewsmallhouse things.” I scoff so loudly he pauses. “But it’s not like Gramma leftus the money to fix anything. Just use the space heater when you sleep. I left it in the closet.”

“These are the things that would have been good to know last night. Also, how are you showering? I almost wept, getting a bit of whipped cream out of my roots with how freezing the water was. And I was fully dressed with my head over the kitchen sink.”

“Why was whipped cream in your— You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know what you’re into. I still haven’t recovered after accidentally discovering Simon’s preoccupation with wax.”

A strangled noise scrapes from my throat. If Sam was here right now, I’d punch him. “It wasn’t there on purpose, obviously!”

“La la la. Not listening.” He pauses again, the sound of upbeat bass and an espresso machine hissing through the line. “You need to boil water in the pasta pot and carry it upstairs to the bathtub. It takes about three pots mixed with the tap, but then you can have a decent bath to get clean.”

“Samuel,” I growl.

I don’t have time to boil gallons of water for bathing when I already have a two-hour round-trip commute to get to my office five days a week. And I was really hoping to spend any extra money I had on Christmas decorations. I have a decent indoor display for a person who’s always lived in studio apartments—a three-foot pre-lit tree, garland with a monogrammed stocking for the non-existent fireplace, and the cutest family of ceramic snowmen who camp out on my kitchen counter. But I was really excited about decking Gramma’s adorable cottage to the nines with lights, a fat wreath for the door, and a lit snowman for the short front lawn.

Gramma loved Christmas as much as me, or maybe I got my sense of wonder for the holiday from her. My parents alwaysviewed it as a chore, but with six children to surprise with Santa gifts, I can imagine it was challenging. Gramma loved the deeper meanings to things—the love in a freshly baked snickerdoodle, the joy in a carol, the way even a small candle could brighten your mood. My heart clenches. I miss her so much and want to do right by her legacy.

But I also don’t want to show up to work smelling like a boys’ locker room.

“Do you at least know what’s wrong with the heaters?”

“You’re, uh—” Sam makes a crackling sound. “Breaking…up. Can’t—”

I stop short on the side of the road. “The barista just called out an oat milk latte for Lucia. You’re not—”

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