Chapter 3
three
SKYLER
Everything in the apartment at the back of the bar is neat and tidy. I suspect that somebody came in after my dad died – or once he went to the hospital – and cleaned it up, maybe expecting him to come home and wanting the place to be ready for him.
I feel like I’m intruding as I pull open the closet and see his clothes hanging in there. I grab a sweater – old and chunky with some holes in it from overwashing – and sniff the sleeve.
It smells clean, yet there’s also a hint of the salty air. Like he pulled this on and walked along the ocean. My chest tightens, because I’ll never see that.
I’ll never get to see him again.
I know so little about him, really. My mom never talked about him when I was growing up. He’d flit in and out of my life like some kind of distant relative, arriving unexpectedly, leaving quickly, and never letting me get to know the man who supplied half of my genes.
I manage to find some fresh bedding and change the sheets, then I unpack my suitcase and hang my clothes in his closet, where there’s plenty of space because he was apparently a man of few clothes.
I still don’t know why he requested that I stay here. Did he want me to have somewhere to finally lay down some foundations? Maybe he knew that I’m just like him, never able to settle, always moving onto the next thing.
From the earliest age I drove my mom crazy by never sticking at one thing for long. We tried ballet and t-ball and every other hobby you could give to an elementary school kid, but none of them seemed to fit me.
And then, at school, I was a daydreamer. She’d roll her eyes every time I brought home a progress report.
Skyler would be doing much better at English if she didn’t spend most of the class staring out of the window.
“You’re just like your father,” she told me after she read that one. And I knew from the way she said it, that it wasn’t a compliment.
Maybe that’s why I’m here. This was the one place he kept coming back to. The place he grew up in and the last place he lived before he died.
The rain has stopped and night has fallen, the ocean an inky black mass of liquid as it laps against the shore. The smell of damp air lingers, like the weather can’t quite bring itself to move on.
Lee calls and we talk for a while, but then I spend the rest of the evening exploring the bar, the outside porch, and searching through the drawers in the apartment to try to find the reason I’m here. The reason he wants me to stay here.
But there’s nothing. Just sad piles of clothes and old letters and photographs. I find one of him. It’s faded but you can still see him smiling at the camera. He’s leaning against an old car, wearing a pair of jeans and no shirt.
He looks to be in his mid twenties – the same age he was when he met Mom at a concert in LA. I can see why she fell for him. He has this easy grin and a handsome face.
He was her only rebellion in life. And the one thing I think she regrets, though she insists that she doesn’t regret having me. Even if I am her problem child.
And then a rush of exhaustion comes over me. Maybe it’s the day of travel or the storm. Or maybe it’s the angry man with eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day. I’ve only met three people so far, and each of them has treated me strangely. The ferry captain, Jesse, and now this man.
Hudson Fitzgerald.
Even his name sounds stuffy. I hate the way he acted like he owns this bar when it’s mine. I sit down on the freshly made bed and let out a sigh.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in my life than I do right now, sitting in this empty apartment.
Do you think I’ve made a mistake?
I type quickly and send it to Lee.
She replies just as fast, her name on my screen making me feel wistful.
No, I don’t. You’re right where you need to be. Now go to sleep.
How many times did she tell me that when I was young? Being six years older, she was like my second mom sometimes. Bossy, overbearing. And completely loving.
You go to sleep. You’re the one with the baby.
She sends back a heart. And I heart her heart.
A couple of hours later, I finally do as my sister tells me and fall into a fitful dream about an angry man with piercing blue eyes.
* * *
When I walk out of the bar area onto the deck the next day it’s as though the storm never happened. The sun is beating down, golden rays sparkling as they bounce off the waves in the ocean. I lift the cup of black coffee to my lips and take a long sip.
It tastes stale. I found an old unopened jar of coffee in the tiny apartment kitchen, and last night and this morning it’s all I’ve had in my mouth. I brought enough food to see me through until I could make it to the grocery store, but I’m not hungry.
I lean against the pole holding up the overhang of the bar, breathing in the salty ocean air. I was so happy to get up and put on some shorts and a midriff tank, because those are the only clothes I packed to do cleaning. I’d hate to soil any of my vintage ones. They have too many memories in them – mine and so many others.
Thinking of memories, as I look at the bar area from my vantage point on the deck, I can almost see Hudson Fitzgerald – the angry man from yesterday – standing there, as he berated me.
I frown, angry at the memory, because I would never treat anybody like that. I’m new, my father died, and he pretty much told me I wasn’t welcome.
When I told Lee about him she’d thought it was hilarious.
“Oh my God,” she gushed. “It’s just like those small town Hallmark movies. The two of you are going to end up doing it.”
Ha! As if. I can think of a dozen things I’d rather do than let his disdainful mouth come anywhere near me. Like pull my nails out of their beds one by one.
Angry sex is great if you want to get off, but the older I get the more I’ve learned that relationships should be about caring, mutual trust.
Love.
When I finish my coffee – which involves pouring half of the cup into a nearby planter full of dead leaves – I walk back into the bar area to decide where I’m going to start with the clean up. I need to get supplies, both for the cleaning and so I have something other than stale black coffee to keep me going.
I walk behind the bar and go to pull the nearest cupboard open, only to scream out loud when my foot hits something on the floor, sending it scurrying across the dirty tiles.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is that a rat? I swear it has a tail. My stomach turns as my heart starts to hammer against my chest like it wants to get the hell out of here.
I know the feeling.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. When I look down, the rat hasn’t moved. Not one inch. “Please don’t be dead,” I say. Because then I’ll have to feel sorry for it.
Did it die alone? Was it wishing it had somebody there holding it’s hand. Okay, it’s paw. Whatever, nobody should die alone.
Putting my big girl pants on, I prod the animal with my toe.
It still doesn’t move.
My stomach turns. Am I going to have to bury it? I don’t even know if there’s a shovel here. And I’m not throwing it in the trashcan. Even a rat deserves better than that.
Before I can make a decision a sound comes from the door. Like it’s being opened. Then a dog rushes in. Or at least I think it’s a dog. It’s huge and furry and looks more like a wolf than a friendly mutt.
Before I can say a word it rushes past me, behind the bar and lets out a low growl before it picks the rat up between it’s bared teeth.
I’m not gonna lie. I actually scream.
“Don’t eat it!” I shout. Because dead rats usually mean poisoned rats.
The dog, calmer now that it has the rat in it’s jaw, turns to look at me. If animals could look disdainful, this one would be the champion. It drops the rat and that’s when I see it’s actually a stuffed toy. A dog toy, I guess.
Belonging to this dog?
“Hey,” I say, my heart rate finally calming. “Is this yours? You could have taken it before it gave me a heart attack.”
The dog lets out a low sound. Somewhere between a bark and a purr. And yes, I should be afraid. It’s an unknown beast, it could be dangerous.
And yet to my female-logic, it’s less scary than a dead rat that turned out to be a stuffie.
The dog nudges my leg with it’s nose.
“What is it?” I ask him.
He nudges me again, like he’s trying to push me out from behind the counter. And because I’m not an idiot, I let him.
“Okay,” I say as I back up. “But I’m only doing this to be nice. We’ve just met and I’ve already made one enemy on the island. I figure we should be fri— oh shit!”
I jump at the sight of a little girl standing in front of me, like she’s just appeared out of nowhere. She’s staring up at me with wide, saucer like eyes. She’s in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and her dark hair is neatly pulled into a pony tail.
“Hello?” I say warily, looking around for her parents. “I think you came in the wrong place, sweetie.”
The dog walks between me and the girl, the toy rat forgotten, like he’s trying to guard her.
“Is he yours?” I ask her.
The little girl nods. I’m not great with kids’ ages, but she looks like she might be five or six.
“Where are your parents?” I ask her, looking hopefully at the door. Surely they must be close.
She doesn’t reply. It’s kind of unnerving how direct her stare is. She has the most beautiful blue expressive eyes.
“Are they outside?” I ask her. “Because we aren’t open yet.”
She shakes her head.
Okay then. I guess she’s been told not to speak to strangers, which is good. But it’s not going to help me figure out what the heck she’s doing here.
“Well shall we try to find them?” I ask, holding out my hand. The dog lets out a low warning growl. And the little girl pats his head like she’s calming him down.
Instead of taking my hand, she walks around me and the dog. Her faithful hound follows her as she heads behind the bar like she owns the place. It would be funny if it wasn’t so weird and I wasn’t scared that any minute her parents are going to run in and accuse me of child abduction.
“You can’t go behind there,” I say, because even if she won’t speak to me I know she can hear me. But she completely ignores my words, opening a drawer next to the refrigerator.
And she pulls out a coloring book and a box of half-stubbed crayons inside an old ice cream tub. The interior is covered with scribbles that the crayons have made as they’ve rested in the box. Her tiny lips are pressed together as she carries them back around the bar and reaches up to put them on the counter.
But she’s too short.
She tips her head and looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot then shoves them toward me.
“What?” I ask.
Her lips part and she lets out what looks like a sigh, then points at the bar counter.
“You want me to put these up there?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and nods at the same time. This kid has chutzpah. And for some reason I end up doing exactly as she asks. Once they’re safely on the counter, she pulls out a bar stool and climbs on it.
“Wait,” I say, realizing she’s planning on hanging out at the bar. “You can’t stay here.”
She lifts a brow. A weird memory flashes in my mind, like I’m trying to connect her expression to something but I don’t know what.
“Kid, you need to go.” Except I can’t throw her out. I let out a long sigh, then hold my hand out to her, planning to help her down from the stool.
The dog barks loudly.
“I’m trying to help here,” I mutter to him. “You should be thanking me, not barking at me.”
He tips his head to the side, his eyes not leaving my face.
“I’m friendly,” I tell him, holding up my hands. “See?”
Then I hold a hand out once more to the little girl. This time she takes it, and I smirk at the dog.
He doesn’t look amused.
“We’re going outside to look for a responsible adult,” I tell her. “Okay?” Because I’m anything but responsible. Nobody should put their child in my care.
She shrugs. Well okay then.
I don’t let go of her hand as we walk to the front door and I push it open, sunlight flooding into the bar. She’s wearing little sparkly sneakers, and they squeak against the wooden deck as we walk to the steps, the sound of steady dog paws behind us.
He nudges my ass with his nose, as if to remind me not to do anything funny.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I promise him.
There are no adults outside looking for a missing little girl. No sign of people at all. Apart from the guys working on the ferry which looks like it’s just about to leave for the mainland.
“Do you live around here?” I ask the little girl. “Or are you a visitor?”
She shrugs. Well that’s helpful. I look up the hill, at the building next to mine. Eileen’s By The Sea is painted on a brown wooden sign affixed to the wall. The front door is open and a woman is kneeling on the stoop, scrubbing the front step.
“Hello?” I call out to the woman. She turns to look at me. Her hair is a steel gray color, tied into a severe bun. She’s wearing what looks like a housecoat, though it’s the first time I’ve actually seen one in the flesh.
Slowly she stands up, and if I’m being honest it’s painful to watch. I swear I feel every twinge and ache reflected in her expression as she straightens her legs.
“Hello.” She offers me a smile. “You must be Wayne’s daughter.”
“I am.” I smile widely at her. “Do I look like him or something?”
“No.” She shakes her head, and I feel deflated. “You’re all the talk on the island WhatsApp. What are you doing with Ayda?”
I look down at the little girl. “Is that your name?” I ask her. “Ayda?”
She nods.
“She walked into the bar. I’m trying to clean it up,” I call out to the woman. “Do you know where her parents are?”
“Well her mom’s dead.” The woman shrugs.
My mouth drops open. This is the brutal island honesty that I was promised, but somehow it feels bad. I think about putting my hands over Ayda’s ears, but she doesn’t look perturbed at all by this woman’s words.
“And her dad is probably at work. Her aunt looks after her mostly.”
“Do you know where her aunt is?” I ask, trying to sound patient.
“No. You could try calling her.” The woman winks at Ayda.
Who winks back.
“That would be a great idea,” I say. “If I knew her name or had her number.”
“I tell you what, I’ll text her,” she says, and finally I let myself relax.
“Great. Can I leave Ayda with you while she waits to get picked up?” A rush of hope goes through me.
“Oh no, dear.” She shakes her head. “I have things to do.” She pulls a phone from the pocket of her housecoat and taps on it like an expert. “There,” she says. “I’ve told her that you have Ayda at the bar. You two might as well go back there and wait.”
“But you don’t know me,” I say. “I’m a stranger. I could mean danger.”
“You’re Wayne’s girl,” she replies. “Now why don’t you two go get to know each other?”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“She won’t talk to anybody. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
I glance at Ayda, who doesn’t look at all upset at being talked about so directly. “You want to come back to the bar?” I ask her, warily.
She nods, a smile lighting up her face.
“Well okay then.” I look at the woman. “Thanks…” I trail off.
“Eileen,” she says, pointing at the sign on the guest house. “Obviously.”
“Thanks, Eileen,” I say, then under my breath I mutter. “ Obviously .” Taking Ayda’s hand in mine once more, the three of us – Ayda, me, and the hound from hell – head back to the bar to wait for her aunt.