2. Chapter 2 #2
At first the roads are familiar enough to make me doubt everything.
I could be overreacting. Maybe I’ll arrive at this rental, sit on a porch for two days, and realize I fled my home because fear made everything bigger than it was.
Perhaps in a week I’ll laugh about this with Vanessa, embarrassed but relieved, while new locks and stronger cameras make the house feel mine again.
Then my mind supplies the image of my lingerie drawer hanging open. The photographs. The missing knife.
I keep driving. The city thins gradually, traffic giving way to long stretches of road lined with palms, scrub, and sun-flattened grass.
The sky opens wider the farther I go, bright blue brushed with thin white clouds.
By the time the first signs for Sunbreak Harbor appear, the air itself seems different, lighter somehow, as if salt has slipped through the vents and settled against my skin.
The road narrows as I cross the bridge onto the island.
Water glitters on both sides, blue-green and blinding beneath the afternoon sun.
Fishing boats move lazily through the channel, their wakes spreading in soft white lines.
Ahead, a candy-striped lighthouse rises beyond a cluster of pastel buildings, cheerful and improbable against the sky.
For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, my shoulders loosen.
Sunbreak Harbor looks like the kind of place people put on postcards and refrigerator magnets.
Golf carts buzz along side streets. Families in beach clothes cross toward a weathered boardwalk strung with flags.
A row of food trucks sits parked near a small green space where someone is setting up folding tables beneath strings of lights.
The marina is crowded with sailboats, sleek speedboats, and fishing charters rocking gently against their slips. It is busy, but not Orlando busy. Alive, but not overwhelming.
I lower my window at the next light, and humid coastal air floods the car, warm and briny, carrying the distant scent of fried seafood, sunscreen, and something sweet from a bakery I can’t see.
A gull cries overhead, sharp and rude. Somewhere nearby, live music drifts from a patio, lazy guitar notes melting into the afternoon heat.
The Sandpiper sits on the quieter side of the island, past the main boardwalk and beyond a curve of road lined with sea grapes, scrub palms, and low wooden signs weathered by salt and sun.
The houses grow larger and farther apart here, most of them lifted high on pilings with crushed-shell drives tucked beneath them and beach gear stored in the shaded spaces below.
When my GPS tells me I’ve arrived, I slow in front of a pale blue cottage elevated above a parking area on white posts. From the road, it doesn’t look quite like the rental photos. Not worse. Just more practical.
This side faces the street, with a covered place to park, a small storage room, an outdoor shower, coiled hoses, trash bins tucked behind a lattice screen, and a narrow set of stairs leading up to the main level.
The pretty parts must be on the other side, the side facing the water.
I’m sure that’s where the photographer stood when they took all those perfect listing pictures.
That makes me feel better. Less staged and more real.
I pull into the crushed-shell driveway and sit for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel, listening to shells pop beneath the tires as the engine ticks softly. Somewhere beyond the house, hidden by dunes and sea oats, waves roll in and out with a steady rhythm I can hear but not yet see.
The sound reaches me anyway. The ocean … roaring low with patient, constant rhythm.
I climb from the car slowly, my legs stiff from the drive, and retrieve the entry code from the owner’s message.
The wooden stairs creak beneath my sandals as I make my way up to the landing.
A gull cries overhead, rude and sharp, and warm salt air slips beneath my hair, lifting the damp strands at the back of my neck.
The front door opens on the first try.
Inside, the cottage smells faintly of lemon cleaner, sun-warmed wood, and the ocean. The main room is brighter than I expect, with whitewashed floors, soft blue furniture, and sunlight spilling through a wall of glass doors on the far side.
That is when I finally see what the photos promised.
Beyond the living room, a screened porch stretches across the ocean side of the cottage, wide and welcoming, with cushioned chairs, a small dining table, and gauzy curtains shifting in the breeze.
Past the screen, dune grass ripples silver-green in the wind, and a narrow private path disappears through the sand toward flashes of blue water.
The rental isn’t just beautiful. It’s hidden beauty, the kind you have to step inside to find.
The kitchen is larger than I expected and beautiful in a casual way, with butcher-block counters, open shelving, a farmhouse sink, and a wide island perfect for prep work. Of course, Vanessa noticed the kitchen.
A welcome basket sits on the island with a handwritten note tucked against a bottle of sparkling water.
Welcome to Sunbreak Harbor, Kara. Wishing you rest, peace, and beautiful sunsets. —Marianne
My throat tightens unexpectedly. It sounds like what I need. Such simple wishes, and suddenly they feel extravagant.
I carry my suitcase to the main bedroom, which faces the dunes and catches the sound of the water through the glass.
The bed is dressed in white linen. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead.
One wall holds framed photographs of the lighthouse at sunset, the marina during a regatta, and a line of beach bonfires glowing beneath a purple sky.
I can breathe here. Maybe not fully yet, but more than I could this morning.
I unpack enough to feel less like I’m running and more like I’ve arrived. Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop on the desk near the window. A few dresses hung in the closet. My favorite soft pajamas tucked into a drawer.
Then I walk back to the kitchen and make tea.
As the kettle heats, I step onto the screened porch and watch the dune grass bend in the late-afternoon breeze.
Beyond the rise, I catch flashes of water, sun bright and restless.
A couple walks along the beach in the distance, their laughter carried faintly on the wind.
Farther out, a boat cuts across the horizon.
Peace, I remind myself. This is peace.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vanessa.
ARE YOU THERE?
I send back a photo of the porch view. Her reply comes almost instantly.
TOLD YOU. brEATHE, WOMAN.
I laugh softly, the sound surprising me. Then I hear something beneath the porch … a faint crunch. Shells shifting in the driveway perhaps, or wind dragging a palm frond across the ground. Something ordinary. I’m sure it’s easily explained. Still, I go quiet.
I stand perfectly still with my phone in my hand, listening as the kettle whistles in the kitchen. I watch the dune grass move and only hear the waves beyond as they keep rolling.
After a few moments, I make myself turn away. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. But when I step back inside and close the porch door behind me, I lock it twice as the tea kettle calls.