Page 7 of The Art Of Starting Over

As soon as she pulled onto Interstate 80, Devy turned on the playlist she’d put together for their fifteen-hour drive, turned the volume up, and started singing. When her favorite song came on, she danced in her seat and did everything she could to get her daughter to smile.

At the end of all this, Maren wouldn’t see what the affair had done to her mother. Devorah would mask everything until her child was tucked away at night. Then and only then would she allow her emotions to come through, allow herself to feel. She’d be brave for her daughterand for anyone else she ran into once she was back home. All she could hope for was that no one in Oyster Bay had seen the video—or, if they had, that they hadn’t realized it was about her. She didn’t need any more embarrassment in her life. Enough of that would be coming from those who had never left Oyster Bay, people who would be happy to see the “Pearl of the Ocean” four years running fall flat on her face.

They were only an hour into the drive when Maren started singing and dancing. Her smile was enough to keep Devy’s foot on the gas and moving forward.

It was after dinner the next day when they pulled into town. Antique streetlights and lamps kept the street lit, and the sound of the foghorn reminded Devorah how close they were to the water. Devorah pushed a button, sending her window down. She leaned her head out of the window and inhaled, almost gagging on the smell of brine. No one enjoyed the odor, but it meant home to her. They had Lake Michigan in Chicago, and while it was massive, she missed the ocean. She missed the constant ocean mist the air held from being this close to the water and the sound of fishing boats returning to harbor, along with the constant ting of the buoy bell wind chimes.

“How far does Grandpa live from the water?”

“Not far,” Devy said as she turned onto Main Street. “You can walk there in two minutes if you don’t get stopped by someone who knows you.”

“No one knows me here.”

Devy let out a small laugh. “Oh, sweetie, everyone knows who you are here. And by tomorrow morning, they’ll all know Tremaine Crowley’s only granddaughter is in town. Especially since the last time you were here, you were three.”

“Really?” Maren looked like she didn’t really believe her mom.

“Yep. Small-town living definitely has its drawbacks.” She pulled into the driveway and put the SUV into park. She stared at the yellow house and wide porch. The railings looked freshly painted to match the picket fence in the front. The house and subsequently the fence sat too close to the main road but had been built long before Oyster Bay ever became a town. Blue-and-white hydrangeas took up most of what little front yard they had, and she was surprised they looked well kept and weren’t growing over the fence.

To the left of her was a small road, leading not only to their backyard but to a few cottages out back. At one time, thanks to a social studies assignment, she’d learned that her house had been owned by Joe Updike, the founder of Oyster Bay. He’d built the cottages behind what was now her childhood home for his employees.

Devy sighed and shut her car off. She was ready to get out, stretch, and head to the beach.

“What’s the perk?” Maren asked when they met at the back of the car.

“This.” Devy pointed across the street, where if you looked through the somewhat empty parking lot, you could see the water and the masts of sailboats tied to the docks. Dev, her brother Colt, and all their friends had spent plenty of time on those docks back in the day. Doing things she’d rather not tell her impressionable nine-year-old daughter about.

“We can go there?”

“Yep. There’s a paved walking path over there.” She pointed in the general direction of where the pathway started, between two old buildings that had been there since the early 1700s. The one on the right of the path had always been a law office, passed down from one generation to the next. The building on the left used to be a bait-and-tackle shop, but from the looks of it now, it seemed to be some sort of gallery. “With a lot of spots where you can walk down to the water. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“What about school?”

Devorah opened the back and reached for her suitcase. “School can wait until Monday.”

“Awesome.”

It was the least Dev could do. She wanted to give Maren time to adjust and get to know Oyster Bay before she threw her to the wolves. She wasn’t wrong when she said there were drawbacks to living in a place like Oyster Bay. Sure, it was beautiful and had a lot to offer people, if a town this small was what people looked for. It was great for visiting, but you either fit in or you didn’t. There really wasn’t a middle ground. Maren had a lot going for her, though. She was outgoing, charismatic, smart, and athletic. Devy hoped that would be enough.

With what they could carry, they headed toward the concrete pathway, where the fence opened near the house, which would lead to the wide-planked steps and then to the front door, where, if memory served correctly, the screen door would be old yet sturdy and still squeak when opened and closed.

With her arms full, Devorah looked toward the house and saw her father standing on the porch. Tremaine Crowley, Crow for short, was the town sheriff, or, as he liked to tell everyone, he was the law around town. He was the epitome of what most people would think a small-town sheriff would look like. Big and burly, he kept his dark hair high and tight. Every kid in town was afraid of him, including his own.

“I heard you were coming,” he said gruffly as he descended the stairs. Crow wasn’t one for pleasantries or change. He liked his life to stay the same, day in and day out. Which was why Oyster Bay was the only town with a sheriff and deputies, while every other place had a chief and a police force.

“Hi, Daddy,” Devorah said. “I can’t imagine who you heard it from.”

“That man you ...” Crow stopped when his eyes met his granddaughter’s. Maren was one of the reasons Devy had stayed away from Oyster Bay for so long—her daughter looked identical to her mother,who had passed away when Devy was ten and Colt was twelve. Crow never got over the death of his wife.

“Hi, Grandpa,” Maren said as she stepped around her mom. Maren wrapped her arms around Crow. The gesture seemed to take him by surprise. Devy cocked her eyebrow at him, in challenge, wanting to know how he was going to react. He slowly placed his hands on Maren’s back and patted her. Dev said nothing. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had hugged her.

The wooden screen door popped open, and a light-brown puppy trotted out.

“Grandpa, you have a puppy?” Maren went immediately to the fluff ball standing on the porch, with its tail wagging back and forth.

“She was the runt of the litter, and no one wanted her,” he said as he reached for the suitcases. “Your uncle brought her home.”

“What’s her name?” Maren dropped to her knees and cuddled the dog.

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