Chapter 2 #2
Hope Haven was comprised of five towns, and while they were all stunningly beautiful, each possessed unique, distinguishing features.
In addition to its appealing downtown shopping area, Port Newcomb was known for its tony yacht club and vibrant nightlife.
Highland Hills, which faced the open Atlantic, hosted a vibrant artists’ community.
Rockfield had miles of scenic hiking trails through conservation land, as well as a picturesque, privately owned cranberry bog.
Benjamin’s Manor was renowned for its quaint harbor and historic captains’ homes.
And then there was Lucinda’s Hamlet, where Caitlin’s aunt and uncle owned and managed The Windmill Cottages.
The town sported a long bayside boardwalk with tourist traps galore, including a famed ice-cream parlor, an arcade, and souvenir shops and takeout eateries.
Abbreviated as “Lucy’s Ham” by the locals, the little village may not have enjoyed the prestigious reputations of the other four towns, but because of its wholesome entertainment and calm bay waters, vacationing families with young children were drawn to it in droves.
Caitlin smiled to herself, remembering how her aunt had once responded after reading a newspaper article about Lucinda’s Hamlet. The reporter had written that the boardwalk was, “an embarrassment to Dune Island, but a beloved one, much like a favorite but loud and tacky relative.”
Lydia had clucked her tongue at the backhanded compliment. “The honest, hardworking boardwalk business owners strive to provide a fun, safe environment, tasty food, and affordable shopping opportunities for vacationing families. There’s no shame in that.”
Caitlin sensed her aunt had also been defending the cottages from those who’d looked down their noses at the ornamental but now defunct windmill and the tiny abodes surrounding it.
But such people were in the minority; many tourists considered the cottages and windmill to be so quaint that they’d visit the isolated side street—aptly named “Windswept Way”—for the sole purpose of taking their photos in front of the locally iconic landmark.
And most guests appreciated staying in the cozy, well-maintained and reasonably priced cottages so much they returned year after year.
Recalling how her aunt and uncle had poured their time, money, and energy into their summertime business, Caitlin thought, They were so hardworking and humble, and they never complained when they couldn’t go fishing or beachcombing or take a swim because they were too busy meeting the guests’ needs and maintaining the cottages and the grounds.
That kind of physical labor couldn’t have been easy, especially because Aunt Lydia had severe arthritis in her knee—and Uncle Albert was probably becoming sick with cancer, even though we didn’t know it yet.
But as industrious as her aunt and uncle were, Lydia always insisted that once her niece’s chores were finished, Caitlin had the rest of the afternoon free to read or go to the beach or the boardwalk or for a hike with her summer friends.
“You’ll have the rest of your life to work,” she’d say. “This is the time for you to enjoy your youth.”
“But what about you and Uncle Albert? You should take a break, too.”
“Don’t worry about us. Your uncle will sneak a snooze in the hammock if he really needs one. And you know me—at the end of the day, I’ll take time to stop and watch the sunset.”
“Stop and watch the sunset” was Lydia’s equivalent of “stop and smell the roses,” which she also said—although because she was on Dune Island, she changed the saying to, “stop and smell the wild roses.” A firm believer in appreciating life’s simple pleasures, especially the beauty of the natural world, Lydia made it a habit to go view the sunset whenever the weather allowed.
Caitlin usually went with her, while Albert stayed behind, preferring to unwind by watching baseball on TV.
The pair would cut across the back lawn, through the strip of pitch pines and scrub oaks, and past the fat juniper tree to the long, steep staircase leading down the dune.
Because of Lydia’s bad knee, they usually didn’t descend it to the beach below.
Instead, they sat side by side on the upper landing, a tight squeeze, with their bare, warm legs pressed against each other’s.
No two sunsets were alike, and none of them ever disappointed.
From blazing orange to silky pinks to vivid purples, the colors that imbued the bay and sky were breathtaking.
Salty breezes and sea-spray roses perfumed the air, and when the tide was in, the water faintly rippled against the shore.
“This is nothing short of glorious,” Lydia had uttered on more than one occasion.
Caitlin loved the scenery, too, but what had made those evenings even more special were the one-on-one discussions she had with her aunt.
Rather, Caitlin mostly talked, and Lydia mostly listened.
Unlike the teenager’s parents, who worked long hours and rarely engaged in conversation with her, Caitlin’s aunt always demonstrated an interest in whatever she was saying.
It didn’t matter whether Caitlin was confiding how she felt about a boy, describing a view she’d seen, or simply sharing a silly anecdote about a guest; Lydia genuinely seemed to care about her thoughts and feelings, and the details of her life.
Often, the pair would linger on the stairs and chat until stars speckled the sky and Lydia’s joints were so stiff from sitting in the same position that Caitlin would have to help her to her feet.
“Watching the sunset is worth the effort of trekking out to the dune, but the return trip is getting harder,” she said one evening as she limped through the woods toward the cottage, leaning on Caitlin’s shoulder for support.
“I appreciate how fortunate we are to own property on Dune Island, and I try not to be greedy, but I admit, sometimes I envy those people who have a water view from their houses.”
“Maybe Uncle Albert could cut down some of these trees, so you’d be able to see the bay from the porch.”
“We can’t—our property only extends from the cottages to the edge of the woods. The town owns the rest of the land. Besides, I wouldn’t want to destroy the fragile dune environment, just for my convenience and pleasure.”
“Well, since you and Uncle Albert are going to renovate the cottage before you retire here anyway, you should add a second story to it,” suggested Caitlin. “Then you could watch the sun set from the upstairs window.”
“Unfortunately, there are zoning regulations on this street that prohibit anyone from adding height to the existing buildings,” Lydia started to explain, but then she abruptly stopped walking, and she pulled Caitlin to a halt, too.
“But there’s nothing to prohibit us from modifying the upper level of the windmill ! ”
That’s how the idea of converting the loft into a sitting room was born. From then on, whenever Lydia discussed her vision for making the cottage a cozier, more inviting retirement residence, installing a big picture window in the windmill loft was at the top of her wish list.
“I’ll be able to sit up there and knit or do my word puzzles and look out on the water to watch your uncle Albert fishing from his little skiff.
We’ll haul a love seat up there and a small coffee table, too, so when you visit us at Thanksgiving, we’ll have a place to set our cookies and hot chocolate,” she told her niece.
“And we’ll be able to see the sun setting without even leaving home… What could be more luxurious?”
Recalling Lydia’s daydream now, Caitlin suddenly felt sad that it had never come to pass while her aunt and uncle were alive.
I really should have a better attitude about making it happen now , she scolded herself. I should look at it as a privilege to honor Aunt Lydia’s wishes, instead of focusing on how upsetting it is to return to the island.
Yet the closer she came to Lucinda’s Hamlet, the more anxious she felt.
And when she pulled into the driveway and caught her first glimpse of the familiar cottages and windmill, Caitlin was so overwhelmed by memories about the incident with Nicole that it took all her willpower not to shift into reverse and drive straight back to the ferry dock.