“I met one of our neighbors on the beach. A girl about my age. She and her mom and little sister are renting a cottage about ten houses down the beach from us. She said it looks just like ours except that it’s yellow.”
“And she lives here full-time? Or are they just here for the weekend?” She measured coffee grounds into the basket.
“They’re full-timers. She said they moved here last summer after her parents got divorced. Her mom works as a waitress at Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“Wow, you learned a lot about her.”
“She’s a real talker.” Jackson grinned. “I guess she was nice to me because I gave her some sand dollars.”
Wendy felt her brows arch as she turned on the coffee maker. “You gave up some of your precious sand dollars?”
“Well, the tide was already in and she couldn’t believe how many I’d found. And she’s never found any before. I guess I felt sorry for her.”
“Uh-huh.” Wendy noticed the empty egg carton in the trash and the frying pan still on the stove. “Did you finish off the eggs?” she asked.
“Me and Oliver.” He grinned sheepishly. “I put some cheese in them too.”
“Sounds delish.” She put a slice of bread in the toaster.
“Anyway, Taylor told me she’s seen Oliver out on the beach before, but that he’d never come to her when she called for him. She figured he must really like me a lot.”
“So does, uh, Taylor know where Oliver might live? Or who might own him?”
“Nope, but she offered to help me ask around. I guess she knows almost everyone who lives along here.”
“Taylor sounds like a very friendly girl.”
“Yeah, she is.” He pointed out the window. “There she is now. She had to go home for a little bit, but said she’d be back to walk around with me—you know, to look for Oliver’s owners ... like I promised you I’d do.”
“Good for her.”
Jackson opened the back door, calling out to a spindly girl with wild red curls that bounced as she ran. Jackson greeted her and even invited her into the house and then, acting like a perfect gentleman, introduced her to Wendy.
“I’ve been hearing about you,” Wendy told her. “That’s nice of you to help Jackson find Oliver’s owners. I’m sure that some family is missing him.”
“I doubt it,” Taylor said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I think Oliver is an abandoned stray or runaway. He probably got left behind by one of those summer families. Maybe they were mean to him or they just didn’t want him anymore or couldn’t afford his dog food.”
“Oh?” Wendy didn’t know how to respond.
“But Jackson is a good master for Oliver. They get along real nice. I tried to make friends with Oliver before—well, I didn’t call him Oliverthensince I didn’t know his name, but I do think Oliver fits him. Don’t you?”
“It’s a nice name.”
“Anyway, even when I took a hot dog out on the beach, that dog wouldn’t give me the time of day. That’s probably good since my mom won’t let me have a dog anyway.” She poked Jackson. “We better get moving, man. I have to be home by eleven so Mom can get to work on time.” She turned back to Wendy with a wrinkled nose. “I have to babysit my little sister.” She rolled her eyes. “Tessa is only six, but she can be a royal pain in the you-know-what. But at least Mom pays me for babysitting. Well, if her tips are good enough.”
“Come on, Oliver.” Jackson tied what looked like a piece of clothesline onto the leather collar. “Let’s go and see if we can find yourowners.” He made a snickering sound that suggested this was a pointless mission, but that he was willing to jump through these silly hoops—just to placate his mom.
Wendy watched as Jackson, his loquacious new friend, and the devoted dog headed down the beach road together. She hadn’t seen that much spring in her son’s step for a long time ... and the prospect of taking it from him made her feel sick inside. What had she gotten herself into—and how on earth would she ever get out?
nine
WHILE GORDON REINSTALLEDthe bathroom fixtures, Wendy perused the cluttered storage room in search of items she could recycle or up-cycle in staging the cottage. Her plan was to create a sort of shabby-chic décor. Not too cluttered or overly sweet, but just charming and beachy and inviting. Hopefully it would entice a buyer to pay top dollar—ASAP.
The more she poked and dug, exploring the tiny attic space and jam-packed linen closet, the more she realized she was on a real treasure hunt. Everyday items left behind by her grandparents and other ancestors who’d inhabited this cottage suddenly took on new meaning. By the time Jackson came home, she’d sorted her finds into several piles. One stack was old linens and textiles that she planned to recycle into lace trimmed curtains, quaint pillow covers, and tablecloths. She’d even dug out a nicely worn patchwork quilt. Its faded pastel shades, combined with the enamel white headboard she’d unearthed in the attic, would look lovely in her pale blue bedroom.
She’d also found old lamps, picture frames, mirrors, boxes, and vases that she hoped to reinvent into one-of-a-kind home accessories that could be sold in town or even used to stage the cottage. After perusing the catalogues Caleb had given her, she was full of ideas for using driftwood, shells, and sea glass ... for profit. Caleb hadn’t exaggerated about the price tags on artisan-made beach décor. If she only created and sold a few pieces, it would help cover some expenses.
But her favorite find in her morning explorations was an old wooden box tucked way back in the tiny attic space. Besides a dozen vintage paint-by-number seascapes that she wanted to frame with driftwood, the box also contained old family photos dating clear back to the late 1800s. She picked up a sepia-toned photograph of a young couple, studying it, curious to see if there was any family resemblance.
