Chapter Three
EMERY
BY THE TIME I cross over the two-lane causeway into Tidehaven, I’m panicking that I’ve made a terrible mistake.
There is rural, and then there is rural.
I’m afraid Tidehaven is the latter. I’m surrounded by marsh on either side of me and signs that warn of tidal flooding on the roadway.
I pass crumbling docks and large live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss.
It’s beautiful, no doubt, but there isn’t a Target—or hell, even a Walmart—for miles around.
But I’m here now, and I promised myself I’d give this a real shot.
I’ve had lots of time to reflect the past couple of weeks.
The semester ended with me working late every day, grading labs and final papers.
Jason tried to make up with me at first, but we’d only end up talking in circles, finding ourselves at yet another impasse.
Eventually, we stopped trying. Yesterday’s goodbye wasn’t dramatic, but it was final.
I’m nauseous. For a second, the thought that I’ve made a catastrophic mistake presses hard against my ribs. Then I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep driving. I didn’t come all this way to turn around now.
I swallow hard and press on.
Driving down the narrow main street, I’m relieved to see some semblance of life.
I roll down my windows and huff in a breath of salty air.
It instantly lifts my spirits. Mama T’s General Store greets me as soon as I cross through the first streetlight.
There’s a physician’s office, a dentist, a diner with a weather-beaten red and yellow sign reading The Salty Spoon.
I pass a darkened bar called The Rusty Anchor that looks like it has seen better days, but when I turn the corner, there’s a nice deck with outdoor seating.
People are enjoying meals under umbrella-covered tables, and sounds of southern rock fill my car through the open windows.
I roll my shoulders back and ease up on the gas. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Finally, I come up on the Tidehaven Research Center and, just about a block over, The Driftwood Marina.
Both fill me with optimism as the sun beats down on the still water surrounding them.
There are boats of all sizes at the marina, fisherman gathered on the docks and around a small bar with a sign reading The Drift Net, where I’m supposed to meet my contact in a couple of hours.
I drive slowly, taking it all in and catching the attention of a few of the men sitting at the bar.
Not a woman in sight. I offer a small smile through the window of my Toyota Prius and keep it moving, deciding it might be best if I drive right to the cottage I’m staying at.
I glance at my GPS. I’m a half mile from Blackbird Cottage, which is owned by Coastal Carolina University for the purpose of housing the director of the Tidehaven Research Center.
Aside from a few photos of the outside, I know nothing about the residence. There’s no telling what shape it’s in.
By the time I pull up the crushed sea-shell driveway to the small white cottage, I’ve convinced myself that everything will be okay. I’ll be here for six months. It’s quiet and peaceful, and I’ll be free to do whatever research I want without the burden of teaching a full course load.
I put my car in park and step out, taking in the tiny house. The siding is white and weather-beaten, but there’s a screened porch, perfect for sitting after a long day. I move to my trunk, pull out my two large suitcases, and drag them up the crunchy path.
I swing open the door to the screened porch and immediately see the only piece of furniture is a broken rocking chair. So much for that.
“I wonder if comes out here,” I murmur to myself, propping my suitcases and digging through my purse for the lock box code.
It takes me a couple of tries to get the combo right but finally the box opens, revealing a gold key on a seashell chain.
I push the door open with my hip, its hinges letting out a long, reluctant creak.
The smell of musty cedar hits me, the air damp in that coastal lived-in way.
Warped wood paneling lines the walls, giving the cottage a log cabin feel to it.
An air conditioner sits in the window to my right.
I walk over, the floor creaking with every step, and switch it on.
It lets out a loud hum of white noise in an otherwise eerily silent house.
To my left is an old couch with sagging cushions and a quilt draped over the back of it, the kind someone’s grandmother probably made decades ago.
There’s a mismatched chair and an end table covered with field guides and tide charts.
Those will be helpful. An old brick fireplace centered on the side wall has a small TV hanging above it. That’s a relief.
Above the archway into the kitchen is a sign that reads: Blackbird Cottage: Good Luck for Lost Souls.
I lift my eyebrows. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a lost soul these days.
Maybe being here will bring me luck. I walk through the opening, relieved to see a Nespresso machine and a basket of pods.
“So, the last person living here was at least in the twenty-first century,” I mutter to myself.
I open the old refrigerator, and a burst of cold air hits me.
It’s empty, of course. My stomach growls angrily, and I realize I’ll need to hit up that general store soon.
In the far corner sits a stackable washer and dryer that looks older than me.
Open shelves hold mismatched mugs, plates, and bowls.
The faucet drips once, and I move to the sink to turn it off.
The window above the sink looks out to the marsh and my own private dock, a small skiff boat tied to it.
A rush of excitement fills me at the thought of exploring out there. Getting my hands dirty again.
I walk down the small hallway and there are only two doors, one to a bathroom with a rust stained clawfoot tub and a small sink.
Moving to the tiny bedroom, I’m relieved to see a queen-sized bed on a wrought iron frame, but also thankful I brought my own linens.
I walk over to the second window unit air conditioner and flick it on, turning to take in the rest of the room.
There’s a small end table with a bedside lamp and a single dresser. I pull open the top drawer. It sticks.
I run my fingers through my blond waves, already damp with sweat from the South Carolina humidity. This will take some getting used to but so does every other kind of change. And I’m here now. I’m going to make the best of it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen. Jason. He’s texted me at least ten times since I left yesterday.
Jason: Please let me know that you made it okay. I’m sorry.
Sorry. A familiar word and yet somehow still not enough. I type back, pausing briefly to wonder if what I’m writing is too harsh. I type, then think better of it, tapping delete until the words disappear.
Finally, I settle on a message that is firm but not unkind.
Me: I’m here. I’m safe. This doesn’t change anything. We’re over, and I need you to respect that.
The three dots appear, then vanish.
I set my phone face down, relief washing through me as I settle into the quiet.
“Welcome home, Em,” I say to myself, looking around. “Welcome home.”
I HAVE AN hour before I’m supposed to meet my contact, so I decide to take a walk up the road to the Tidehaven Research Center I’d passed on my way in and check things out.
It’ll be good for me to get the lay of the land.
I tuck my phone in the pocket of my jean shorts, grab my cross-body purse and the keys to the cottage, and I’m off.
It’s a short walk out of the woodsy marsh to the main road.
I’m surprised how fast I get there, but I’m already sweating.
I veer off the sidewalk and cross a gravel drive to the research center which sits on pilings and is surrounded by docks.
There’s a sign that reads Coastal Carolina’s Tidehaven Research Center and below it a weather-worn banner: Protect Our Shore.
Protect Our Future. Something pulls at my chest as I take in the white building.
It looks more like an old crab shack pieced together with decades of repairs and add-ons than a university building.
I peer into a screened porch cluttered with boots and life vests and a couple of folding chairs.
A handwritten note that’s seen better days hangs on the inside door.
Tidehaven CRC – Field First, Office Later.
A steel navy-blue door leads inside from the dock, and I try the handle. Why not? I’m the director after all. Surprisingly, it opens and I hesitate before walking inside.
I’m not sure why I thought it would be shiny and grant-funded with a university logo and a large welcome desk.
No, it’s not that. It smells of coastal breeze and wet neoprene.
Open windows let the salty breeze blow through.
The walls are lined with cork boards covered in tide charts, annotated maps, and photos of smiling researchers holding up fish.
Lab desks with steel tops sit shiny and waiting, and I wonder the last time someone sat at one.
Counters along the opposite wall hold empty glass tanks.
I set my bag down and look around. I’m told no one has been here in some time, but one thing is for sure. This place doesn’t care about credentials or publications. It’s not here to impress anyone. And neither am I.
A throat clears behind me. “May I help you?”
The voice is deep and jagged. I whirl around and find myself face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man, who looks like he belongs to the coast. His dark crew cut and trimmed beard frame sharp green eyes that study me carefully.
I forget how to breathe for a moment before I find my voice.
“Y-yes. Hi. I’m Emery.” I swallow before remembering who I am.
“Dr. Emery Caldwell. I’m the new director. ”