The Sky Beneath Her(24)

“A good luck talisman.”

“Maybe.”

Outside, we crossed to the van. I slid into the front, clicked my seat belt. The morning heat had already warmed the seats. The pine scent of cleaning supplies wafted around the cab. I rolled down my window, hoping not to asphyxiate in the next thirty minutes.



As the van rolled over the bridge, Kaitlin mused, “Amazing what you learn about people when you clean up after them.” Her van window was open, too, and a cool breeze wafted through the cab.

We were driving across the bridge to the mainland to pick up supplies at Currituck Cleaners. Many of the people who made daily life possible—plumbers, electricians, police, even teachers—didn’t live on the Outer Banks. Housing on OBX was tricky. The houses were either too expensive or in need of so much repair that it would take a decade and hundreds of thousands of dollars to bring them into this century. Kaitlin had gotten lucky when she’d bought the former bait store.

I gripped the armrest on the van’s door and arrowed my gaze forward, avoiding the sight of the sound’s choppy waters. High winds made the bridge sway slightly, and I was certain the waters mocked me.

“You haven’t asked me about the secrets I’ve discovered while cleaning houses,” Kaitlin said.

“Not interested.”

“Everyone wants to hear a little dirt.”

She was trying to distract me from the lapping sound beneath the bridge. “You gossip about your clients?”

“Never. But now I have you.”

“I’m not sure I need more dirt in my life.” We crested the top of the bridge and glided down toward the mainland road.

Her sunglasses tossed back my reflection when she looked back at me. “Are you sure?”

“My dysfunctional life is at capacity. I’m not sure how much more I can handle.”

“Your life is tame compared to some.”

Did that make me feel better? Misery always craved a little company. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Excellent. You just passed a test.” She shifted in her seat and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I never share what I see in any of these homes, but a few employees of mine have. I fired them. You’re going to see some stuff. And I’ll stay in business longer if you only tell me what you see.”

“People talked about me when I lived here, and it wasn’t fun to be the girl whose mother was lost at sea. The long lingering stares and whispers weren’t fun. No matter how hard I worked at being normal, I was always That Girl.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe, but people still love a tragic tale. It makes them feel better about their lives.”

Mariah Cassidy had become larger than life after her disappearance. She became super smart, well traveled, funny, kind, and brave.

Everyone, including me, edited out the bad stuff: dangling questions, run-on flaws, and meandering choices that had led nowhere. I stopped thinking about the times she’d drunk too much or taken off for days, leaving me to fend for my ten-year-old self with the ship’s cook, a salty sailor named Madge, or hotel staff. There were times when we packed our suitcases and left at night because she didn’t have rent money.

Dying dramatically had cleaned up a lot of issues. And these days, I only pictured the woman with a fit body, muscled arms, and a laugh that always lightened my mood. And it was kind of a relief. Ever since my separation from Dave, I’d caught myself asking Mom for advice. And sometimes I thought maybe she’d reached from the beyond and offered me sage counsel. Don’t open another bottle of wine, and avoid the local dive bar for a hookup.

My therapist said that Mom and I were a lot alike. We both were prone to emotional distance. And Mom could no sooner let go of her wrecks than I could abandon my sixty-hour workweeks. We clung to what helped us avoid the messy moments families or loved ones required of us. Fixation was our hiding place, but it chipped at our tethers to the real world.

Kaitlin crossed onto the mainland, and my fingers eased on the armrest. I flexed the stiff joints. “You’re not a tragic tale,” she said. “Be positive.”

A misshapen smile strained my facial muscles.

She cringed. “Stop, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m trying to be positive. Smiles are optimistic, right?”

Wind flicked the edges of her blond hair around her face. “Oh, they are, but that smirk reminds me of the Joker or Loki.”

For the first time in months, maybe years, something broke loose inside me. Ice cracked and floated down a frozen river. “It’s not that bad.”

My tone had softened, and she knew she had breached the armor. “A cartoon evil mastermind would be jealous.”

“Fine. It was a little forced.” Coiled anxiety unfurled a bit more, and a genuine grin flickered.

“But now it’s not. And that’s progress. You’re going to find living at the beach to be good for you.”

“Or it’s going to kill me.”

“Maybe. But you’ll survive.”

“Survive dying?”

“You know what I mean.”

Five more miles down the road, Kaitlin pulled into the parking lot of a one-story warehouse building that appeared to house several businesses. Pool supplies in A-1, lawn service in B-2, and cleaning supplies in C-3.