Chapter 3
Just a little ways down the road from the post office, a woman is running. Not for her life, but for her health. The woman
is Hope, the person, who doesn’t necessarily like to run but does so because she knows she should since she’s not old but
she’s not getting any younger either. She is also running because she is bored and she knows a run will kill some time before
she can shower, then walk the short distance from the place she has been calling home to the place where she works.
She rounds the corner and her heart sinks a little at the sight of the house. She might call it home, but it is not her home. Hope has a home, but it is halfway across the country from where she is now. She left that
home to come to Sunset Beach, to the trailer everyone in her family refers to as simply “108.”
Hope’s family has made 108 Live Oak Drive their second home since 1980, not all that long after Sunset Beach was established,
which was in 1958. (If you want to fact-check that date, just look at the T-shirts the tourists wear, and you’ll see.) But
it’s a long time nonetheless, especially when you consider that 1980 was almost fifty years ago, which, for many of us, is
hard to accept.
Hope’s grandmother used to own the trailer, and when she passed it was left to Hope’s dad. But he doesn’t come here much anymore. So when everything happened and she needed somewhere to land, it made sense for her to land here. She planned to stay a few weeks, but that was eight months ago.
Hope slows her pace as she nears 108, allowing both her and her running partner, a Rottweiler named Rufus, time to catch their
collective breath. She can hear Rufus panting as they walk, but she does not make eye contact with him. She knows she probably
ran farther than he would’ve wanted had he possessed the means to say so. Rufus is not old, but he’s not getting any younger
either. He does not love to run no matter how good it is for him. As they walk the remaining distance to the trailer, Hope
reminds Rufus of the benefits of running. She discusses the effects of cardio on heart health and weight loss. She does not
say that Rufus could stand to lose a few pounds. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.
A little truck drives past them, and they pause before crossing to the driveway of 108. “Plus, I have to go to work soon,”
Hope continues, “and you’ll be in your crate the whole time I’m gone.” At the word crate, Rufus comes to a stop. But Hope tugs gently on his leash to keep him moving. “Now you’ll be good and tired and the time
will go by faster because you’ll be asleep while I’m gone. So really, I did you a favor.”
They make their way up the driveway together, Rufus taking his sweet time until they hear the crunching of tires on the gravel
and turn in unison to see the same truck that just drove by suddenly there, behind them. She hears the driver put the truck
into Park, and her heart rate spikes in tandem. She reminds herself that this is Sunset Beach, not Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
There is no need to be alarmed.
Rufus, however, does not see the distinction and begins barking and lunging at the driver, who is really, she sees as he emerges from the truck, just a boy.
A boy who immediately flattens himself against the truck at the sight of the dog, his eyes wide as he says something that sounds like, “Uhhhh?”
Hope struggles to apologize to the kid and wrestle with Rufus at the same time. It takes all of her strength to restrain the
beast. Rufus is a sweet dog, but he is trained for Hope’s safety and takes that job very seriously.
Once Rufus is still, she scolds him for good measure, using her authoritative voice. She knows that if Rufus could roll his
eyes in response, he would. She goes to take a step but discovers that Rufus, in his efforts to get at the truck’s driver,
has somehow wound the leash around her legs. If she actually needed to run away, she would not be able to. So, in that respect,
Rufus has not been thinking of her safety. She alternates between trying to unwind the leash from her calves and maintain
control of Rufus. Once freed, she yanks the leash in such a way that Rufus has no choice but to head with her toward the trailer.
She calls out over her shoulder, “Let me just put him up,” without even checking to see if the kid is still smashed up against
the truck. Inside the house, she unclips the leash, freeing Rufus to go stick his head in his water bowl, which he does, making
loud, grateful slurping noises. Hope could use some water too, but first she needs to get rid of the kid in her driveway.
If he is even still there. He might’ve fled after his run-in with Rufus. No one would blame him.
She turns and goes back through the door, running smack into someone as she does. Except she hasn’t run into a person. She’s
run into a massive bouquet of flowers. A floral scent fills the air around her, reminding her of the way the church sanctuary
smelled on her wedding day. For a moment she feels dizzy, disoriented.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” says the kid, who is now in her doorway holding the flowers. If Hope had looked closer, she would’ve noticed the florist’s logo on the side of his truck, but she was distracted by her dog. “I just thought I’d bring these on in to you. Are you okay?”
“Sure, sure,” she manages to say. “I’m fine.” She takes the bouquet from the boy’s outstretched hand and gives it a once-over.
It seems fine too. No flowers were harmed in this collision.
The kid points at the card that is fastened to the bouquet. “Hope,” he says, reading her name aloud.
Hope nods. “That’s my name,” she says. She does not say don’t wear it out, but she thinks it.
“Huh,” he says. “That’s the name of this bouquet too.” He points again at her name on the card as if it is proof. “We call
it the ‘Hope Bouquet.’ My mom came up with it.” He gestures to the flowers, the wide array of incongruent colors and shapes
clustered together. “She puts in all the different flowers that are supposed to symbolize hope, you know?”
She does know. It had been her husband Alex’s idea to fill the sanctuary at their wedding with all the flowers that are meant
to symbolize hope: lilies and crocuses and cherry blossoms and irises and daffodils. It was a loud, mismatched, beautiful
mess. In keeping with the theme, she’d danced with her father to “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty as her mother stood off to the
side watching, persistently catching her tears with a tissue to preserve her full face of makeup.
“I guess whoever sent you these saw we had a bouquet with your name on it, so they just had to choose it,” the boy says, pulling
her out of the memory. “Usually people send it for, like, tragedies and stuff.”
Tragedies, Hope thinks. There are several things she could say in response to that, but none of them seem appropriate to tell this boy. So she says, “Yeah, I guess so,” then adds, “Well, thanks again,” and waves the flowers. “Better go put these in some water.”
“No problem,” he says. Close up, the kid doesn’t even look old enough to be driving. He might not be. He gives her a grin
and then hurries away, calling out, “Have a nice day, Hope,” over his shoulder as he goes.
Hope looks down at her name on the envelope as she carries the flowers inside, knowing without opening the card who they are
from. Of course Alex has sent her a bouquet called Hope, observing her birthday even though she’d asked him not to. She knew
better than to tell him that she didn’t deserve to celebrate her birthday—that would only result in a lecture—so she’d said,
“I don’t feel like celebrating,” which was also true.
She sets the flowers down on the counter and plucks the card from its little stake, tearing at the seal to reveal the tiny
greeting that is clearly not in her husband’s handwriting because he is far, far away. She looks down at the words he has
told the florist to write:
I always feel like celebrating you. Happy Birthday.
Love,
Alex
Hope traces her finger across the words and stands in silence for a moment, reminded of the decisions she has to make.
But now is not the time. Birthday or no, she has to get to work.
She looks at the clock—between the extra-long run and the flower delivery, she’s going to be late if she doesn’t get a move on.
She doesn’t have time to trim flower stems and prepare a vase and put the bouquet in water.
But if she doesn’t, they will wither and possibly die.
Hope studies the bouquet for one second longer.
She lets herself appreciate the beauty, the aroma, the memories that swirl in the air.
Her birthday used to be such a special day, a day that always involved celebrating in some way with her mom.
Hope bends over and inhales deeply. Then she stands up, turns away, and leaves the flowers behind.