The Sky Beneath Her(25)

In C-3, we were greeted by a heavy pine scent that conjured up images of bottles of liquid gold. The floor glistened, and the countertops were wiped clean. Behind the counter was a slim woman with dark hair. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a sober expression.

“Hey, Lynn,” Kaitlin said. “Ready to pick up my order.”

Lynn’s expression tightened. “We just finished boxing up a partial order. You ready for the season?”

That question got asked a lot this time of year. “The season” meant higher prices, more traffic on the roads, and crowded beaches and stores. The prime twelve weeks of summer were the gold rush for most down here. This was the make-or-break time, because as soon as the tourists left, life and revenue reduced to a crawl.

“I’m ready,” Kaitlin said. “We have a packed schedule, which is a good thing. Last two years have been great.”

“Good and bad, I guess. Can’t enjoy warm empty beaches if you don’t have money.”

Kaitlin jabbed a thumb toward me. “This is my friend Tula Cassidy. She’s back on OBX and is helping me clean for a couple of weeks.”

“Your friend?” Lynn hesitated as she mentally flipped through memories. “That’s right. Tula used to live here. Your mother was lost at sea.”

In high school, this bold mention of my mother’s death would have sent me scrambling from the room. I would have refused to cry, but bottled emotions would have festered and stewed until late at night, when tears finally fell. Now the old wound was covered in scar tissue.

“That’s me,” I said.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Lynn said. “We all felt so bad for you.”

My story had been a cautionary tale for everyone on the Outer Banks. You could live close to the ocean, and though it was stunningly breathtaking at times, it could also consume you or someone you loved. I reminded everyone of that dark fact. After Mom vanished, and before she became a saint, many questioned her judgment regarding currents, the potentially looming storm, and Mother Nature’s wrath.

Even as volunteers searched for her body, many whispered that Mariah Cassidy thought her long-standing relationship with the ocean exempted her from danger. They righteously stated that the ocean did not care about backstories, reasons, or excuses. It did its thing. It was up to us to heed the warnings.

Her loss had reignited interest in the Oceanus. Some divers hoped to find the mythic gold. And even years later, others wondered morbidly if they could find Mariah Cassidy’s body. A few posted videos on YouTube about their adventures. I’d watched one, and it had triggered a full-blown panic attack. I hadn’t seen an Oceanus video in over six years.

Thankfully, no one had found Mom or the gold. The ocean had decided to keep them both.

“Thank you,” I said to Lynn, returning to the present.

“Are you here all summer?” she asked.

“I’m cleaning out a house for the owners. Been in the family for decades. I’m not sure how long it will take.”

“Where’s the house?”

“Southern Shores.”

Lynn nodded. “Must be the Brooks house.”

Small-town living. “That’s right.”

“It’s been empty for several years,” Lynn said. “You think they’ll sell?”

“No idea. My job is to clean it out.”

“If you need supplies, you know where to find me,” Lynn said.

“Will do.”

“Being back here doesn’t bother you?” she asked.

I had to hand it to Lynn. She served her questions right to my face. “Check back in a few weeks. I’ll let you know.”

Lynn nodded and waved us behind the counter. “Come get your supplies.”

She led us through a maze of boxes and bottles of all kinds of containers filled with pink and blue cleaning solutions. She stopped at two marked “Kaitlin.”

“Help yourself, ladies. Your order is light, but come back later in the week for more.”

Kaitlin nodded thoughtfully before lifting the bigger of the two boxes. “Okay. Text me when it arrives.”

Lynn handed Kaitlin an invoice.

Kaitlin didn’t scan the bill. “I’ll take care of this right away.”

“Good,” Lynn said.

I hefted one of the containers, straining a little as I adjusted my grip. Back muscles tensing, I followed Kaitlin, who easily balanced her box on a hiked knee and opened the door. She held it for me. I followed.

She raised the van’s back hatch and dumped her box next to a vacuum cleaner and several mops. She took mine. I shook out my fingers, recharging the circulation.

“When did you get so strong?” I asked.

“When did you get so weak?” she countered.

I swam laps a few times a week, but lately I’d found reasons not to go. I didn’t think the lack of exercise had caught up. “It’s been a slow and sloppy slide down the hill.”

She laughed. “Time to climb back to the mountaintop.” Inside the car, the engine rumbled. “Now we need to stop by the repair shop. Otto is fixing two of my vacuum cleaners.”

Of course, the prep work made sense. But I had pictured just showing up with a mop, a bucket, and a vacuum cleaner. “A bigger production than grabbing a few cleaning items at the grocery store.”