Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
CHLOE
I never want to leave this spot. Seriously, if I could build a house right here on the sloping beach, I would. Is there any better feeling than gritty sand between your toes and the sun on your face?
If there is, I certainly haven’t experienced it.
When my surfboard grows heavy under my weary arm, I turn and jog over to where Willow stretches her long, shapely arms toward the rising sun.
It may only be April, but that girl has way too many freckles to be out here in a sports bra without a healthy layer of SPF protecting her porcelain skin.
I set my board beside her turquoise yoga mat, currently the same shade as her hair.
Time to fish out that bottle of sea-friendly sunscreen from the bottom of my backpack.
When I toss the bottle at her bare feet, she smiles and drops out of her warrior pose to apply the lotion to every inch of skin peeking from beneath her chartreuse yoga set.
I drag down the zipper on my wetsuit and drop onto the sand between her mat and Lola’s black-and-white polka-dotted sheet, the corners held in place by a black leather purse and a pair of wedge heels.
Lola hasn’t moved since we arrived forty-five minutes ago, her curtain of dark hair still spread around her the way it was when I started my surf session. She’s either asleep or dead—hard to tell through the lenses of her giant black sunglasses.
I give her side a poke to make sure she’s still breathing, just in case.
Groaning, Lola swats my hand. “Does anyone know CPR?” she croaks. “I think I’m actually dying.”
Always so dramatic. One of the many things to love about her. “You’re not dying. You’re hungover.” That’s what body shots at two o’clock in the morning will do to you. Unless you’re Willow Clark. Then you could mainline an entire bottle of tequila and not have so much as a headache.
She may or may not be a witch. The jury is still out.
A grimacing Lola clutches her stomach. “I think that burger last night was tainted.”
“Excuse me. I made that burger.” And it was glorious. As a matter of fact, if I had leftovers, I would’ve eaten them for breakfast. Instead, I had to make do with one of Willow’s nasty gluten-free, sugar-free “donuts.” If you could even call them that.
“I have ginger and ginseng in my bag if you want some,” Willow offers, tossing my lotion at my backpack.
Lola moans again. “No offense, but I’d rather eat a fistful of sand than take your hippie shit.”
I don’t know. Sometimes Willow’s “hippie shit” actually works. Another point in the witch column.
With a shake of her head, Willow drops back into a downward dog pose, her loose waves of hair dusting the sand.
I wiggle my toes a little deeper as I watch the waves toy with the shore.
I’d love nothing more than to sit in this spot listening to the ocean and watching the sunlight dance on the water until lunch, but that’s not in the cards today.
The ferry is bringing over a shipment of chai tea from this new supplier I found, and we’re getting some fresh merch for when tourist season kicks off.
Tourists love our T-shirts almost as much as they love our coffee. One of the best sellers is the one that says: Coffee first. Beach second. A motto I live by.
I glance over at Willow. “You coming in later?”
Her blue bangs fall into her eyes when she bobs her head. “Probably around eight, if that’s okay. I want to drop by my place and give Sebastian a kiss. Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”
“No problem at all.” The café isn’t super busy on Mondays. At least not until the season starts.
We have about four weeks to prepare for the Memorial Day rush. I’ve hired three high school kids to help with the influx, but they still need to be trained, and with Marci out on maternity leave, I’m down a barista. Which means I’ll be working overtime until the newbies are up to snuff.
Lucky for me, I have the best job in the world.
Lola kicks my foot, sending sand all over the bottom of her sheet. “So I totally forgot to tell you what David said last night.”
Working at the Sand Dollar—Inner Shores’ most popular bar—means Lola always gets the best late-night gossip. Usually about which local singles—or not-so-singles—are hooking up.
“Oliver finally sold the old Simpson place,” she goes on, giving my foot another nudge.
Willow and I let out a collective sigh at the mention of Oliver Miller—the most handsome guy in our graduating class, and the only man in town worth chasing after. Unfortunately, he’s been in love with his wife, Marci—the same Marci on maternity leave—since we were all in kindergarten.
So, the Simpson house finally sold. “That’s great. Did she say who bought it?” I ask.
Lola pushes her glasses onto her forehead and squints at the sky. “Some retired couple from up north, I think.”
That doesn’t surprise me. Over half the homes on the island are owned by transplants from up north.
Until Ezra Simpson passed last year, only locals lived on my street.
I would’ve jumped at the chance to buy the place, but it needs too much work and was way out of my budget.
Which is fine; I’m perfectly happy in my cottage.
It’s clean and cozy and there’s more than enough room for me and the ladies when it’s my turn to host girls’ night.
What more could I want?
Willow bends at the waist and grips her right ankle while her left leg lifts toward the puffy white clouds. “I can’t wait to meet them,” she says in her breathy voice.
Willow can’t wait to meet everyone.
“Not me.” Lola wrenches the cap off her water bottle and slugs a few gulps. “There are way too many tourists as it is.”
“If they’re retired, they might stay for more than the season,” I point out, unzipping my wetsuit a little more so I can adjust the strap on my bikini top. Wouldn’t want to accidentally flash a nipple. Not that anyone here would care.
If my new neighbors stay, that means I could be gaining some lifelong customers.
Maybe I should bring them a housewarming gift when they arrive. Some of Mrs. Norton’s blueberry muffins and a couple of travel mugs.
Advertising and a snack.
“Well, girls. It’s been fun, but I’m going back to bed.” Lola throws an arm around my shoulders and lets her head drop against mine for a split second before pushing to her feet.
“Wait!” Willow rises into tree poses. “You need to make a wish.”
Lola drops her face with a groan. “We’re not kids anymore, Wills.”
“But it’s tradition,” she pouts.
For as long as I can remember, the three of us have been making wishes to the ferry gods. It started when Willow’s mother got sick. We all came down to the beach, found the prettiest shells, and tossed them back into the sea while making the same wish.
Three days later, Willow’s mom made a miraculous recovery.
We’ve been doing it every year since.
Sometimes our wishes come true, like the year I bought the café.
Other years, they go unanswered.
Doesn’t stop us from making them.
Willow, Lola, and I grab the shells we each brought and carry them down to the edge of the sea. Willow holds hers against her chest, then launches it out into the waves. I close my eyes, make a wish, and then chuck mine as far as I can. Lola grumbles the whole time, but she throws hers in as well.
Maybe this is the year the ferry gods finally deliver what I really want.
We all make our way up to where our stuff is piled in the sand.
Lola gathers her sheet, shoes, and purse, smacks Willow on the ass, and stomps through the sand to her vintage black Mustang.
She’ll sleep the day away and roll out of bed in time for her next shift at the Sand Dollar. I don’t know how she stays up all night bartending. My body rises and falls with the sun. Always has. Even when I was little, I was the first kid to get to school and the first to fall asleep at sleepovers.
I fill my lungs with one more deep breath of salty air before collecting my surfboard. “You need a ride home?” I ask Willow.
“Nah.” Dropping to her knees, she picks up something from the sand. Another shell. She turns it over in her fingers, examining it more closely. “I’ll meet you at Mugs in a few hours.”
With happiness in my heart and sand between my toes, I tuck my surfboard beneath my arm and head across the soft sand toward my Volkswagen Cabriolet.
The black and yellow bumper sticker on the back never fails to make me feel better.
It’s a good day.
Whoever made it was right.
Today is a very good day.
There’s just enough time to swing by my place to rinse the salt and sand from my skin, twist my sun-bleached hair into a braid, and change into my T-shirt and favorite jean shorts before work.
What I didn’t allow for is finding my front passenger tire flat as a freaking pancake. Looks like sand wasn’t the only thing I brought back with me from the beach. Screw you, nail in my tire.
Do I have a spare? Nope. I lent it to Pam last month and haven’t gotten the thing back.
Looks like I’m riding my bike to work.
Not a big deal. I love my bike, and the sun is shining.
Will I be a little late? Sure. But hey, it could be worse. I could have to call Lola for a ride.
She would not be impressed.
Don’t get me wrong—she would absolutely come get me, but then she’d make me go out with her for revenge.
Alcohol and I get along only in moderation. Lola doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
Thank goodness for bikes.
I pedal to the end of my street and take a left onto the main drag.
A few years ago, the town invested in a bike lane, which changed my world.
Before that, I was always nervous riding alongside cars, especially in the summer.
But now I can enjoy the cicadas singing and the long grasses swaying in relative peace.
Just about all the houses on our little island paradise are built on stilts. Some folks might think that’s weird, but for us, it’s a necessity—storms can blow in fast, and the water doesn’t always stay where it’s supposed to be. Even my coffee shop sits four steps off the ground.