Chapter 11
ELEVEN
By mid-November, when Caitlin still hadn’t heard anything from the agency director, Tobias, about an interview date, she decided to reach out and ask if the hospital had signed a contract yet.
She also hoped to impress him with the prospective donor research she’d done.
But when she called his work cell phone, his assistant, Max, picked up and told her Tobias was out of town.
“His mother’s been very ill. She just got out of the intensive care unit, so he won’t be back for at least a couple weeks.”
“Oh, no, I’m very sorry to hear about his mother,” Caitlin sympathized. “That must be so distressing.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Max sounded rushed. “Is there something I can help you with while he’s gone?”
Because Tobias wasn’t supposed to tell her about the campaign before the potential client signed the contract, Caitlin couldn’t let on that she already knew about the possibility. So she said, “That’s all right. It’s nothing urgent. I’ll try again when he’s back.”
After hanging up, Caitlin paced from the kitchen to the living room, wondering if the hospital was still deliberating about whether to sign on as a client yet, or if they’d chosen a different agency.
Or could it be that they’d already signed, but Tobias had neglected to contact Caitlin about an interview?
Although she recognized there was little she could do except wait and try to reach Tobias in another week or two, Caitlin felt so apprehensive that she repeatedly paced from her tiny kitchen to her living room until she’d literally worked up a sweat.
I wish I could tell Shane about this , she thought.
But since it wouldn’t be appropriate to interrupt his work to complain about her personal situation, she decided to walk to town instead.
I’m bored with my usual route—this time, I’m hiking down the beach.
When I get to the boardwalk, I’ll circle back to the cottage on the side streets.
The weather was so unseasonably warm—it must have been at least 65 degrees—and the tide was in, so as soon as she reached the sand, Caitlin took off her shoes and socks and rolled up her pant legs so she could tread along the water’s edge.
Turning her back on the inlet, she headed north and didn’t break her stride until she reached the boardwalk.
Then she paused to take in the slightly weatherbeaten yet colorful facades of the eateries, shops, and recreation venues lining the waterfront.
She immediately recognized her youthful favorites: Lucy’s Tees, Bleecker’s Ice Cream Parlor, The Donut Shanty, Sandy’s Souvenirs, and, of course, Pirate’s ARR-Cade.
Recalling that Albert used to treat her and Lydia to ice cream cones at Bleecker’s on the last day of each month, Caitlin was overcome with nostalgia—and with hunger. A double scoop of caramel sea salt and chocoloate-cranberry would really hit the spot right now , she thought, her mouth watering.
But Bleecker’s Ice Cream Parlor was boarded up until next summer, and so were most of the other establishments, except for a few cafes and coffee houses that she guessed remained open on weekends through the shoulder season.
Although a handful of people were strolling the beach, and an elderly couple was resting on a nearby bench, the waterfront was virtually deserted.
There aren’t even very many seagulls here today , thought Caitlin, stamping the sand from her feet on the wooden promenade.
Just then, she remembered she’d left her socks and shoes beside the staircase by the cottages.
Because it would hurt to walk barefoot on the streets, she went back the same way she came.
Her anxiety had significantly diminished, and she sauntered along at a leisurely pace, scouring the sand for beach glass.
By the time she neared the stairs to The Windmill Cottages, she was fatigued, as well as hot.
Who can believe it’s November? she thought, sloshing shin-deep into the water.
She stopped and stood still as the tiny swells nudged her legs, such a familiar, refreshing sensation.
When she was a teenager, the first thing she’d do after finishing her morning chores was to hustle down to the beach and wade into the bay to feel the little waves lick her skin with salty kisses.
Since leaving Dune Island, Caitlin had waded and swum in freshwater lakes, rivers, hot springs, and waterfalls. But this was the first time in twenty years that she’d so much as dipped her toes in the ocean, and suddenly, her desire to immerse herself was irresistible.
She jogged up the incline to the dry sand, wiggled out of her jeans, and peeled off her hoodie.
Then, wearing nothing but her T-shirt and underclothes, she ran into the water.
When she was thigh-deep, Caitlin flung herself forward in a movement that was a cross between a dive and a belly-flop, with her abdomen absorbing most of the impact.
The water felt bitingly cold as it sprayed her hair and shoulders, but she forced herself to duck her face and head entirely beneath the surface. A few seconds later, she came up gasping, but after taking a deep gulp of air, she plunged in again and paddled toward the horizon.
By the time she ran out of breath, her body had already acclimated to the temperature, and she felt warmer submerged in the bay than when she surfaced and the air hit her body.
She paddled until she couldn’t touch the seabed with her toes, and then she treaded water, slowly rotating her body to view the placid blue expanse, the boardwalk in the distance, the closer, golden dunes, and finally, without thinking about it, the marsh.
Coming full circle, she treaded water for a few more minutes, and then she slowly rotated in the other direction, taking it all in until her teeth chattered and her fingers were prune-y.
One more time , she thought, and twisted in a final slow-motion pirouette before returning to shore.
Shivering, she pulled on her jeans and grabbed her shoes, socks, and hoodie, and took the stairs by twos. Caitlin reached the cottage just as Shane was exiting the windmill.
“November 14, good for you,” he said and it took a moment for her to realize he meant because she’d gone swimming so late in the year. Had he seen her from the window in the loft, or had he made a logical assumption because she was wet?
“Thank you.” She took an exaggerated bow, her dripping hair sliding across her shoulders.
“Yeah, way to go, but you haven’t beat my personal best,” he chided.
“Oh, really? What’s the latest date you’ve gone swimming?”
“November 24 in the oceanside, December 8 in the bay.”
She shrugged and acted unimpressed. “It’s early. There’s still time for me to break your record.”
Shane gave her a hearty laugh. “I look forward to congratulating you on that.”
She smiled, but as she scampered inside, she already felt triumphant for a different reason: for the first time since she’d arrived, she hadn’t thought about Nicole’s death the entire time she’d been at the beach.
Caitlin was freezing. How is it possible that just the other day I went swimming, and today I wish I’d worn my balaclava? she silently grumbled, ducking her head against the raw wind.
She wouldn’t have ventured outside the cottage at all this morning, since she didn’t like going into town on Saturdays, but she’d accidentally left her phone charger at the library in Benjamin’s Manor yesterday. She figured she’d pick it up and then stop for groceries in Lucy’s Ham on her way back.
But she got so cold walking the short distance from the bus stop to the library that after she collected the charger from the volunteer at the reception desk, Caitlin decided to sit near the gas fireplace to warm herself.
She’d barely had time to settle into an oversized leather chair when a blaring sound and flashing lights filled the room.
A recorded voice came on the loudspeaker: “Everyone must evacuate the building immediately. Please leave your belongings where they are and calmly proceed to the nearest exit,” it said, and then repeated the warning.
Caitlin pulled on her coat, shoved her phone charger into her pocket, and then she followed the other patrons outside. Forget this, I’m going to a café for a maple pecan latte or a hazelnut hot chocolate.
She started down Main Street when she realized in her haste to evacuate the library, she’d left her purse behind. So she rejoined the other patrons who were hugging their chests and stamping their feet, trying to keep warm as they waited on the front sidewalk for the all-clear signal.
“This is the second time the alarm has gone off this week,” one of them complained loudly. “I betcha anything a staff member burned something in the toaster oven again. The library really needs to invest in a higher-quality smoke detector.”
“Or they should take the toaster oven out of the breakroom,” someone else chimed in. “And replace it with a microwave.”
“What good would that do? They’d just be burning popcorn instead of toast, which would still set off the alarms,” a third person said, and a spirited discussion ensued about the pros and cons of updating the breakroom’s appliances and smoke detectors.
Even though their comments seemed tongue-in-cheek, Caitlin noticed how freely the islanders expressed their opinions before they had all the facts about what had happened.
If they’re this passionate about a smoke detector going off, I can only imagine the rumors that circled the island when Lily’s family member set the conservation land on fire , she thought.
Hearing the locals talk made Caitlin even more eager to collect her purse and continue on her way.