3. Marnie #2
At first, I hated how the sensation of the leaves made my skin itch every time I watered it, but eventually, I got used to the feeling and I stopped associating my now-beloved plant with a creepy crawler.
I thought giving it a name would help me keep it alive, so I kept with the spider theme. Starting with a beloved children’s character sounded like a better idea than jumping right to Shelob, but maybe I’ll consider that one in a few years.
Charlotte is finally sprouting a baby, meaning it is almost time to cut it and transfer it to its own container so it can grow roots. Soon, my own little village of spider plants will be taking over my apartment.
The key is under the mat just like Irene said it would be.
I fumble with the lock briefly before I hear it unlatch, and I push the door open.
I pop my head through the doorway to make sure it’s unoccupied and then do a quick check of the closets and doors to confirm.
When I am satisfied that nothing appears out of place, I take a few minutes to move everything off the porch and into the front room before taking a self-tour of the cottage.
Everything is on one level in an open concept layout, save for the bedroom and bathroom, with natural light flowing into each room from the many windows surrounding the cottage.
Upon entering, there is a sitting room to my left fitted with a large sectional, coffee table, and television.
To the right is a small oval dining set that seats four, which leads directly into the kitchen.
The square island in the middle of the kitchen holds the sink and some more counter space with just enough overhang from the countertop to house two barstools.
In the far corner beside the cabinets is a small pantry with ample shelf space, followed by another door that matches the pantry.
I swing it open, expecting to find a storage closet. Only, it’s not a closet.
Holy shit.
An in-unit washer and dryer.
My apartment in Boston doesn’t even have in-unit laundry.
I have to take the elevator down eleven floors to the basement and hope that I don’t catch Agnes—the strange old lady who lives a floor below me—on a day where she decides to wash every article of clothing in her possession and hog all the machines.
That has happened to me one too many times for it to be an accident. She has a sixth sense.
I exit the kitchen and head to the opposite corner, where I find a bedroom with an attached bathroom and a closet that just might hold all my clothing once hung up. I’ll have to pack my suitcases inside one another like nesting dolls and stack them in the closet to save space, but it will do.
The wraparound porch is accessible from any side of the cottage.
A pair of white rocking chairs sits on the oceanfront side.
I try to think of the many people that have been here over the years.
I imagine an elderly couple celebrating their retirement, enjoying a morning cup of coffee and watching the sun creep up over the horizon.
I envision two young parents dancing together to early Elvis Presley while their kids spend their last night of vacation searching for buried treasure.
I see a woman around my age, young and free in a world full of opportunity, getting a fresh start away from everything that’s caged her thus far.
This cottage holds so many stories.
I wonder what mine will say. Four months is a long time to figure out what to leave behind for the next person.
I head back inside and sprawl out across the bed, scrolling through my phone until I find Gwen’s contact. It rings three times, and then her bright, bubbly voice picks up on the other end. “Oh my god, it hasn’t even been a full day and I already miss you.”
Emotion pangs my chest at the reminder.
“I miss you, too.” Sadness laces my voice. The reality of being on an island, hours away from Gwen, now hits me. Gwen and I have been inseparable since we started college, and this summer will be the first time that I’ve truly been away from everyone I know.
“How is the cottage?”
“Beautiful,” I answer honestly, promising to send her some photos when we hang up. “But I still have no idea whose cottage this is.”
“No one left you a note?”
“Not that I’ve seen, although I just got everything unloaded from the car a few minutes ago and then sat down to call you.”
“Go check the kitchen.”
I roll off the bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, grabbing Charlotte and placing her on the island equidistant between the windows for optimal lighting.
Sure enough, there’s a handwritten note waiting for me on the counter beside a bowl of fresh fruit with a large bunch of plump, red grapes spilling over the side.
Popping one into my mouth, I pick up the note and read it to her.
Dear Marnie,
Welcome to Hydrangea Haven!
Please make yourself at home. The cottage is long overdue for a visitor. I hope you can appreciate its namesake—the hydrangeas. They bloomed early this year, and this summer they’re sure to be the fullest and brightest they’ve ever been.
I trust you’ll find everything you need here to enjoy your stay this summer.
I wasn’t sure what time you’d be arriving or if you’d have time to make it to the store today, so I stocked the fridge with the basics and a few things to make an easy meal tonight just in case the grocery store was closed.
See you soon!
I finish reading the note and find the recipe for pesto pasta behind it. “Looks like I found my plans for the night.”
Gwen lets out a laugh. “Pasta?”
I scoff in mock offense. “Like you have something better to do.”
“Actually, I do,” she says with a charming lilt to her voice. “I have a hot date tonight.”
“Mmm,” I hum, amused. “Where?”
“We are grabbing drinks at Banners and watching the Bruins game.”
“Sounds like fun. When do you leave?”
“A couple hours, but I’m about to head to a nail appointment and then I’ll take the train over to the Garden.”
“I’ll let you go get ready, then. Tell me all about it tomorrow.”
She ignores my attempt to wrap up the conversation and steers it back to me. “It is fun, which is exactly what you should be doing. You’re on a beautiful island for an entire summer, surely you can find yourself a nice man to have some fun w?—”
“Bye, Gwen,” I cut her off in a singsong voice.
After we hang up, I read through the note again, searching for any clue as to who left it for me.
No name. No contact information. Just a promise to drop in soon.
I suppose it’s not that unusual for a landlord to check in on their tenant.
Although, I’m not sure if you can consider me a tenant if I’m not actually paying any rent.
House guest, perhaps? Sounds less harsh than freeloader but more legal than squatter.
Irene never gave me specifics on this arrangement. Just an address and assurance that I would, in fact, have somewhere to live while I worked on this assignment.
Maybe it’s owned by the historical society.
My gaze drifts back to the note.
How soon is soon? It must be some time in the near future, but the message is so cryptic.
If an issue did come up, I would have no way of getting in touch with the owner.
That would require me to call Irene, and there was no way in hell I was going to admit to her that I was already messing something up here.
I’d rather deal with a leaky roof or a burst pipe or some other disaster on my own than burden her.
But that’s a problem for another day. No sense in worrying about that until I have to. There’s too much else I can choose to worry about instead. Like what I’m going to wear on my first day, or what I need to do to pull off this assignment, or if I am going to make any friends here on the island.
Whoever wrote that letter followed through on their promise and provided some groceries, and the thought fills me with gratitude.
I’ve always heard that small towns take care of their own, but experiencing that first-hand puts my mind at ease knowing there’s at least one person looking out for me so far.
The fridge is mostly empty, save for a few essential items, some fresh vegetables, and a small bottle of salad dressing. As if on cue, my stomach growls, so I pull out the ingredients and get cooking.
Fifteen minutes later, the pasta is cooling on the stovetop, and I give the salad one last toss to mix in all the dressing.
I retrieve a small blue bowl and a matching plate with a mosaic swirl pattern from the cabinet, along with a fork from the drawer.
The legs of the stool gently creak against the tile as I slide it out and take a seat at the counter.
I inhale the pasta faster than I’d care to admit. Such a simple meal, yet it’s one of the best I’ve had in a while. It’s hard sometimes to find the time to make a nice meal, and I often forget there are easy recipes that take the same amount of time as walking up the street for takeout.
I chew the last bite of salad and push the dishes toward the sink.
A sudden rush of exhaustion hits me, and I can’t fight the yawn that accompanies my now heavy eyelids. I feel incredibly jetlagged, only I’ve been on nearly every form of transportation but a plane. Can someone be boatlagged?
Between the drive from the city, the ferry ride, and unloading everything from the car, my limbs ache and my energy is drained.
The barstool legs scrape the floor again as I push it in and round the island to the other side. There is a small bottle of dish soap under the sink, and I use it to soak them overnight. I’m in no mood to do dishes right now.
Tomorrow I can venture into town for groceries and anything I might have forgotten in my haste to pack for the summer. That still leaves me with most of Saturday and all of Sunday to prepare for Monday.
Plenty of time to sort out everything I need.
I rifle through my main suitcase for my toothbrush and face wash and quickly freshen up for bed.
I finish pulling on my pajamas and swap out the pillowcases with ones from my bag. No chance I would leave my silk pillowcases behind all summer. Their light pink shimmer is a nice contrast to the white and cream sheets and duvet.
Before turning out the light, I reach up to unlatch the window and give it a gentle push so the glass tilts outward.
The breeze trickles in and cools my face, still damp from moisturizing.
I lean my forearms against the windowsill and let myself get pulled into another rhythmic trance while staring out at the ocean, savoring the final minutes before sunset.
I’m about to retreat inside when something captures my attention outside the nearest house.
Standing to the left of the hydrangea bushes identical to mine is a man, sporting a backwards baseball hat, a fitted white T-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of utility gloves. He makes several trips to and from his truck, lugging a large plant in each hand over to where he’s working.
I watch intently as he digs several holes into the ground and then kneels down to arrange each plant into their respective spots.
After patting down the soil, he stands, wiping his hands across his pants to remove the excess dirt and crosses his arms, looking off into the horizon.
My brain tells me to look away and stop staring, but I can’t bring my eyes to listen.
Something about him is alluring. The firm command and control while digging contrasted with the gentle act of placing the plant into the ground, tender and nurturing, and now the distant, contemplative expression, like something is haunting him.
Then, as if he can feel my gaze, he turns in the direction of my cottage and takes notice of me staring, raising a hand to offer a wave.
My cheeks tint and I lift a tentative hand to return the gesture, followed by a feeling of self-consciousness. I duck my head back inside, latching the window once more before turning in for the night.
The last thing I remember is my head hitting the pillow, taking in the orange and pink hues from the sunset as I succumb to exhaustion.