“I guess whoever sent you these saw we had a bouquet with your name on it, so they just had to choose it,” the boy says, pulling her out of the memory. “Usually people send it for, like, tragedies and stuff.”
Tragedies, Hope thinks. There are several things she could sayin response to that, but none of them seem appropriate to tell this boy. So she says, “Yeah, I guess so,” then adds, “Well, thanks again,” and waves the flowers. “Better go put these in some water.”
“No problem,” he says. Close up, the kid doesn’t even look old enough to be driving. He might not be. He gives her a grin and then hurries away, calling out, “Have a nice day,Hope,” over his shoulder as he goes.
Hope looks down at her name on the envelope as she carries the flowers inside, knowing without opening the card who they are from. Of course Alex has sent her a bouquet called Hope, observing her birthday even though she’d asked him not to. She knew better than to tell him that she didn’t deserve to celebrate her birthday—that would only result in a lecture—so she’d said, “I don’t feel like celebrating,” which was also true.
She sets the flowers down on the counter and plucks the card from its little stake, tearing at the seal to reveal the tiny greeting that is clearly not in her husband’s handwriting because he is far, far away. She looks down at the words he has told the florist to write:
I always feel like celebrating you. Happy Birthday.
Love,
Alex
Hope traces her finger across the words and stands in silence for a moment, reminded of the decisions she has to make. But now is not the time. Birthday or no, she has to get to work. She looks at the clock—between the extra-long run and the flower delivery, she’s going to be late if she doesn’t get a move on. She doesn’t have time to trim flower stems and prepare a vase and put the bouquet in water. But if she doesn’t, they will wither andpossibly die. Hope studies the bouquet for one second longer. She lets herself appreciate the beauty, the aroma, the memories that swirl in the air. Her birthday used to be such a special day, a day that always involved celebrating in some way with her mom. Hope bends over and inhales deeply. Then she stands up, turns away, and leaves the flowers behind.
Body
Chapter 4
And now we return to the post office. Sunset Beach is replete with beautiful, picturesque places to visit. There is the town park that overlooks the Intracoastal Waterway, the old swing bridge that citizens of the town preserved when the new bridge was built, and plenty of lush, green golf courses to beckon enthusiasts of the sport. There is Bird Island, home of the Kindred Spirit Mailbox, which sits in the dunes of the long stretch of undeveloped coastline. In the decades it has stood there, thousands of people have left messages to the Kindred Spirit, containing everything from happiness to heartbreak. And there is the beach itself, recently voted as one of the ten most beautiful in the world byNational Geographic. You can look it up.
But the town post office would not be considered a beautiful place to include in a visit to Sunset Beach. The low-slung redbrick building is set back off the street, close to the main intersection of town. It is a functional place, which is what post offices are meant to be. Though from the street the building appears to be large, the actual part where transactions occur is quite small. To access that section of the post office, you must walk through a set of double doors in the front, then enter a vestibule area, then make a left and walk through another door. Then you’re where you need to be.
Inside you will find exactly what you would expect to findin any post office: floor space for customers to wait in line and display cases of greeting cards and mailing supplies strategically placed around the room. To the right is the front desk where the postal workers receive customers, and to the left is a bank of windows looking out at the parking lot.
If you were thinking there would be anything cutesy or beachy here, you’d be wrong. It is as utilitarian as any normal, run-of-the-mill government building. It’s good that you have at least a nodding familiarity with the post office as, though it might be hard to imagine, we will spend most of the rest of the story here—certainly longer than any of the people in line expect.
Right now the line is not that long. Not as long as it can get during busier times. Sometimes the line is out the door and into the vestibule. But that’s usually at Christmas. Not like today. Today there is one man at the front of the line and four women of varying ages and walks of life waiting their turn behind him. Even though Sunset Beach is a small town, these folks are all complete strangers. But they will not stay strangers for long.
The lone man never looks back at who’s behind him, as he is intent on speaking to the postal clerk. It seems he is not aware that the four women behind him are even there. One woman stands out because she is talking on her phone. She came in on the phone and has stayed on the phone since she stepped foot in the place. She is one of those people who talks loudly and freely in public places, as if it has never occurred to her that others can hear her conversation or might be bothered by it.
The other three women, who have been subjected to her conversation whether they like it or not, have learned that she has had a session with her personal trainer already this morning and is quite proud of herself for having done so. They also know she is there to ship back some protein powder that is—as she puts it—foul. She would not—under any circumstance—consume itagain, no matter how committed she is to getting a hundred grams of protein a day.
The three women who are not having a private conversation loudly in public glanced at one another as they took their places in the queue, giving a little nod or the kind of closed-lip smile that says, “I acknowledge your presence, but I don’t care to engage with you.” Which is fair enough. No one has time to engage with everyone they encounter on a given day. Each of the other three women is, after all, in a hurry to run this one errand and move on, like most any person who is running errands would be.
It goes a little deeper than that, however. These three are carrying packages that, once mailed, have the potential to change their lives forever. But they wouldn’t want you to know about that. They’d prefer to keep what’s in those packages to themselves.
One of the three, Blythe, is also engrossed in her phone, but not to talk. Instead, her thumbs bounce across the buttons in a flurry of motion. It is important to note that, though Blythe is wearing an engagement ring on the hand that clutches her phone, she is texting someone who is not her fiancé. When she is not texting, she is picking the nail polish off her nails. She’d painted them last night for a very special dinner. But that dinner had not gone well, and now the nail polish only serves to remind her.
Another of the three, Morrow, seems rattled, as if something happened to her before she got here. Even if you don’t know the first thing about her, it’s obvious. This is because something did happen. She has just had a run-in with one of the local cops. He turned on his lights and his siren and pulled her over like a criminal. One of her neighbors drove by and saw the whole thing. At least she thinks it was one of her neighbors. A lot of people in the area drive small white SUVs, so it might not have been. But still. Morrow, a law-abiding citizen with a clean driving record, ismortified. Instead of letting herself think about what the officer said, she grips her long dark ponytail and runs her cupped hand along the length of it, smoothing it, and her nerves, as she does.
Morrow was so sure the cop wasn’t after her that at first she didn’t respond to the flashing lights and wailing siren when the car came up behind her. She wondered why he wasn’t going around her. Then it dawned on her that she was his target. Confused, she checked her speed, but it was not above the limit. (People tend to go slow in Sunset Beach as there is rarely a reason to be in a hurry.) She pulled the car over to the curb and rolled down her window. The warm salty air rushed into the car as she waited to see what the officer wanted with her.
“License and registration,” he said, all business. As he bent down to speak with her, his stomach spilled over his belt. Weren’t police officers supposed to keep fit? Wasn’t there some sort of rule about that?
She tried not to focus on his belly as she handed over her license and registration, then waited in her car while he ambled back to his own. She still didn’t know what she had done wrong, and she hadn’t been brave enough to ask. Cars passed by, their drivers gawking at her as they did. He sat in the patrol car for what seemed like an excessive amount of time before returning to hand back her license and registration.
“Ma’am,” he said, “did you know your car tag is invalid?”
She blinked at him. “Invalid?”
“Expired,” he said. He cleared his voice. “The renewal’s past due.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. She almost told him this was her husband Kevin’s fault. He always took care of anything to do with their vehicles, so she hadn’t the slightest idea of when or if her car tag needed some sort of renewal. She thought that might diminish her in his sight, though. It sort of diminished her in her own.
When the children were little, she had so many other things on her mind, it only stood to reason that Kevin took some things off her plate. He handled things like lawn care and vehicle maintenance while she handled things like well-child appointments and carpooling and getting dinner on the table every night. Now, as she was literally being talked down to by a cop, she wondered if she shouldn’t be taking on more, doing more, seeing as how the children are no longer little. She is without excuse. Maya, her baby, is graduating high school in a little more than a month. At the end of the summer her daughter will be off at college and her nest will be empty. Somehow Morrow has worked herself out of a job. Her car tag isn’t the only thing that’s invalid. Expired. It seems she is as well.
