Page 83 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“Girls, I think we’re done.” I survey the siding, hands on my hips.
It’s a good thing, because another tropical storm is rolling in, the wind already picking up. Even though it’s not supposed to hit us until tomorrow evening, this one shouldn’t be too bad.
“I’m going to double-check the front and then clean up,” I say, leaning down to pat Hank on the head.
I take the paint tray and brush with me as I round the side of the house, closing the gate so the girls don’t get any wild ideas, like trying their wings at surfing again. When I turn around, one of my favorite locals is frowning at the house, one hand on the hip of her cable knit sweater, the other clutching her cane.
“Pink?” Carol asks when I come to stand beside her.
“It’s Geneva’s favorite.”
“Since when?” Disdain drips from each word.
My shoulders bounce as I try to keep my smile contained. “Since she realized she can bebothtough as nails and feminine, grouchy and caring. A beloved grump.”
Carol sniffs, but her chin dips in what I’m considering approval. Of course, she could just be holding in a sneeze.
My mouth opens to ask Carol about her day when a voice lilts on the wind.
“Van.”
I wince reflexively, nearly dropping the paint tray. Though Taylor isn’t using my government name, the sound of her calling sends shivers down my spine. I assumed after finally chipping away at my mountain of grief, I’d be spared these unexpected encounters. A shaky inhale fills my tight lungs as I try to slow my heart rate. It takes several seconds to notice that Carol’s assessing gaze is zeroed in on me.
“What?” I ask as it feels like she’s lasering off years of medical knowledge.
“You can hear that?”
I’m about to deflect when I hear my sister’s voice again.
“Van.”
This time, I fumble the paint tray, spilling pink paint down my jeans.
Carol hums, her tone indiscernible. Then she tilts back her head and yells into the sky, “He’s busy. We’re having a conversation if you haven’t noticed.”
I must be hallucinating, because the wind dies downimmediately—almost as if chastened. Goosebumps prick my skin as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“What—” I swallow. “What is going on?”
Carol waves a hand at me, irritated. “You think you’d get a break once they’ve gone, but some people just can’t take a hint and leave you alone.”
A man’s laugh—deep and husky—echoes between the houses. It could almost be mistaken for the distant rumble of thunder if not for the cloudless sky.
Another splat of pink falls on the gravel, prompting me to set the tray down and shove my shaking hands in my pockets.
“They can’t talk as much as they used to. Only a couple of words, a short sentence at most. Which is good because Charles used to yap like a squirrel on espresso.”
Laughter surrounds us again, playful and rich. Carol rolls her eyes at the sky before her narrowed focus drops to me.
“I assume you can hear him too.”
I nod, the movement unsteady.
“Guess you’re supposed to be here after all,” she says with a casual shrug, like the sky isn’t laughing at us, like all of this isn’t outside the confines of reason.
My mouth opens, closes, and opens again as questions whir through my brain. “Who’s Charles?”
“My late husband.” She tilts her head back. “And a pain in my behind.”
