Page 51 of Until the Storm Breaks
The beach is mostly empty in the early afternoon, just a couple walking hand in hand far down the shoreline, looking like a postcard for happiness I can’t imagine having. The sun has finally broken through this morning’s clouds, turning the Sound into shifting patterns of blue and silver. After the conversation with Calvin this morning, I needed to move, to think, to be somewhere that wasn’t those four walls that apparently aren’t even mine anymore.
Laila deserved this too. She’s been patient through my long shifts and my recent moodiness, and the way she tears after the tennis ball now, sand flying, ears flapping in pure joy, makes the tension in my body loosen slightly for the first time since Calvin told me about the sale.
I’ve been out here an hour maybe, sitting on this sun-bleached driftwood log that’s been my thinking spot for years, the notebook Calvin gave me balanced on my knees. I’ve written exactly one line and spent the rest of the time staring at the water, trying to make sense of everything. The gift. The eviction. The way Calvin looked at me this morning, like he wanted to fight the world for me.
“Found you.”
I look up to see Lark picking her way down the beach path, favoring her wrapped ankle slightly but moving better than shehas all week. She’s carrying her beach bag, the one with the ridiculous flamingo pattern she bought at Pike Place Market last summer.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“You texted me that you were bailing on movie night because you needed to process at the beach. Where else would you be?” She drops onto the log beside me, careful with her ankle. “This exact spot, this exact log. You’re predictable, Mare.”
“I’m sorry about movie night.”
“Don’t apologize. Romcoms can wait.” She pulls a water bottle from her bag, takes a drink. “So. Calvin gave you a first edition poetry book and then told you you’re losing your home. That about cover it?”
“How very succinct.”
“I’m efficient.” Lark throws the ball for Laila, who’s returned with her tongue hanging out. “Talk to me. Start with the book.”
I hold up the notebook in my lap, then gesture back toward the cabins. “The book—the poetry book—is back in my cabin. Too valuable to bring to the beach. But it’s not just any book, Lark. It’sThe Burned Hour. My favorite poet. And the exact edition that kept me sane after my parents died.”
“The one you quote sometimes?”
“Yeah.” I describe the signature, the inscription. “First edition. These cost hundreds of dollars. Maybe more. And this notebook, this pen...” I run my fingers over the linen cover. “He left it all on my porch last night with a note saying it’s time to write my own stories.”
Lark is quiet for a moment, processing this. When she speaks, her voice is certain. “That’s not a casual gift, Mare. That’s a declaration.”
“A declaration of what? He’s leaving in a few weeks.”
“So?” she asks.
“Soeverything. So I can’t let myself want this. So I’m losing my home and can’t handle losing him too.” My voice cracks onthe last part, and I have to stop, breathe, watch the water until I’m steady again. “God, Lark, I’m such a mess.”
“You’re not a mess. You’re dealing with a lot.” She puts her arm around my shoulders, pulls me against her side. “Tell me about the housing situation. What exactly did Dominic say?”
“He didn’t say anything to me. That’s the point. Ten years, Lark,” I continue, anger building. “I’ve paid rent every month for ten years. Never missed one. Never been late. Fixed things myself when they broke, painted the walls, planted that whole herb garden, made it home. And Dominic just... sold it out from under me? Without even a conversation?”
“Bastard,” she says with feeling. “Complete asshole. What are you going to do? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” I pick up a handful of sand, let it run through my fingers. “You know what the rental market’s like here. Everything decent is taken or crazy expensive.”
“I think Tom from the bar is looking for someone to rent out his second apartment,” Lark suggests. “The one above the hardware store?”
“Way out of my price range.”
“Damn.” Lark throws the ball again for Laila. “What about buying something? A trailer or something small?”
“Maybe. I’ve been saving, but I’m not sure if it’s enough.” I dig my toes into the sand, watch them disappear. “But, either that or I’ll probably have to move further out. Find something in one of the other towns. Commute.”
“That would add so much driving time.”
“What choice do I have?” The frustration bleeds through me now. “I’ve given everything to this town. Run the bar, taken care of people, been part of this community. And none of it matters. Disposable.”
“You’re not disposable.” Lark’s voice is fierce. “And you know you could stay with me while you figure things out.”
“Lark, your place is a studio. You have one room.”
