Beach Thriller(2)

Holly tried not to envy the author’s success, especially because she wrote so passionately about how King Fluff pulled her out of a depression spiral. Still, it was the literary equivalent of the Snuggie or Crocs—an idea so absurd on the surface that few would expect it to have any commercial appeal.

“I’m not going to write cat books, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Holly had said.

“I didn’t get it for you to copy someone else’s success. I got it because I think you need some help, love.”

“From a Buddhist cat? Hell no, I don’t,” Holly said, though a voice inside her head screamed, Hell yes, you do.

“I’d call it more of a ‘self-help’ cat. And you’re deathly unhappy—I know it, you know it, and this cat knows it.”

Shae was right, of course. Holly wrote about people like herself—those on a seemingly endless quest for self-acceptance and self-love—which should have been cathartic, but instead kept her trapped in a cycle of rehashing the same issues over and over and over.

Holly might not love the book, but Shae would forever be in her heart. They didn’t see each other nearly as much as both wanted. Shae had moved to California eons ago, became a fraud detection specialist for a major bank, and married a guy who sold medical devices. They had a couple of gorgeous, sun-kissed California kids.

Meanwhile, Holly had fucked up and become a writer. If she had realized how hard it was to make money as a novelist, she might have followed in her mother’s footsteps and become a nurse.

But to this day, she believed she possessed no other marketable skills. Writing was her livelihood, and she would have to write here. Beauport was now her home, and not just for the summer, as it had been when she and her sister, Anna, were children, spending the season with their mother and grandfather in the beach cottage.

Now she’d be completely alone with no end date to her stay. Carol Sinclair’s funeral had taken place not long before Holly was evicted from her Brooklyn studio apartment. What would her mother say if she knew her prodigal daughter had returned? Some cryptic remark, she guessed, that reflected her beliefs in the supernatural. I knew the ghosts would lure you back.

Holly continued to sing along with Stevie Nicks, mildly off-key, as she drove past the famed beachside boardwalk in her trusty Kia Soul. According to the salesman, the Kia was the cheapest, most reliable vehicle on the lot. For once, a man had been honest with her.

She had bought the car shortly after her novel Radiant Sun got long-listed for the Women’s Prize for Fiction. It was a massive honor, but she was often long-listed. She was never the winner.

It was no surprise to see the boardwalk jammed with tourists bopping in and out of the charming shops, numerous galleries, and popular restaurants, all just a short walk from Holly’s family home. But there would be no shopping for her today.

At half past three, Holly pulled into the driveway of 6 Sea View Lane. Tufts of beach grass lining the road swayed in the wind as if saying hello. Her house stood directly across from a steep embankment that descended to a sandy shoreline. Crescent Beach got its name from the curve of the cove that mimicked the waxing moon. It was one of the longest beaches in Massachusetts, extending from her home all the way to the barnacle-crusted pier jutting out from the busy boardwalk.

Today the seas were calm, the skies bright and clear, but Holly’s inner barometer remained dark and turbulent. She had arrived carrying the same guilt and shame she’d left town with eighteen years ago.

One look at the house brought it all back—the good, the bad, and the downright tragic. It was a kaleidoscope of memories, a rainbow prism of glorious nostalgia twisted into something too painful to face: beach days, boardwalk ambles, ice-cream bellyaches, bike rides, and bonfires that had turned into police sirens, screams, heartbreak, and a lifetime of regret.

She pushed a strand of light brown, wavy hair off her face, reflecting on how much she had changed over the years as well. She still had a small frame, kept her hair long, and had eyes that matched her sister’s—hazel with flecks of gold—and of course the dramatic cheekbones that were a Sinclair signature. But inside, she was tougher, more guarded, no longer the same girl who had walked these sandy shores.

Holly pulled herself out of the past to take in the sorry state of her home. She had to give credit to the caretaker, who had made good on his promise: The boards that had once covered the windows, protecting them from the elements, had come down. Several stacks of plywood lay neatly on the front lawn, ready for disposal.

Thanks to those boards, the windows were in decent condition, but the rest of the house looked dreadful. A combination of sea spray, rain, and wind had stripped the front of the house bare, bleaching the once-sturdy gray shingles into a sickly pale, weather-beaten facade. Some spots were bare where shingles had been blown off entirely and rot had set in.

Not only was the exterior weathered and worn, but some local kids had taken advantage of her family’s absence and spray-painted graffiti beneath the first-floor windows. Holly was glad that Joey loved Emily, but she certainly didn’t need his devotion immortalized next to her front steps.

She’d find someone to take care of that soon, along with what appeared to be a lot of other repairs. How she’d pay for those was another matter. A lawyer in town had access to a trust her grandfather had set up to care for the cottage; Holly would certainly follow up soon.

She also needed to contact a landscaper. The lawn would have been in perfect condition if it had been Halloween. Craggy bushes encroached on the windows and vines climbed to gutters that overflowed with debris. Weeds and crabgrass were everywhere she looked, except in the spots where nothing could grow in the rocky soil. No wonder she’d been getting hate mail from her neighbors. With the boards up, the house must have looked like a crack den.