Pink Sand Summer

Chapter One

THE GUY SITTING ACROSS FROM ME LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE kind of guy I’d flirt with on vacation. But this isn’t exactly a vacation. I’m flying into the remains of someone else’s life and pretending I know what to do with it.

He’s got a canvas notebook open, pen racing like he’s trying to catch a thought before it escapes as wavy, sandy brown hair falls carelessly over his eyes.

His T-shirt is perfectly worn, and he’s got earbuds in like he’s tuning out the world.

He hasn’t looked up once. I’ve risked two quick glances in this five-minute boat ride.

Around us, the water glimmers, all impossible blues.

As we cut through the shallow channel between Eleuthera and Harbour Island, I lean into the breeze.

This is the part I always forget I need.

The separation. The five minutes of nothing but sea and salt to clear everything out.

If I can just get through this summer without falling apart, maybe I’ll believe this place can belong to me.

I glance down at the manila folder inside my tote.

“Bahamas Docs” is scrawled across the front in Mr. Hasell’s lawyerly script, like it’s a grocery list instead of a life handed over.

Straight ahead, Harbour Island is beckoning like a lifelong best friend.

It’s always felt like mine in the ways that matter.

And now, the house is mine, too, but it still feels like I’m borrowing something too sacred to claim.

Gran left me Lazy Daisy like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the biggest thing anyone’s ever handed me.

Nothing like inheriting a house to remind me I’m still the kind of person who can’t keep a fiddle leaf fig alive.

But maybe it does make sense. Summer after summer, no matter what, I’m most alive here.

Across from me, Notebook Guy shifts, stretching one leg out into the space between us.

He pauses his scribbling long enough to glance up through his wind-tousled hair, and when our eyes catch, he gives me a slow, subtle smile.

I return it quickly, running my hand through my hair, conscious that I’ve been awake since five a.m.

When we dock, a deckhand wearing a Bahamas Life T-shirt hands me my suitcase as I step onto the pier.

“Lucy!”

Mr. Franklin’s voice rolls down the dock like a welcome mat.

One of a handful of taxi drivers on the island, Mr. Franklin’s golf cart is as much a landmark as the “Welcome to Harbour Island, Home of Friendly People” sign.

He’s leaning against it, one foot propped on the bumper like he has nowhere else to be.

Same salt-and-pepper beard, same motor oil scent when he hugs me.

“You’re your grandmother’s girl,” he says, giving me a once over. “You look just like her standing here.”

My throat tightens, but I smile. “Thanks for picking me up, Mr. Franklin.”

“Wouldn’t let anyone else do it,” he says, already tossing my suitcases on the back. Just before we pull away, I catch Notebook Guy, still by the dock, eyes lingering on me.

We drive through town, past pastel-painted shops and familiar porches. Everyone waves, nodding “g’day, g’day” like no time has passed. Yet for me, everything feels different, untethered. As the golf cart climbs the hill, I press my palms against my knees, bracing myself.

We pass the guest cottage where Milly lives, the shutters freshly painted their soft green.

She’s been here at Lazy Daisy since I was a little girl, slipping me benne cakes when Gran said I’d had enough sugar, braiding my hair on the porch when I begged.

Calling her a house manager doesn’t do justice to what she means to me.

And then the main house rises into view.

Lazy Daisy, steady as always, but somehow changed.

The bougainvillea has gone wild since last summer, spilling from the fence line and climbing the porch columns.

Once young and tentative, now it’s in riotous bloom, bold, bright, unapologetically alive.

The chaotic color daring me to stop pretending I’ve got everything under control.

Mr. Franklin whistles low. “She’s still the prettiest one on the block if you ask me.”

I nod and smile, grateful for my sunglasses hiding my glistening eyes. Seeing the house in person again, the weight of responsibility settles differently than it did in the lawyer’s office.

Mr. Franklin drops my bags on the porch, shaking me out of my daydream. “Margaret kept this house full of life. Probably a few stories in these walls, I’d bet.”

I nod, my hand already on the worn brass doorknob. “I’d bet that, too. Thanks, Mr. Franklin.”

He gives me a wink and disappears down the path.

I smile, sliding off my sunglasses as I turn to face the light blue front door.

If I can just get through this first night alone in the house without calling my friend Dawn to come rescue me, maybe I’ll actually make it through the summer.

I turn the handle and push the door open.

The house smells like lemon oil and old paper.

The floors gleam, the cushions are fluffed, and there’s a note from Milly on the entry table in her looping handwriting: “Welcome home. Call if you need anything.”

I pause, letting the quiet settle around me. That kind of quiet that only comes from a place that’s been lived in and loved well. I walk into the living room, across the jute rug and worn floorboards, and finally exhale.

Upstairs, I pass two guest rooms with their windows open to catch the sea breeze.

One has a shell collection on the night-stand.

The second still holds the dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice Gran claimed was “for ambiance” but reread every September.

The natural light in this room would lend itself well to a home art studio.

Maybe by the end of summer, I’ll have something worth showing on a gallery wall again…

or at least a sketch that doesn’t end up in the trash.

My room is at the end of the hall. The door creaks just like always, and the wallpaper wraps me in a hug, that faded floral grass cloth in blush and sage, comforting in a way that makes my throat ache.

The bed is made in crisp white linens, a pale green throw folded at the foot.

I drop my suitcase and sit down slowly, running my hand across the quilt.

Everything is the same. And somehow, not.

I unpack. I always do it first thing. Soft tees, shorts, pajamas, and swimsuits into the dresser drawers.

Dresses and gauzy coverups in the closet.

I slip on my black string bikini. The bathroom tile is cool under my feet, white hex with little green insets that form a loose star pattern. The glass jar of cotton balls is full. The monogrammed hand towels look perfectly pressed.

Downstairs, I grab an oversized beach towel from the basket near the back door and step out onto the porch. The ocean rolls ahead of me, that low steady pull I’ve never been able to resist. I cross the lawn, bougainvillea brushing my shoulder as I pass through the arbor gate.

It’s quiet on the beach, and the light pink sand is warm and soft under my feet.

Harbour Island is known for its pink sand beaches.

The saturation can vary, but the hue is always a light pink.

And the water is an impossibly clear turquoise.

It’s my favorite color combo in the world.

I walk straight in until I’m deep enough to float on my back.

“Lucy.”

I shoot up in the water, the thud of my heart proving that my body recognized him before my brain could. I’d know his voice anywhere.

Jack, with his all-consuming presence. He removes his sunglasses, revealing rich, hazel eyes, sharp jawline, and a dimple that I’ve always loved.

His shirt clings to his shoulders, irritatingly broader than the last time I saw him.

His wavy hair, usually kept under control, has gotten a little unruly in a way that makes him even more appealing.

His grin flashes, quick and unguarded, gone almost before I catch it, as if he’s yanked the curtain closed on something too revealing.

The water foams around his feet, but it’s the flicker in his eyes, mirroring my own disbelief, that holds me rooted in place.

Jack, who is so familiar and yet feels like a stranger.

I’m still closing the last step between us when his arms pull me in. It’s instinctual, our years of practice to thank for that. Muscle memory is rude. His shirt comes away wet, but he doesn’t seem to care. We both take an awkward step back, his eyes squinting from the sun as he searches my face.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“I wasn’t,” I say, barely able to meet his focused gaze. “I mean, I just got here.”

His expression softens, “I’m so sorry about your grandmother. The island feels different without her.”

“It does.” My voice drops. “Thank you for being at the funeral. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

“It’s okay, Lucy,” he says gently. He doesn’t press, and the quiet expands until I can’t stand it.

“She left me the house.” I still haven’t figured out the correct tone for that sentence.

His eyebrows jump, then ease as something warmer takes hold of his expression. “Wow. That’s…big.”

I nod. “I’m still figuring it out.”

“She always said you belonged here.”

I nod, twisting a ring on my finger. Jack glances up toward the house, then back to me.

“How have you been? It’s been too long.” His eyes squint, almost as if it hurts to acknowledge it. “I heard you have a new gallery?”

“Yeah, it’s a shared studio space and gallery with a few artist friends where we…share space…for art.” Yikes.

Jack’s eyes soften as a smile tugs at the corners of his annoyingly full lips. “A shared studio where you share space?”

I look down and smile through a blush. Fantastic.

“I’d like to see what you’ve been working on.”

“Honestly, you haven’t missed much. I’ve been staring at a blank canvas for weeks.”

Something flickers in his eyes, maybe a reminder of the gap between our then and our now. He checks his watch, grimacing. “I’m supposed to be on a call in ten minutes. What about later? Can you come over for a margarita?”

His voice is relaxed, but his eyes flick over my face, eager in a way that betrays the laidback tone. Before I can overthink it, I reply, “Sure, I’ll see you later.” So much for spending my first night alone.

He backs away with a crooked smile. “You look really good, Luce.”

I tell myself that means nothing. Obviously. And I keep my smile easy as I watch him disappear up the steps of the house two doors down from mine. The slam of his gate lingers in the quiet of the waves, so I fall backward into the surf, willing the saltwater to carry off my thoughts. It doesn’t.

Back inside, I peel off my swimsuit and hang it on the orange-striped ceramic fishhook on the bathroom door, placed dead center so I could reach it as a child.

Downstairs, I drift through the family room.

Everything looks the same, but it doesn’t feel that way.

Rattan chairs slouched with cushions in faded florals and stripes.

The vintage game table in the corner, Mahjong tiles stacked neatly, as if someone might sit down any minute.

I drag my fingers over the cool green pieces, listening to their faint clink.

Sunlight washes the pecky cypress walls to honey. The lamp brought back from our Paris trip. The framed island map with Gran’s penciled notes curling into the margins. A bowl of conch shells exactly where it’s always been. I take it in quickly, like proof that this is all really mine.

In the kitchen I pour a glass of water into one of the heavy green glasses and curl into the window seat, knees pulled to my chest. The cushions give under my weight as I stare out at the glimmering ocean.

The look in Jack’s eyes keeps replaying, low and steady, and the echo of his voice, you look really good, Luce, makes my heart race despite my better judgement.

I can’t let those words and that look mean anything.

Because even though I’d never admit it out loud, I don’t trust myself to choose love without handing my heart over only to be hurt again.

This house, this island…it holds every version of me. The good ones. And the messy ones. The girl who thought love could last forever if you just believed hard enough. The girl who found out it could vanish faster than a summer storm.

Maybe Gran had her versions, too. I think about the jewelry box I found last summer, tucked inside her dresser.

Not jewelry inside, but an old photograph of her with a man I didn’t recognize, though the camera only captured his profile.

Not Granddad. Her only explanation: “The best lives have lots of chapters, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean they’re meant to be the ending. ”