The Sky Beneath Her(22)

“Towels dropped off.” I closed the phone and rose. “Did you know the guy renting was Nathan Rogan?”

She set the bags on the narrow aqua counter. “Maybe.”

“And you didn’t think to give me a heads-up?”

As she shrugged, a strand of hair fell forward. “Either way, the towels needed to be delivered.”

“And I would’ve done the job either way.”

She pulled out a bag of apples and a jar of almond butter from the refrigerator. “Would you?”

“I would have.”

Her brow rose. “Tell me the truth.”

“Okay. I’d have dropped them on his porch, rung the bell, and run.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What aren’t I afraid of?”

She tilted her head to the side. “One way or another, you needed to bite the bullet and talk to him. Now you have seen him, so it’ll be fine. If you run into him, it won’t be as weird.”

“I almost had a panic attack on the way home.”

“Almost? That’s positive, right?”

“It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible.”

She fished bread from the bag. “Do you admit it was a little progress?”

“It’s not saying much when I can brag about not screaming and falling into the fetal position.”

“I disagree. Being here is good for you.”

“He’s diving the Oceanus. He received a grant kind of out of the blue.”

Kaitlin drew in a breath. “I know.”

“How did you know this?”

“We’ve traded texts over the years.”

“He’s filming this trip.”

“Good. It could help.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You took the job to clean out the house of a guy who might be an Oceanus buff.” She sliced an apple into quarters. “Maybe this is your chance to make peace with the shipwreck that ruined your life.”





Chapter Eight


Tula





Wednesday, June 10, 2026, 6:15 a.m.


I’d lain in bed last night at first staring at the waves painted on the ceiling. Sleeping under the ocean might be dreamy for some, but for me it was overpowering. I’d finally closed my eyes, and conjured fields of wheat and rolling mountains filled with clean, crisp air. Living in the mountains had always been on the top of my bucket list, but I’d lasted two weeks in the Blue Ridge Mountains before moving back to Norfolk. Like it or not, I remained chained to the coast. Couldn’t live with it or without it.

Finally, at about 2:00 a.m., I’d turned on a light and dug the partial manuscript out of my bag. I’d run my fingers over the type. The letters a and l were deeper than the others, suggesting the typewriter’s or typist’s uneven strikes. When the clock crept past two thirty, I read a couple of dozen pages until the day’s fatigue caught up. Finally, I’d fallen asleep close to 3:00 a.m.

When my alarm went off, I woke to the steady beat of crashing waves and the smell of coffee. I blinked. The coffee made sense, but not the waves. In my nightmares, the surf was always louder and angrier. But these breakers were soft and steady, as if to say they’d been here a long time and would remain well after we’d all passed.

I closed my eyes and convinced myself that I wasn’t at the beach. Dave and I were still good, and solid predictable days were what I wanted. We were planning to build our mountain cabin. I wasn’t unsettled or yearning for something that remained out of reach.

And then my brain cleared. And I remembered.

Groaning, I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the twin bed.

I found the small restroom, which had a sink, toilet, vanity, and shower all within centimeters of each other. The closet-sized bathroom triggered a few flashbacks. How many times had I blown the breakers on a sailing ship with my hair dryer or tripped over the toilet coming out of the shower? Living on a boat sounded like a dream for many, but it came with challenges.

I showered quickly in the small space. Shaving my legs was a balancing act, with one foot planted on the plastic wall and my butt shoved against the other side of the narrow stall.

The floor was wet when I stepped out and reached for a dark blue towel. I dried my hair and returned to my room so I’d have the space to dress. I chose cutoff jeans, a blue T-shirt, and flip-flops.

I moved through the small apartment toward the kitchen. I found Kaitlin standing at the counter, sipping coffee as she stared out the back window. Without a word, I grabbed an “OBX” mug and the carafe from a beige Mr. Coffee that had been in her mother’s kitchen. I envied this relic. I had only a necklace and a few pictures to connect me to my mother.

“What’s on the docket for today?” I asked.

She remained still for a moment, and I thought she hadn’t heard me. Then she turned. “Chaos. But that’s par for the course.”

“Define ‘chaos.’”

“Six Airbnbs need to be flipped by three. Mini-camp at six this evening.”

“I’m not helping with the surf camp, correct?”

“No, but as soon as you finish that coffee, we ride. We need to grab cleaning supplies and then hit the first property at nine a.m.”