One
The house knew change was coming before the rest of us did.
It shouldn’t surprise me at this point, but here I am, shoving at the stuck door to my bedroom until my shoulder aches. The wood jamb creaks in weary protest, then finally gives way, sending me sprawling onto the threadbare runner outside my door. It smells vaguely of the sea, the same way everything in Silverlight Shore does, of salt and summer and long sun-soaked days.
The dog launches at me, knowing full well it’s not a game but as unable to stop himself from the easy opportunity of a tussle in the hallway.
“Shh,” I whisper, grinning in spite of myself. “It’s too early.”
I rub Gunner’s velvety-soft ears. It would be rude of me to ignore them.
It is too early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, multi-colored light only just starting to trickle onto the weathered floorboards in the entryway of the Victorian I share with my three sisters.
Gunner licks my face, paws firmly planted on my stomach. I huff a laugh that dissolves most of the tension from the weirdness of the door sticking in my bedroom this morning.
With a grunt, I get to my feet, pick my way to the back door, avoiding all the creakiest spots that might wake my still sleeping sisters. We made a game of it when we were little, a game turned high stakes when we’d sneak out as teenagers, a game that’s now so second nature I could manage it blindfolded.
I’m smiling as I lace up my shoes, the incident with the bedroom door barely niggling at me as I clip Gunner’s leash on to take him for our morning run down on Harbor Walk. My keys jangle against each other as we step outside, and I tuck them into the tiny pocket in my shorts.
Tipping my face back, I let the morning sun wash across my skin. Warm, familiar, it usually sets me right at ease.
But today?
I frown.
Silverlight Shore feels… different. The house, nosy thing that it is, was trying to tell me something.
Too bad I don’t speak house, though not for lack of trying.
Gunner dances by my feet, giving me a side-eye that speaks volumes without saying a word. Which is nice, because I’m not quite awake enough to talk to him yet.
Something is bothering me.
Even the late summer crowds are mostly thinned out by now, so I’m not worried about foot traffic. We run at dawn come rain or shine because time’s taught me that if I don’t do it first thing, I won’t exercise at all, too wiped out from a day on my feet. Working at my candy shop, Sugar & Salt Confections, takes up nearly all my time: from perfecting recipes to working on the ecommerce side to dealing with staffing and working the counters and then actually making the candy — it’s endless.
But now that summer is winding down, the biggest seasonal rush is waning.
Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. The usual anxiety that comes with my biggest cash infusion — tourist season — waning.
I tilt my head from side to side, relishing the nice crack I get before Gunner and I start out down the road towards the beach and boardwalk.
Most of the curtains in the neighboring Victorians are still drawn, the residential district still asleep. A black cat perches in a bay window, tail flicking as we run by. It reminds me of my friend Sylvie’s cat, and for a second, I miss her so much it makes my heart hurt.
But she’s where she’s supposed to be now, and she’s happy.
Hydrangeas past their prime, browned around the blue, wave on leggy stalks as we jog by, headed through town proper.
A delivery truck beeps a warning as it backs up into an alley behind Sweet Fern Bakery, and the owner, Owen Marsh, waves to me before he motions for the truck to keep coming. Gunner barks at him, the flat-coat retriever’s tail looking more like a dust mop in fervent motion than anything else.
Laughing lightly, I keep pace as best I can, Gunner pulling slightly on the lead through the rest of downtown Silverlight Shore blurs by, the local hardware and bait shop, Bell & Anchor, doing a steady business as fishermen stock up before heading out for the day.
By the time we hit the boardwalk locals call the Reach, I’m feeling less unmoored.
More home in my own body.
Gulls circle overhead, squawking and bickering in a familiar way. Sandpipers race in and out of the glistening surf, breaking musically on the sand, frothing along the granite block jetties.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say out loud. Gunner bumps into my shin, tongue lolling out as he tracks the movement of a pelican perched on one of the grey posts.
