Chapter 9
I drive up the peninsula along Gulf Boulevard, a long, two-lane road that stretches from the southern tip of St. Pete Beach all the way up to Clearwater Beach.
Pebble Cottage is in Reina Beach, a few miles north of where Gramps lives.
I keep the radio off and open the windows to the balmy evening air.
When I reach Reina Beach, I turn right, away from the beach, and slowly wind my way through residential streets. Like the houses, the streets here are small and quiet, lined with lush green trees draped with Spanish moss.
I turn into a cul-de-sac and find Pebble Cottage.
Carefully, I pull into the carport on the right side of the house.
The front yard is small and tidy, nothing more than a patch of overgrown grass and a single tree.
I climb the two front steps—no front porch here, just the giant sunporch in the back—and hesitate before I let myself in.
First, I stop in the kitchen. The force of nostalgia almost takes my breath away.
I spent so much time here: countless Thanksgivings, standing on a step stool to help stir mashed potatoes and gravy; lazy summer mornings asking Lottie for a glass of lemonade; late nights with my sister and cousins, pilfering chocolate cake from the fridge.
It looks exactly the same. Same yellow laminate counters and brown wooden cabinets.
Same pale-green curtains framing the window over the sink.
Same retro booth that served as the breakfast table.
It’s alarmingly old-fashioned, but at the same time I’m glad it hasn’t been remodeled.
My family had a lot of happy times in this kitchen.
I wander down the hallway and peek into the two smaller bedrooms. They all have the same closets with brown sliding doors and beige carpeting that was probably white once upon a time.
The larger bedroom, the one that used to be Gramps and Lottie’s, has a walk-in closet and a small bathroom with a stall shower.
The bedroom also has a full wall of windows facing the backyard, and a door that Lottie used to say led to her secret garden.
I open the door and the warm, humid air hugs me immediately.
This door opens onto the left side of the backyard; the pool and the screened-in porch are to my right.
Although it’s overgrown and has an abandoned feeling to it now, I can still see the remnants of Lottie’s secret garden.
There’s a winding path made of cobblestones and pebbles, lined with flower bushes, leading to a stone bench.
Among the weeds are garden lanterns. I used to think they were magic, the way they turned on as soon as it got dark outside.
The light outside is magical right now. The sky overhead spans from pale pink in the west to dark blue in the east, streaked with long, pale clouds.
I step carefully over the pebbles toward the pool.
My chest feels heavy and achy, and I stare at the gently rippling water, trying to figure out what I’m feeling.
Sadness that Lottie is gone. Longing for the times of happy togetherness we spent here.
Overwhelm and gratitude that this place is mine now.
After locking up the house, I stop at the tree in the front yard. It’s a little taller than me, and it has tightly furled buds among its green leaves. It’s beautiful, and it doesn’t have any other trees to keep it company, and it’s mine now, so I feel some responsibility toward it.
After a long moment, I realize I’m standing and staring at a tree. Trees don’t get lonely, Mallory. Trees are trees.
Quickly, I get back in the car and drive a slow loop around Reina Beach, checking out the neighborhood.
There’s an ice cream parlor and a coffee shop, a local grocery store, a Mexican restaurant, a seafood restaurant, some tourist-trap shops.
The shops are mostly closed now, but the restaurants seem fairly busy.
Of course, it is Saturday night. There’s a tiki bar on the beach, with flaming torches and outdoor tables crowded with people laughing loudly.
Another is a cheerful yellow building with a blue awning next to a boardwalk.
It has a mermaid on the sign. Impulsively, despite my abhorrence of going to restaurants by myself, I decide to stop for a drink.
As soon as I walk in, I feel like I made the right choice.
The walls are painted teal, and I swear I can smell the fresh paint, which tells me it must be a new establishment.
The walls are adorned with a ridiculously large collection of mermaid-themed art, with vintage-looking mirrors scattered here and there.
I hesitate, scanning the tables for a seat.
The place is a little less than half full, but it feels awkward to take a whole table to myself.
The mostly empty bar, which looks like a huge slab of shiny driftwood, seems more my speed.
I slide onto a barstool, smile at the bartender, and scan the chalkboard list of drink specials above the bar.
“What can I get you?” The bartender is a woman around my age, with glowing skin and a tiny Afro pulled back with a purple headband.
“I’ll have the Andrina, please.” I name one of the signature cocktails, something with gin, cava, and lavender.
“Good choice!” She mixes my drink and then says, as if she can’t help herself, “Did you notice?”
I laugh nervously. “Notice what?”
“The menu.” She lifts her eyebrows and grins. “The drinks.”
“Uh…” I read the menu again. Arista, Attina, Adella… Something stirs deep, deep in my memory. Something set to a tune I heard a million times as a kid. “The mermaids!” I shout a little in my excitement. “Ariel’s sisters!”
“Yes!” Her shout is even louder than mine. “She got it! Hey,” she calls to the server, a twenty-something guy with blond hair, “she got that it was the daughters of Triton!”
“Congratulations, man,” the server calls, possibly sarcastically.
“You’re the first,” the bartender says, sliding me my drink. It’s in a coupe glass, and it has a little purple flower floating in it. “No one gets it.”
“Well, I think it’s genius.” I take a sip of my drink. “And this is amazing. Seriously.”
“Thanks. That’s one of my favorites.” She reaches down under the bar and then passes me a small bowl of potato chips. “We just opened last month.”
“Is this your place?” I crunch gratefully into a chip. Free potato chips, nice touch.
“Yep!” Her face glows with pride. “I’m Amanda. Are you local?”
“Mal. And no, just visiting.”
“Bummer. Hey, write us a good review on Yelp!”
I start to promise that I will when we’re interrupted by a raucous laugh. A group of men has walked in the door, all talking over one another about some sports game.
They settle near the other end of the bar, and Amanda meets them there.
“You really should’ve been watching the game. Three runs in the fifth? I mean,” one of the guys tells her, and then mimes his head exploding.
“You know my policy. No TVs. Although I’m sure I missed out on a fascinating game of—what sport are we talking about?” Amanda laughs as they all groan.
She takes their drink orders, and they carry on their conversation. I’m actually impressed by how long they can talk about this baseball game. After commenting on the score and a couple of notable moments, I’d be tapped out.
I listen in, enjoying my chips in solitude.
I’ll admit, part of me kind of wishes they would, I don’t know, acknowledge my existence.
But I think that’s just a fantasy of what small-town life might be like.
In reality, I’m the same Mal here as I am back home.
It’s all too easy for me to fade into the wallpaper.
Their conversation finally veers away from baseball as they sip their beers. My ears perk up when one of them mentions that his girlfriend is mad at him.
“Is this still about the gift card?” one of the others asks.
I don’t hear an answer, so I glance up surreptitiously. The guy with the angry girlfriend is nodding. He runs a hand over his fade haircut, his face morose.
“Why did you think an Amazon gift card was a good birthday gift, man?”
I snort with laughter and then cover my mouth with one hand.
None of them seems to notice, except one.
He’s directly across from me and glances up sharply.
His mouth quirks in a questioning way. I look down, but not before noticing his freckly arms, square jaw, and slightly overgrown red hair.
I almost slip off my barstool at the sudden unexpected hotness.
“I just didn’t know what to get her. For Christmas, I got her this cute outfit, and she’s never worn it once. I think she hated it. I just wanted to get it right this time. I’m surprised she hasn’t broken up with me. Shit is hard, man.”
I press my knuckles against my lips to stifle another laugh.
“Any tips?” I hear a different voice ask. “Miss?”
I look around, swiveling on my barstool.
“Yes, you.” The redhead is looking at me again. My mouth pops open in a startled O as the group of men all stare at me. Turns out I’m much more comfortable fading into the wallpaper.
“What would you recommend this young man buy for his lady next time?” the redhead persists.
“Um. Let me think.” I give a nervous laugh, and then count off on my fingers, “Expensive perfume. A necklace with her initial. A huge candle. Even a home-cooked dinner with a bouquet of roses would be nice.”
The redhead nods at his friend, gesturing at me like, See?
“I hope you’re writing this down,” another guy jokes.
Angry Girlfriend Guy raises his drink to me in a mock toast, and they go back to talking about sports.
I glance up and see with a start that the redhead is still looking at me. This time he smirks and shakes his head ever so slightly.
What? I mouth.
Naughty , he mouths back.
Me? I point at my chest.
He slips away from his friends and perches easily on the stool next to mine.
“Did your mama not teach you that it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”