The Sky Beneath Her(34)

Out of the car, I tipped my face toward the sun. “I have no idea why I accepted this job. It makes no sense.”

“The firm must trust you. Cleaning out the home of a founding partner’s great-uncle is important to them.”

A ripped, faded awning dangled over a window. “This place is going to need more than a broom.”

“Have you been inside yet?” Kaitlin asked.

“No. This is my maiden voyage.”

I pulled the old key from my purse and shoved it into the lock. This close to the ocean, anything metal rusted, and the lock resisted as I twisted the key. I wiggled it until it finally gave way, and the dead bolt opened. Turning the knob, I pushed open the front door.

Warm, musty air rushed out, and the interior was shrouded in shadows. I flipped on a switch that looked original to the house. A small bulb dangling from a ceiling fan spit out enough light for me to cross the room and push back dusty curtains covering a salt-streaked window. Beyond was a small patio abutting a retaining wall that held back the sand. Stairs led to a platform on top of the dunes. I coaxed the second door open and stepped outside into sunshine. Beyond the sandbank, waves tumbled onto the beach.

“Houses today can’t be built this close to the dunes,” Kaitlin said. “This is a true throwback to the 1940s. The Wright Memorial Bridge was only two lanes and kind of rickety. It was a bit like the Wild West here then.”

“I wonder why Dr. Brooks picked this spot?”

“If he wanted to cut off the world and commune with the ocean, this was the place to do it. What do you know about the senior Dr. Brooks?”

“Nothing. I only met his great-nephew once, two days ago.”

“You know your Oceanus wreck is almost three miles due east of here.”

“I know.” I’d always approached the dive spot via boat, and I’d never paid attention to the distant beach.

“Someone wants you to face the Oceanus.”

“My therapist.” Who had still not acknowledged my text.

“Would he orchestrate all this?”

“No. He’s a fan of nonintervention.” There’d been times when I’d wished he’d just tell me how to feel. Now I was glad he’d left me to figure me out. “Let’s have a look inside.”

The walls were covered in wood paneling and images of ships and the North Carolina coastline before many homes had been built. The rattan furniture with fabric cushions sporting wide palm leaves had a nautical vibe. There was a soot-stained fireplace with black andirons, a raw-edge wood mantel displaying two vintage brass lanterns, and a large basket filled with yellowed newspapers.

In the galley kitchen, brown paneling, a double oven, white metal cabinets, and a white speckled Formica countertop were reminiscent of a 1950s sitcom. The Frigidaire freezer/refrigerator was also vintage, as were the stove and the farmhouse sink.

I opened the fridge. It was small but clean and cold. The freezer needed defrosting, but otherwise, it was spotless. This old place was dusty but basically tidy.

“The house has a good vibe,” Kaitlin said.

This house wasn’t designed for lounging. It had been built with the beach in mind. No lingering on the couch watching TV or scrolling. It wanted its occupants outside by the ocean.

One of the three bedrooms was furnished with a white four-poster bed, and one of the others had twins. The art had a nautical theme, and the windows were small. The third room was the largest and served as an office, dominated by a desk that had a ship’s captain vibe, much like the one Mr. Brooks had in Norfolk. The room had ten filing cabinets, all covered with stacked files on top. Shelves, crammed with books, lined all the walls.

“Where do you start?” Kaitlin asked.

“A basic cleaning of the kitchen, a bedroom, and bathroom. I’ll tackle the rest bit by bit. Mr. Brooks said I could stay here while I worked.”

“You’re welcome to bunk with me.”

“Thank you. But this place has real beds, and your twin bed . . .”

“Lumpy, hard, short?”

“Yeah. But I’ll still cover the two weeks of work I promised you. I’ll just get up a little earlier and meet you at the surf shop.”

Kaitlin dragged a finger over the dusty counter, leaving a trail. “It’s got quite the history.”

I walked into the office, flipped on the light, and walked toward boxes stacked in the corner. I lifted the lid and found manila folders stuffed with yellowing papers and a few photographs. “The man never met a piece of paper he didn’t love.” That was one of the odd things I’d appreciated about my job at first. Printed pages felt solid, and after a lifetime of traveling, they signaled a safe harbor.

“From what I’ve heard, Dr. Brooks became a super-volunteer when he retired. Everyone at the rec center, library, and animal shelter knew of him.”

“Really?”

“He never was out front at an event, but he was the organizational brains behind some big fundraisers. He passed seven years ago, shortly after your mom vanished. He was well over one hundred years old.”

“Wow.” I smoothed my hand over the dusty desk and wondered what it would be like to live such a long life. “Even I can see this is a nice place. Has a lot of character.”

“And it’ll sell for a good price, despite all the reno work that needs to be done.”