came,”
Mrs. Doyne’s words broke through the din.
“Message?”
The teapot whistled, the high, shrill sound causing the cats to stir.
A spoon clinked, the refrigerator door opened and closed. Cream and sugar. Mrs. Doyne knew. We’d shared more than a few cups of tea these past few years.
“It sounded as if the man had no idea where else to call. I would’ve passed your mobile number along to him, but he left a message on the recorder while I was at the market. I suppose he found your number and called you directly?”
Her slippers shuffled against the wooden floors as she reentered the living room and handed over my tea. The cup was warm, comforting, its chamomile scent sinking in. “I left my phone in the car all afternoon.” I didn’t tell her I’d done that to avoid the constant flurry of bill collectors chasing me down for overdue payments.
Mrs. Doyne delivered a perplexed look, settling into her recliner. “I know it isn’t the sort of news you need right now, what with your restaurant struggles.” Her head inclined sympathetically, her eyes compassionate behind thick glasses. “Are you close?”
“Close?”
“To your stepfather.” Frowning, she looked into her teacup, as if she might find the answers there. “I assumed not, given that the neighbor couldn’t find the number to your cell phone in his home.”
“My stepfather ?” The words struck like a ricochet baseball, drilling some unsuspecting fan in the head. I hadn’t seen my mother’s late-in-life husband since her funeral.
He’d had my phone number at the time, but he had no doubt thrown it away since then.
It was no accident that my stepfather’s neighbor couldn’t find my cell phone number among his belongings. The man wanted nothing to do with me.
“Mrs. Doyne, I’m completely lost here. I haven’t heard from my stepfather in almost five years. There’s no reason he’d be getting in touch, believe me.”
“Oh . . .” A hand-to-chest look of surprise. “When I saw you crying in the car, I just assumed the message had gotten through to you. I’m sorry to be the deliverer of such news. The call was from your stepfather’s neighbor in North Carolina . . . the Outer Banks, I believe he said. He thought you should know of the situation. Apparently, your stepfather is in the hospital. He took a fall in the bathroom . . . and he laid there for nearly four days before anyone found him.”
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CHAPTER 1
W HEN TROUBLE BLOWS IN, my mind always reaches for a single, perfect day in Rodanthe. The memory falls over me like a blanket, a worn quilt of sand and sky, the fibers washed soft with time. I wrap it around myself, picture the house along the shore, its bones bare to the wind and the sun, the wooden shingles clinging loosely, sliding to the ground now and then, like scales from some mythical sea creature washed ashore. Overhead, a hurricane shutter dangles by one nail, rocking back and forth in the breeze, protecting an intact window on the third story. Gulls swoop in and out, landing on the salt-sprayed rafters —scavengers come to pick at the carcass left behind by the storm.
Years later, after the place was repaired, a production company filmed a movie there. A love story.
But to me, the story of that house, of Rodanthe, will always be the story of a day with my grandfather. A safe day.
When I squint long into the sun off the water, I can see him yet. He is a shadow, stooped and crooked in his overalls and the old plaid shirt with the pearl snaps. The heels of his worn work boots hang in the air as he balances on the third-floor joists, assessing the damage. Calculating everything it will take to fix the house for its owners.
He’s searching for something on his belt. In a minute, he’ll call down to me and ask for whatever he can’t find. Tandi, bring me that blue tape measure , or Tandi Jo, I need the green level, out in the truck. . . . I’ll fish objects from the toolbox and
Mrs. Doyne’s words broke through the din.
“Message?”
The teapot whistled, the high, shrill sound causing the cats to stir.
A spoon clinked, the refrigerator door opened and closed. Cream and sugar. Mrs. Doyne knew. We’d shared more than a few cups of tea these past few years.
“It sounded as if the man had no idea where else to call. I would’ve passed your mobile number along to him, but he left a message on the recorder while I was at the market. I suppose he found your number and called you directly?”
Her slippers shuffled against the wooden floors as she reentered the living room and handed over my tea. The cup was warm, comforting, its chamomile scent sinking in. “I left my phone in the car all afternoon.” I didn’t tell her I’d done that to avoid the constant flurry of bill collectors chasing me down for overdue payments.
Mrs. Doyne delivered a perplexed look, settling into her recliner. “I know it isn’t the sort of news you need right now, what with your restaurant struggles.” Her head inclined sympathetically, her eyes compassionate behind thick glasses. “Are you close?”
“Close?”
“To your stepfather.” Frowning, she looked into her teacup, as if she might find the answers there. “I assumed not, given that the neighbor couldn’t find the number to your cell phone in his home.”
“My stepfather ?” The words struck like a ricochet baseball, drilling some unsuspecting fan in the head. I hadn’t seen my mother’s late-in-life husband since her funeral.
He’d had my phone number at the time, but he had no doubt thrown it away since then.
It was no accident that my stepfather’s neighbor couldn’t find my cell phone number among his belongings. The man wanted nothing to do with me.
“Mrs. Doyne, I’m completely lost here. I haven’t heard from my stepfather in almost five years. There’s no reason he’d be getting in touch, believe me.”
“Oh . . .” A hand-to-chest look of surprise. “When I saw you crying in the car, I just assumed the message had gotten through to you. I’m sorry to be the deliverer of such news. The call was from your stepfather’s neighbor in North Carolina . . . the Outer Banks, I believe he said. He thought you should know of the situation. Apparently, your stepfather is in the hospital. He took a fall in the bathroom . . . and he laid there for nearly four days before anyone found him.”
Click here to buy
CHAPTER 1
W HEN TROUBLE BLOWS IN, my mind always reaches for a single, perfect day in Rodanthe. The memory falls over me like a blanket, a worn quilt of sand and sky, the fibers washed soft with time. I wrap it around myself, picture the house along the shore, its bones bare to the wind and the sun, the wooden shingles clinging loosely, sliding to the ground now and then, like scales from some mythical sea creature washed ashore. Overhead, a hurricane shutter dangles by one nail, rocking back and forth in the breeze, protecting an intact window on the third story. Gulls swoop in and out, landing on the salt-sprayed rafters —scavengers come to pick at the carcass left behind by the storm.
Years later, after the place was repaired, a production company filmed a movie there. A love story.
But to me, the story of that house, of Rodanthe, will always be the story of a day with my grandfather. A safe day.
When I squint long into the sun off the water, I can see him yet. He is a shadow, stooped and crooked in his overalls and the old plaid shirt with the pearl snaps. The heels of his worn work boots hang in the air as he balances on the third-floor joists, assessing the damage. Calculating everything it will take to fix the house for its owners.
He’s searching for something on his belt. In a minute, he’ll call down to me and ask for whatever he can’t find. Tandi, bring me that blue tape measure , or Tandi Jo, I need the green level, out in the truck. . . . I’ll fish objects from the toolbox and
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