Chapter One Tula #3
“Okay.” I turned and walked toward the door and then paused. This was all too out of the blue and odd for me not to question Mr. Brooks’s motive. “Did you know my mother?”
Still standing, he stared at me. “Only by reputation. She was quite the diver, from what I hear.”
“Yes.” Diving and the ocean had been her life.
“But we never met.”
“Okay.”
“Best of luck to you, Tula.”
“Thank you.”
When I exited his office, the folder tucked under my arm, Mr. Brooks’s assistant stood by her desk waiting for me. “Miss Cassidy. Will you be accepting the house key?”
“I will.”
“Excellent.” She moved to her desk and snatched up an old metal key. She handed it to me.
It felt heavy in my hands. “I’m surprised he doesn’t have a digital lock.”
“The locks are excellent, and the doors and windows are old but sound. Mr. Brooks saw no reason to change anything if it was working.”
“Do I need to check in with you?”
“At the end of the summer. No need before then.”
I’d lived on tight deadlines for nearly seven years. And now to have one that extended all summer felt freeing and unsettling. “Okay. I’ll be in touch then.”
She handed me a credit card. “This is to cover your incidentals.”
“But I’m still getting my paycheck, right?”
“You will. But you never know with old houses. Expenses come up.”
I hesitated. “Why me?”
“I’m sure Mr. Brooks explained.”
“Kind of.”
She smiled. “Mr. Brooks never says what he doesn’t mean.”
“He didn’t say a lot.”
“But enough.”
“I suppose.”
I left the woman and crossed to the elevator. I pressed the button. The doors opened. I stepped inside, gripping the key and envelope as the elevator closed on the executive suites.
The ride down seemed much faster, and before I knew it, I was in my cubicle. I grabbed my purse out of my bottom drawer. I reached past the fake plant and the “Girl Boss” mug to the picture of Mom and me.
Nan appeared. She didn’t like drama. She liked clean, tidy breaks and airtight briefs delivered on time. Shipshape was kind of my superpower. Life on boats had required it.
And I’d faced enough real turmoil to put this moment in perspective. No tears or outraged tirades for a job or failed marriage. I picked up the photo and mug, and then I set the mug back down. “Okay.”
Some of the tension faded from her face. “What about the mug and plant?”
“Keep them.”
I fished my ID out of my wallet and handed it to her.
“I’m told you’re to keep it. Your job will be waiting if you decide to return.”
“Right. Thank you.” I angled around Nan.
“Take care of yourself, Tula.”
I left the building, suddenly feeling slightly panicked to leave it behind. Over time, even cages offer some comfort. I crossed the parking lot to my car, which I’d bought with the donation monies seven years ago.
Sliding into the hot front seat, I looked up at the impenetrable glass building, which reflected the morning light winking on the water behind me.
I allowed the heat to sink into my bones and then reached for my phone.
I knew only one person on the Outer Banks.
Kaitlin Stewart. I’d met Kaitlin during my brief months attending First Flight High School. We’d become friends.
It was kind of a miracle that Kaitlin and her mother had taken me in after Mom vanished.
My dad had never been in the picture, and Mom and I had no roots.
A few times I’d made friends, but we were always gone soon after.
Friendships didn’t gel with a nomad’s life.
So, I’d stopped trying to get close to anyone.
Mom had become my buddy. She’d started teaching me how to dive when I was five, and the undersea world became my home.
In the water, I felt free of worldly dramas.
In the silence of the ocean, the past and future compressed into the present.
Mom became obsessed with shipwrecks when I was about eight.
The first wreck was a Spanish galleon that had gone down in a Caribbean hurricane in 1749.
She taught lessons in the mornings, and during her off-hours, she researched wrecks.
So that I could spend more time with her, I became her research assistant.
We’d learn all we could about a downed ship, and then we’d lead expeditions to their remains.
Wreck dives became her thing, and she started taking jobs near interesting ones.
I had no formal education, but when I arrived on the Outer Banks, my collection of homeschooling teachers, made up of sailors, dockmasters, and local tour guide historians, put me ahead of my fellow students.
Kaitlin had also been a senior at First Flight, and she was really into surfing. She was failing history, and our teacher paired us as study buddies. Our friendship took off.
We’d texted and called each other over the years, but I hadn’t seen her since I’d left the Outer Banks. She was all I had, and I could use a friendly face. I typed.
Kaitlin: You r alive?
Me: I am.
Kaitlin: When’s the last time you reached out to me first?
Me: Maybe never.
Kaitlin: LOL. What’s up?
Me: Coming to OBX. Can I crash?
I wasn’t ready to camp out in the Southern Shores house.
Kaitlin: Sure. Why are you coming here?
Me: Longish story.
My phone rang. It was Kaitlin. “The divorce must be final.”
“It is.”
“Are you crying?” she asked.
I sniffed. “No. Just not sleeping great.”
When I’d lived with the Stewarts, I was plagued by terrible nightmares. I’d had a front-row seat when Mom had her diving accident, and it had left a mark.
“These days it’s anxiety, mainly,” I added.
I’d never spoken to anyone else about my panic attacks but my therapist and her. Somehow distance had not derailed my friendship with Kaitlin, mostly because she’d been great about writing, texting, and calling.
“You get fired?” Kaitlin asked.
“New assignment. Kind of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll explain when I see you,” I said. “But I’m there for the summer.”
“If you’re looking for cash, I could use the help.”
Kaitlin ran MERmaids, a lucrative home-cleaning service on the Outer Banks. Among her clients were private homeowners as well as rental companies overseeing hundreds of vacation homes. I’d worked with Kaitlin and her mom cleaning that long summer seven years ago.
“Not glamorous,” Kaitlin said. “But cleaning up other people’s messes has always paid the bills. And you can stay above the surf shop for free.”
“You have no help?”
“I have a few kids joining me, but it’ll be a couple of weeks until they arrive.”
I had no idea what the Southern Shores house required, but Kaitlin and her mother had taken me in when I was lost. The least I could do was help her for a couple of weeks. “Sure. I can help, but I have this house to clear out.”
“You won’t be the first person who balances a couple of jobs,” Kaitlin said.
“I know.” Scrubbing toilets had never been my jam. But the easy, predictable duties had helped me to cope. Whenever life felt out of control, I could count on freshly wiped countertops, crisp lines in vacuumed carpets, and fresh bedsheets.
“You going to take up diving again?” Kaitlin asked.
I pulled the manuscript pages out of the folder. “One step at a time.”
“One step is better than no steps. Traffic isn’t crazy on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. We can get a few drinks. We have another week before the tourists show up in droves and the bars are jam-packed.”
I groaned. “Crowds.”
“Who spend a lot of money down here. We like their tax dollars and the services they buy.”
I knew hordes of tourists were great for business. But jam-packed roads and restaurants weren’t ideal. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“I’m on my way, first thing in the morning.”
“Terrific.”
I ended the call, dropped the phone into my lap, and started the car. Warm air-conditioning blasted my skin. I looked at the yellowed, water-stained title page, which read only: The Oceanus.
Mom had always said, A ship in port is safe, but if it remains too long, it will decay. I put the car in drive. “Time to knock the barnacles off, Tula.”