Chapter Two
LENA
SEA PINES, HILTON HEAD ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
The key to Grandma’s house was under the doormat right where the lawyer said it would be. I flipped it over in my hand wondering how things would be without her. Would the house still look like home? Smell like home? Feel like home? Only one way to find out.
I willed my arm to move and wiggled the key into the lock. I turned the knob of the forest-green door, mossy with age and the incessant humidity, and shoved it open with a bump of my hip. I’d nagged her for years to fix the old door. The task fell to me, now.
Stepping across the threshold into the hallway of my past, I held on to the doorknob like an anchor to the present.
The rising tension in my chest threatened to strangle me, but I refused to start crying.
I inhaled deeply, held my breath to recenter, and exhaled long and slow.
One sob session per day; that’s all I’d allowed myself since Grandma died.
I tossed the key onto the entry table. It struck the glass with a clatter and created a trail through the thin coat of dust—dust that wouldn’t have been there a week ago. She’d always kept the house pristine.
The house’s musty scent—salt air infused with damp moss, the soft, comforting fragrance of the Lowcountry, of my childhood home—suffused my senses.
But something new punctuated the familiar smell.
Emptiness. It had only been a week since my grandma passed and the house had been locked up, but staleness changed the quality of the air.
It sucked the life right out of it and reminded me of what I’d lost.
I padded across the living room’s plush carpet into the kitchen.
This is where I’d always remember her. Sitting at the kitchen table balancing the ledger of her herbalism shop.
Eating her lunch watching deer graze outside the bay window.
Hovering over the standing mixer whipping cream to top the coconut cake she made for my birthday.
The kitchen was the center of the house and our family of two.
The ghost of our lives—the ghost of her life—lingered there, and I held on to it with desperation, not wanting to admit I was alone.
The woman who’d raised me, the only family I’d ever known, was gone. I’d never see her again. Never curl up on the couch with her and watch TV. Never eat cinnamon toast with her at midnight. Never feel her arms wrap around me in unconditional love.
The hole Grandma’s absence left in my heart ached with each breath. I braced myself on the edge of the island and let my head drop trying to breathe through the abyss of my loneliness.
“Come on, Lena,” I mumbled in a feeble attempt at self-encouragement. “You know how to breathe. You teach your students how to breathe for Chrissake. Pull it together.”
I’m not sure how long I stood there breathing through the persistent lump that had plagued my throat since I’d received the news of her passing. But eventually my legs stopped shaking and the lump shrunk enough my breath no longer shuddered.
My nerves back under some semblance of control, I needed to get on with my day. Responsibility called. I wandered into the living room and curled up cross-legged on my corner of the couch. I pulled out my phone and brought up the number for my studio in Charleston.
“Yoga Star Charleston. This is Candace. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Candy. It’s Lena.”
“Lena! How are you?” Her usually peppy voice dripped with sympathy, swelling the lump in my throat. This would be much easier if she just pretended my life wasn’t falling apart.
“I’m fine. I promised I’d call when I got in so... I’m here. How are things at the studio?”
The studio didn’t really worry me; it practically ran itself these days. Candace was a fantastic office manager, not to mention instructor, and this wasn’t the first time I’d left the studio in her capable hands while I visited the island.
“Same. Busy. We always get that little bump during Easter break.”
“Every year.”
An awkward silence fell over the line filled with our mutual disdain for the next inevitable topic. I inhaled deeply, puffed out my cheeks, and blew the air out long and slow through pursed lips.
“Did he drop it off?”
“Yup.” Venom filled Candy’s clipped reply. She didn’t like him any more than I did.
Okay, not true. I liked him less.
“It’s over then,” I whispered, the words a mere shadow of my wonder and relief.
“It is. I checked the papers myself to make sure he signed everything correctly—I don’t trust that man, Lena—but they’re all in order. I put them in the safe.”
And just like that, my marriage was over.
I’d filed for divorce months ago, but it had never felt final.
Not until now. Those papers released his half of the studio back to me, the last vestige of a string of bad decisions excised from my life.
The final tie was broken. Broken like his promises.
Broken like my faith in men. Broken like my heart.
A million tiny paper cuts of conflicting emotions attacked my insides, slicing at different angles to destroy the remnants of my shattered spirit. The lump returned, choking me, this time a combination of relief, failure, and frustration.
I massaged my throat and released a shuddering breath.
“Thanks, Candy. I’m... I’m glad it’s finally over.
” I fidgeted with the fringe of the couch throw to distract myself from the harsh realities of the conversation.
It didn’t work. “I never have to see him again.” I should have been overjoyed, but the words came out resigned and defeated.
“This is a good thing, Lena. You know this. That relationship turned toxic years ago. He strung you along, not letting go of the studio. And for what? Just to mess with you, if you ask me. Asshole.”
I huffed. Candy never swore, but made an exception when talking about my ex.
And he really was an asshole. A lying, cheating, manipulative asshole.
“It’s just... It’s just a lot right now. All at once.”
“I know. It is. But a wise yoga instructor once told me, ‘the only way out is through.’”
I snorted at my former student throwing my words back at me. “I didn’t make that up, you know.”
“It’s no less true.”
“You’re not wrong.” I paused. As difficult as it was for me to take a step back, I had no choice. “Look, Candy, I don’t know how long I’m going to be down here. There’s so much to sort out with the house...”
“Don’t worry. Take all the time you need. The schedule is staffed for the next three months with subs available. I’ve got the business side of things covered, and new instructor training doesn’t start for two months. There’s no rush to get back.”
A fresh sting flared in my chest, her words lemon juice squeezed over all those paper cuts.
Apart from the studio, Candy, and a handful of devoted students, there wasn’t anything left for me in Charleston.
My marriage was over. We’d sold the house in the divorce.
He’d won most of our friends. And if my own studio didn’t need me...
I knew that wasn’t what Candy meant. She was trying to give me space, be supportive, but her words landed hard for all the simple truth they contained.
“No, you’re right; there’s no rush. Call me if you need anything, and I’ll let you know my plans in a couple days. If I come up with a plan.”
“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here for ya, babe.”
“Thanks, Candy,” I said, relieved that the peppiness had returned to her voice. I needed some normal.
“I got you, Lena. Take care.”
I set my phone down on the coffee table and sank into the couch, unsure what to do with myself next.
The house felt hollow in my grandma’s absence, a discarded shell washed up on shore, empty and forgotten.
Thoughts of the past churned and clashed with worries about the future.
They fused to form a heaviness that weighed on my shoulders and settled onto my chest.
I was spiraling. I needed to return to the present, an impossible feat sitting in that house surrounded by the past. Time for a change of scenery. I wrenched myself off the couch and marched out the front door, determined to regain purchase over my runaway mind.
The winding path to the beach snaked through live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and loblolly pines speared the sky with questing branches.
Through the thick canopy, sunlight dappled the sandy walkway.
Cicadas chirruped their persistent song, and pine needles crunched underfoot releasing their fragrant scent.
It combined with magnolia and ocean salt to suffuse the warm, humid air with a sweet perfume unique to Hilton Head.
Grandma said magic lived on the island, and as I wound my way through the old trees, the other-worldly energy flooded my senses, making it feel as though I walked through a dream.
I emerged from the dense tree cover to a wooden bridge crossing one of the waterways that connected the swampy lagoons of Sea Pines.
A turtle poked its head out of the water, and I stopped to scan the banks for alligators.
That late in the afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent, and without its mid-day heat, the gators retreated to their swampy homes. Maybe tomorrow.
Across the bridge, the path grew sandier, and the smell of saltwater pierced my nostrils. My pace quickened with anticipation, and soon, I crested the dune, and the clear blue expanse of the Atlantic materialized before me.
If the sights, sounds, and smells of the island weren’t enough to prove the presence of magic, emerging from the tree cover onto a white beach kissed by cerulean waves would make anyone a believer.
I kicked off my sandals and sank my feet into the warm sand, squishing the soft grit between my toes with each step. At the water’s edge, the cool surf lapped my ankles, and the ocean breeze caressed my face. The crash of the waves and the distant cry of gulls provided the scene’s soothing melody.
I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the sun, longing to feel something—anything—besides loss.
And for a moment, I was truly present. I forgot about my grandma, the house, my failed marriage, the fear of being so completely alone, and was present to the controlled cadence of my breath, rising and falling in time with the rhythmic surge of the ocean.
Splashing broke the spell of my meditative escape, and I opened my eyes. Two sets of arms cut through the surf, powerful swimmers coming up from the south.
Annoyed by the interruption, I waded deeper into the water and shut my eyes, desperate to regain my peace. The swimmers moved through the water with efficiency and grace, the churn of their strokes fluid and regular. I added their music to the harmony of the waves and my breath.
The hypnotizing beat slowed, and I reopened my eyes to find two men emerging from the break.
They stood, and my body sparked like a live wire.
Two perfect specimens of male physique shook water from their hair and waded through the waist-deep water.
They had to be professional swimmers—tall and lean, with broad, muscled shoulders and washboard abs.
Oh, gods above… The water dipped below their knees revealing thick quads beneath tight swim shorts.
Damn. Bodies like those in trunks like those should be illegal.
I blinked hard to regain focus. My lusty body staged a coup of my brain any time I encountered a well-built, athletic body.
Not good. I beat down the revolution by reminding myself that my affinity for muscles is what had landed me with my ex-husband.
Turns out a nice body doesn’t necessarily translate into a nice guy. Who’d have thought.
I swiveled my gaze away from the eye candy and focused on the horizon. Meditation. Breathing. Right.