Page 7 of Sea La Vie
“It’s been empty, give or take a few fishermen, for the past decade. It definitely needs some help.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“Your grandpa still comes out every now and then to check on it,” she says. “I see the nursing home’s van pass by, and I just know he’s sweet-talked someone into bringing him out.”
“I know,” I say defensively. “Just because I haven’t had the time to come back doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with my grandpa.”
She stares at me for a beat, then turns to head back to her truck.
I sigh, and reluctantly put one foot into the car. Then, I whirl around. “Dave? The doctorandpastor? Why were you planning on taking me to his place?”
Lainey laughs, the sound like windchimes after a heavy storm. “There are two rentals in town. Dave’s and yours.”
Reluctantly, I slide behind the wheel and ease back onto the road. Lainey’s headlights shine behind me, and true to her word, she follows me until I reach the only stoplight in town. It’s situated at the far end of Water Street, which separates the bay from a row of shops, all neatly kept but seemingly unchanged since I was last here.
The barber shop still boasts a spinning barber pole, the red and blue faded from the sun. There’s a diner with “Shukin’ Huck’s” spread across the door and I can’t help but wonder if that’s Lainey’s brother.
Situated between a thrift store and bait shop, there’s a general store where rockers with chipped paint sit out front. To the left of that, there’s a modest courthouse. On the corner is a flower shop situated right next to Memos And Mugs, the coziest looking coffee shop/bookstore duo I’ve ever seen. Across from that is Dr. Conard’s Family Dentistry, and finally, a hardware store. The clock on my dash reads just past eight, but only a few people mill along the street, including a group of teenage boys on bicycles, fishing poles sticking out of their baskets. This town truly is the definition of sleepy.
Gravel crunches as Lainey and I both pull up in front of Sid’s. She cranks down her window and I hear her say, “Keys on the seat, City Boy!” Before the squeak of her window starts again as she rolls it back up.
Reluctantly, I throw my keys on the seat and send a silent prayer up that my pride and joy doesn’t get stolen tonight. I bought it off the showroom floor after accepting the accounting position I have now.
The rusty hinges on Lainey’s truck squeak as I open the door, and she pats the space on the bench seat next to her. I didn’t know trucks this old still existed. The fluffy brown and white “attack” dog leaps onto my lap and peppers my face in sloppy, wet kisses.
“Get down, Midge,” Lainey scolds. “And act a little more like a guard dog, will you?” She turns down an old country song playing through the static then assesses me with her soft green eyes.
Uncomfortable, I peer at her out of the side of my eye. A smirk is resting lazily on her face and finally, I snap wiping at my nose furiously. “What? What are you looking at? Is there something on my face?”
Lainey chuckles. “I’m wondering how you grew up but still look like the same old Tate, you know?” She has an accent thatis southern but not “in your face” southern, if you know what I mean. She leaves the “g” off a word here, sneaks in a long “i” there. It’s cute. Or, it would be if she wasn’t annoying the living daylight out of me right now.
“I don’t look anything like I did as a kid,” I scoff. “No braces, a clean hair cut, biceps?” I can’t help myself by throwing that last part in there and giving her a little flex. I search her face for any kind of reaction and find…none.
“Do you have any bags you want to grab?” Lainey asks.
“Nope,” I respond. When I don’t elaborate, she throws the truck into gear and pulls back out onto the sandy road.
“You look the same too,” I finally say.
“Oh yeah?” she glances at me out of the side of her eye.
“Yeah. Still barefoot, looking like you haven’t touched a hairbrush in a year.”
She cocks an eyebrow and reaches a hand to her hair that’s actually got an effortlessly perfect look to it, but doesn’t say anything. The silence should be uncomfortable given I’m riding in a near perfect stranger’s truck that came straight from the seventies, but it’s not. I want to know more about Lainey, and I find myself trying to think of anything to get her to talk as we draw closer and closer to the old cottage.
“What are you doing back in town?” she finally asks.
I consider her question. “I came back to see about selling our old place,” I answer, deciding that’s an easier version of the day’s events. I’d rather not rehash my dumpster fire of a planned proposal so soon.
She pulls down our sandy drive, and I’m momentarily speechless. Our once pristine beach cottage looks rundown. The once-navy shutters are faded to a dull blue and hanging off their hinges. The white exterior has yellowed, and the screen door boasts a huge hole.
She puts the truck into park and taps her steering wheel. “Well, here we are,” she says.
“Here we are,” I repeat, drumming my fingers along my thigh.
“Are you going to get out of my truck?” she asks, pointedly.
My hand flies to the handle and my cheeks stain crimson. “Yeah, definitely. I was just…trying to figure out where the key was,” I lie, hopping out of her truck, the door protesting along its hinges with a squeak.
