Remember You Have Wings

Chapter One

P ulling up to the last stop light I intended to lay eyes on for at least 48 hours, I took advantage of having both hands free to quickly twist my hair into a messy bun and clip it to the top of my head.

When the signal turned green, I exhaled deeply as I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel.

“Finally,” I grumbled as I made the familiar left onto Ocean Shore Boulevard.

The traffic quickly thinned on this two-lane road that hugged the coast and I could feel some of the bumper-to-bumper tension in my body start to melt immediately.

I eagerly lowered the windows and breathed the salty air that rushed into the car with a satisfied sigh.

Turning down the radio, I could hear the distant crash of waves as they met the shore. The sound was instantly soothing as always. Relaxation began to take root as I settled back in the seat for the last leg of my journey .

I’d been impatient to hit the road and left my home just outside of Chattanooga before the sun was even up that morning.

The trip through Georgia had completely stunk, raining almost the whole duration and putting a massive damper on my vacation vibes.

The downpour had eventually, mercifully, stopped shortly after crossing into Florida, but it was replaced with a slower trudge south with zillions of other drivers converging toward their final destinations as well.

At least the Sunshine State had been living up to its name; the bright rays slowly rewarmed my mood over the last few hours of the trip.

I rolled my shoulders and neck, easing some of the tightness that had built up from the long day in the car, and life in general.

Work had been an absolute nightmare the last few months. On top of business as usual, our brokerage was dealing with an audit. The extra load of closing out the books from the prior year and helping my boss prepare for his coming IRS visit remotely from my home office had stressed me to the max.

I always looked forward to Spring Break, but this year I was practically desperate for this week away from responsibilities and deadlines.

Cruising along the eastern coast of Ormond Beach, I avidly studied some of the beachfront mansions and cottages I’d admired since I was a little girl .

There were always a few that had renovations done between trips that would catch my eye when I returned to town. It was usually a new paint color, landscaping, or occasionally a larger project like a new patio or roof. A change could elicit excitement, seeing an improvement to a home that had needed TLC for a while, or make me melancholy if a feature of a favorite house had been erased forever.

After a few miles, the private properties became sparser, and more public access points down to the beach allowed for longer glimpses of the ocean over the dunes lining the road.

I stopped at one of the dozens of pedestrian crosswalks and took in the view while I waited for the coming and going beachgoers to clear. The sand was dotted with them playing in it, lounging under colorful umbrellas, or sunning themselves in the late afternoon light.

The wind carried the delighted squeals of a child through the open window. I smiled as I watched the pink swimsuit-clad toddler race into the surf and back out before the waves rolling in could knock her over. Emotions hit me right in the heart, nostalgic for the days when my daughters were the tiny humans running across the sand on little legs toward big waters.

Grace, my more cautious child, had always hesitated to dip even her toes into the ocean when she was itty bitty. Over time, she warmed to it as she got older, learning to manage the pull and tug of the battling tides to venture further into the sea to play .

My youngest, Sadie, had to be kept from racing into the waves as soon as she could walk. She still loved water in any form, be it the ocean, a pool, or dancing outside in the rain. Getting her out of the bathtub was still a battle most of the time.

I hit the gas and turned the radio back up to jam out with Kelly Clarkson; singing along off-key as I enjoyed the beautiful scenery and relaxed more into beach-life me.

Two songs later, I sighed with contentment when I spotted the sign that always brought on the best feeling of calm when it came into view.

WELCOME

to Ormond-by-the-Sea

Driving into this tiny, coastal paradise felt like going back in time. It hadn’t changed much since I was a child. Here the beachfront was more populated by condo high-rises and small, brightly colored stucco houses. There were large stretches of wide-open ocean views not obstructed by any buildings.

It was quiet and and quaint place, especially compared to Daytona Beach, less than 10 miles south, the direction the majority of the traffic had headed.

I reached a bright blue bungalow, a favorite landmark of mine, and saw Mr. Vincent outside his front door in an old beach chair as usual. Over the years, his gray hair had gradually turned white. His skin was dark and looked like weathered leather from nearly two decades of sitting in the same spot.

His simple pleasure in retirement was relaxing outside his house, watching cars pass by. As it was late afternoon, he raised the soda in his hand in greeting. If it were morning hours, it would have been a mug of coffee and would be replaced by a bottle of his favorite beer in the evening. It always felt like he was welcoming me home and I waved to him as I drove past.

I came to the business area in the center of town and scanned the buildings. There were some of the typical chain stores and restaurants. Most were unique to Ormond-by-the-Sea though; small beach-themed restaurants and business strips filled with local mom-and-pop shops that offered services ranging from insurance to vacuum repairs.

There was Hank’s Bar and Grill with its bright neon yellow and orange paint. Another block down was The Mermaid’s Tale, a trendy little gallery that sold creations made by local artists.

An old, red pickup truck with rows of surfboards stacked in its bed and a sign on the side advertising lessons was parked in front of the surf shop, Tidal Way, as usual.

Two more blocks and I hit the PERFECT level on my mood scale as I reached my target.

My uncle and aunt had owned unit 604 at The Sea Breeze Condominiums since before I was born. Their home was in North Carolina, but the condo had been their summer retreat for decades. They started spending their winters here instead after Uncle Mickey closed his accounting business and retired nine years ago.

Turning into the complex I saw the Emersons walking their dog. I waved a greeting to them then called out to the adorable Yorkie. “Hi, Peanut! Who’s a pretty puppy? What a good girl!”

The middle-aged couple beamed like proud fur parents as they waved back while the pup ran in excited, tight circles around their feet.

I drove past the private garages, down to the underground parking, and pulled into one of the reserved spots for our unit. The storage locker door caught my eye, stirring the usual feelings of sadness and longing I always experienced as I studied the swirls of colors and tropical images painted on its surface.

Six and a half years ago, in mid-September, my Aunt Charlotte passed away from breast cancer. It was one of the hardest years of my life; first with her diagnosis, then she succumbed to the disease a few months after my marriage fell apart. I still missed her terribly.

She was an artist and like the locker door, the condo was full of her art pieces, several of which I had clear memories from my youth of watching her create.

Growing up, my older sister Katherine and I spent most of our summers here with our aunt, especially after our parents divorced when we were seven and five.

She’d always encouraged and nurtured our creativity, which had been drawing for my sister and writing for me. We would make books together whenever we visited—me imagining a story and Katherine illustrating it.

Aunt Charlotte would laminate the pages and bind them, keepsakes still stored in a little wooden chest in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Sadie still enjoyed reading them, Gilbert the Green Dolphin being her favorite tale.

My uncle still spent his winters here, and for the last six years my mother, daughters, and I had come down for the week of Spring Break to vacation with him.

Uncle Mickey’s relationship with my children mirrored the one my sister and I had with him growing up. He would take them fishing, on bike rides, and play with them in the pool or on the beach. They would do puzzles and play games on rainy days, or he might take them to a movie. He always spoiled them rotten with sweet treats and too many toys and souvenirs.

The attention my uncle gave the girls meant a lot to me, particularly since their father was no longer in their lives.

A memory of my ex-husband playing with Grace on the beach fluttered across my mind and my thoughts turned stormy as I rolled up the windows and shut off the car.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Drew in almost seven years now. It felt like a completely different lifetime; one that I avoided thinking about if I could help it.

One remembrance could snowball into many, inevitably turning dark and destroying my mood.

Sometimes I even tried to convince myself that unhappy memories from our life together weren’t my own; I was recalling someone else’s story from a book I’d read or a movie I’d watched. That little game of make pretend was far less unappealing than reliving the past.

The only thing I liked thinking about when it came to that man was the security of knowing exactly where he was at all times: Buford, Georgia. More specifically, Phillips State Prison.

I shook my head, annoyed with myself. “Enough. Beach. Vacation.”

I shoved my ex out of my mind as I stuffed my phone in my purse, exited the vehicle, and stretched my arms and legs as I went to the trunk.

I grabbed two large bags before making my way to the elevator, thankful the door opened as soon as I hit the button. A few moments later, I was on the sixth floor and saw my favorite couple sitting outside the third door down the breezeway.

Ina and Fred Mancini had lived in the building for as long as I could remember. The pair had to be in their late seventies by now. They spent most mornings and evenings sitting outside their home where Fred read the paper or a magazine, and Ina her naughty novels while she watched the comings and goings in the parking lot below.

I was particularly fond of the short, slightly plump woman who still dyed her curls a not-quite-natural shade of red and never had a problem sharing her thoughts with anyone.

Ina looked up from her book and squinted through her glasses until she could make out who was approaching, then her face lit up .

“It’s about time! Been waitin’ all day. Where’s your motha and the little ones, eh?” Ina demanded in her thick Jersey accent as I continued toward them.

I greeted her and Fred as I reached their chairs. “It’s lovely to see you as always. My mom is staying an extra week to help my uncle with a deep cleaning of the condo so she’s driving down in her car. Sadie begged to ride with her. I’m pretty positive the motivation was knowing she could talk her grandmother into stopping for ice cream after lunch.”

The strap of the heavier bag was digging into my shoulder so I set it down.

“They should be here shortly. Sadie will be hopped up on sugar no doubt. Grace didn’t come on this trip. She’s in Maine with her girlfriend for the break.”

Ina scoffed. “That’s what they do now. They go off to college and stop carin’ about spendin’ time with their poor mothas who raised them with all their blood, sweat, and tears. Ain’t that right, Fred?”

I glanced at her husband, tall and thin, his hair the same white it had been the day I met him when I was six years old; he just had a lot less of it now.

Fred put down his paper, greeted me with his usual nod, and chirped out the response he always gave to his wife’s questions, “What she said,” before lifting the pages again.

Ina pressed her hand to her chest and shook her head as if I’d broken the news that my daughter had done something unforgivable .

I couldn’t help but grin. “Right? Who does she think she is, acting like she’s all grown up? 18 is still a baby if you ask me.”

Ina’s sour demeanor stayed firmly in place so I tried improving her mood by bringing up their children. “It was great seeing Jackie with her grandbaby last summer, and I’m sure Robby visits when he can.”

Ina pursed her lips and pointed her bubble gum pink fingernail at Fred. “Don’t talk to me about HIS son. Not even his name. He spends all his time with that new wife a’ his travelin’ round the country, but can he make a stop here? No! And grandkids! They won’t give us no more. It’s a tragedy, ain’t it, Fred?”

This time he didn’t lower his paper, “What she said,” sounding from behind it.

I cleared my throat to cover a laugh. Ina’s displeasure was slightly absurd considering their son was well into his fifties.

“Well, I know my mother has been looking forward to catching up with you and I bet Sadie would love her nails painted again this trip if you wouldn’t mind.” I picked up the heavy bag again and took a few steps. “I better go put these suckers inside before my arms fall off.”

“Good!” Ina called after me. “I need to tell Patricia what that floozy in 404 said to Fred the otha day. She won’t believe how brazen that Jezebel has got. And you come by and get fed, eh? Don’t think I don’t notice you goin’ all skinny, missy!”

“For Pete’s sake, Catalina,” Fred grumbled as I waved goodbye over my shoulder, struggling to hide my amusement now. “All Cheryl said was she likes my new cane. You think she wants to jump the bones of an old guy who walks with a cane?”

I lengthened my stride to get around the slight corner before letting out a snort as Ina continued to barrage the ‘ harlot ’ two floors down with insults and tell Fred exactly what he could do with his cane.

My uncle’s condo was the unit past the corner. Standing outside the next door down, there he was, the Golden God.

Logan Harper had been doing the building maintenance for several years now. I slowed my gait so I could study him while he fixed a broken light outside of 605.

Logan was, in a word, hot.

I’d christened him with the silly, secret nickname because of his permanent tan and sun-kissed brown locks of slightly curling hair. Unsure of his exact height, in comparison to mine, I’d guesstimate a few inches over six feet.

Logan was the type of handsome that it was hard not to notice. He had beautiful, dark blue eyes framed by thick lashes anyone would kill to have. His lips were full, his jaw square, and his nose and chin belonged on a Greek statue. His shoulders were broad, and the thick biceps peeking from his sleeves and powerful-looking legs made it easy to imagine more muscles were lurking beneath his clothing .

I had a bad habit of staring at him and always felt like a complete moron anytime we spoke. It didn’t help that he seemed to be a rather serious man, nor one of many words. I only ever saw him talk comfortably with children. Everyone else received as few syllables as possible and polite nods for the most part.

He looked pretty much the same as the day we’d met, which would have been three summers ago. He was dressed in his usual style: a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers in a light blue today. I’d observed at some point, probably while drooling over the muscles of his shoulders, that he always wore the same chain around his neck.

His hair was cut shorter on the sides right now and I could see small bits of silver were starting to thread through the strands at his temple. I assumed he was older than my 37 years.

I internally cringed as I stopped at my door and set the bags down. He’d likely heard me snort a few moments before.

I started digging in my purse for my keys and cleared my throat. “Hello, Logan.”

He didn’t look away from his task as if it were the most important job in the world. “Sounds like Fred is in hot water again.”

I always felt a thrill hearing his voice. It was deep and had such a unique sound to it. Some words were sharp, others soft as if from somewhere southern. Unable to place his accent, I’d never been brave enough to ask him about it .

“I think Cheryl is intentionally trying to set Ina off at this point,” I told him with amusement. “Poor Fred is just a casualty in their war.”

Logan’s face softened slightly as he glanced my way. He did a double take and then his gorgeous blues scanned down my body slowly. “You look…”

“Better?” I finished before I could stop myself.

The man I had a massive crush on continued taking in the changes to my body as my cheeks burned.

“I finally got rid of a bunch of that ugly fat. The last 10 are hanging on for dear life though.” I bit my tongue, punishing myself for saying something so stupid out loud.

Logan’s gaze met mine, and then his typical, polite expression slid back in place as he focused again on the light. “Just different. You always look nice.”

He’s only trying to be polite, I told myself, chewing my lip while I ran a hand down my stomach as I watched him continue to work.

I was trying to think of a response when the distant ding of the elevator sounded, then the quick patter of small legs running followed by my mother’s exasperated voice.

“Sadie Olivia Cage, please slow down!” —it dropped to a conversational tone— “Ina, Fred, so nice to see you.”

“Oh my gosh, Patricia. Love the new hairdo! You look like a young Vivian Blaine,” Ina gushed to my mother as Sadie’s little body came tearing around the corner .

My daughter had a stuffed animal under each arm, her backpack bouncing, and her favorite beach hat flapping on top of her brown curls. I put my arms out for a hug as she ran right past me.

“Hi, Logan!” Sadie exclaimed as she came to a wobbly stop in front of him.

His mouth had relaxed into his killer smile as he greeted her back. “Lady Sadie.”

I leaned against the door frame to watch them. Sadie had wanted to be called that last summer, deep in an obsession with rhyming era. It was sweet that Logan remembered, but he was about to learn her focus had shifted to numbers this year.

He reached his hand out for the high five Sadie always liked giving him. “Geez, Madison, what are you feeding this child? She’s grown like a foot since July.”

Warmth pooled in my stomach. For some reason, I thought it might be the first time I’d ever heard Logan say my name.

Sadie giggled. “I have not! But did you know I’m almost done with first grade annnnd I can do multiplication?”

“Is that right? Can you tell me what two times two is?”

Sadie’s enthusiasm flipped to underwhelmed. “We learned that like… the first week of school.”

“Alright, how about seven times six?”

“Humm.” My daughter put a little finger to her chin, which always seemed to help her think harder. “Easy peasy, 42!”

“Well, that deserves a second high five. ”

Sadie beamed as she slapped his hand again and ran back to me. She gave me a quick hug while doing a little dance most moms are familiar with. “I have to pee,” she whined in a loud whisper.

I unlocked the door for her. “Glad to see you too, Bug!” I called at her back as she disappeared through it.

I turned to say goodbye to Logan but paused. His eyes were somber as he looked down at the hand Sadie had high-fived.

“That’s something. How old is Sadie now?”

“She turned seven last month.”

“Seven,” Logan murmured, “that’s right.”

He seemed to realize I was studying him, looked back at the fixture, and gave one of the screws a final turn before he started walking in my direction.

He nodded as he continued past me. “Have a fun Spring Break.”

I inhaled the familiar cologne he seemed to favor. Logan always smelled so damn good.

“You too!” I called as he disappeared around the corner. Then I grimaced and slapped my forehead.