Page 4 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I grab the instrument from the back seat and then turn to face the cottage. There’s a slight twinge in my wrist when I grip the handle of the case, but I know how to keep the pain out of my expression by now. Or rather, I thought I did. I guess I can only hope that Karina isn’t as observant as Diana and Goldberg.

With a resigned sigh, I follow after her skipping steps.

Chapter Two: Gabe

Inever get tired of Tchaikovsky.

Even though I’ve never been much of a ballet fan—just watching it makes my feet ache—the famous score forSwan Lakeis one of my go-tos when it comes to easy listening.

I hum the bright, cheerful tune to “Dance of the Little Swans” as I continue the work of setting up my temporary music room in our summer rental. If I can craft something even half as brilliant as what Tchaikovsky accomplished in his lifetime, I’ll die a happy man.

The music room in question is little more than a tiny office space in the back corner of the apartment. It gets great light for most of the day and, once I finish sticking blocks of insulating foam to the walls, it’ll have great acoustics to match.

Really, I had intended to take the summer off from composing. Coming off the high of a Grammy nomination for Best Original Score certainly affords me some time to rest, but the fact of the matter is… I didn’t win. And while a nomination is definitely an honor—a feat that most people will never achieve—it’s not good enough for me.

I’ve always had high standards for myself. Even if, more often than not, something gets in the way of me reaching them.

So, when I told my daughter the good news that we would be spending another summer in Mermaid Shores, I knew I had to leave room in the car for my electric piano and an acoustic guitar. I’ve also got a saxophone with me, but that was a last-minute whim, and then Wren threw in a tambourine simply because she’s going through a percussion stage. At seven years old, my kid has clearly inherited my passion for making loud noises.

I’m just praying for the day when she’s able to turn those loud noises into something a little more rhythmic.

I set the electric piano on its stand and plug it in, testing it out by playing a few notes from Tchaikovsky’s iconic “Swan Theme.”

“Good to go,” I mutter to myself.

I made sure to bring the headphones that can plug into the piano as well, since we’re not the only family in this building. This year, Mermaid Shores seems to be a more popular tourist destination than usual, so it was difficult for me to even find a place to rent. I had to choose between a drafty cabin on the outskirts of town or this converted duplex close to the beach.

Historically, Mermaid Shores has always been a well-kept secret. A hidden gem on Cape Cod where celebrities, dignitaries, and other VIPs make their escape every summer. Regular people also vacation here, but they typically belong to the families that have been coming here for generations.

Like me. I grew up in New Hampshire, but every June, my parents would pack up me and my older brother into the trusty Subaru and come down to the traditional New England cottage that had been in the family since my great-grandfather worked as a lobsterman down in this area.

Unfortunately, a hurricane did some pretty bad damage to the cottage about ten years ago, and Grams decided to sell the landto some fancy folks from New York City. There was a period of time when I didn’t come to Mermaid Shores for years, nor did anyone else in the Sterling clan. But I’m trying to restart the tradition with Wren. It’s the least I can do to give my daughter a fun summer at the beach, given how many hours I work during the year.

It’s just me and her most of the time. Or rather, me and her and the nanny I had no choice but to hire for an extra hand. I gave Nadya the summer off, though, so it really is just me and my daughter on our own until August.

Once upon a time, things might have been different, but there’s no use in dwelling on past tragedies. I don’t want to get lost in that headspace right now. Not while it’s such a beautiful day outside. Sunny and breezy—the perfect June day.

Speaking of Wren, I should really make sure she’s not getting herself into trouble. She’s impressively mature and capable for someone who has only been on this earth for seven and a half years, but she’s still way too young to be allowed to wander off on her own.

Currently, the second floor of the house is suspiciously quiet. That can’t be good.

I step out of my makeshift music room and peer down the hall toward her little bedroom facing the sea.

“Wren? You up here?”

No answer.

Just to be sure, I poke my head into her room. It’s empty, save for the fact that we just arrived last night and her purple suitcase has already exploded all over the place. I’ve been trying to work with her on forming tidy habits, but she has her mom’s chaotic spirit.

But now is not the time to be thinking about Wren’s late mother. I’m on vacation. The sun is shining. It would do me some good to look on the bright side of things.

I head to the first floor, the wooden stairs creaking underfoot. I know almost nothing about architecture, but this house is like a relic from a bygone era. I don’t think anything other than the kitchen appliances have been updated since the nineteenth century. I like it. It reminds me of the big, old house that I grew up in and the decrepit attached barn where I used to go and practice violin so I wouldn’t disturb the rest of my family.

Even now, after all these years, the thought of that cursed instrument puts a sour taste in my mouth.

Wren isn’t in the living room, nor is she in the kitchen.

“Wren?” I call out. “Where’d you run off to?”As I approach the back door, which has been propped open to allow the summery, salted breeze through the screened storm door, I finally hear my daughter’s bright, cheery tone.

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