The Sky Beneath Her(35)

“I hope the new owners don’t change too much. Maybe whitewash the wood paneling and add a bright color outside.”

Kaitlin laughed. “I’ve never known you to get attached to anything down here.”

I shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. I’m only here for the summer.”

“I’ll help you deep-clean a bedroom and bathroom. Then you’ll have a clean start.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

She wiggled her fingers. “Many hands make light the work.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

We opted to divide and conquer the housework, as we had before. I stripped the bedding on the double bed and shoved it into an old washer. “No dryer.”

“There’s a clothesline outside,” Kaitlin said. “You wanted vintage, and you got it. There’s laundry soap in the van.”

At the van, she grabbed a mop bucket while I unloaded soaps and rags.

Inside the house, I opened the windows, the wooden hurricane shutters, and the front and back doors. Fresh air immediately tunneled through the house as if it had just taken a full breath.

Kaitlin flipped on the breakers and then cleaned the bathroom, which was in decent shape, while I wiped down the bedroom. I mopped the floor in the bedroom and quickly washed the kitchen counters. Soon, wet sheets draped over the clothesline and flapped in an ocean breeze. The hot sun and wind would dry them out within hours.

It was nearly five when we’d finished our tasks. I closed up the house and locked the front door.

The sharp anger always directed at Mom, the Outer Banks, and the Oceanus had faded to a dull ache. I no longer saw all my mom’s faults, but I recognized the good she’d done. She’d shown me the world, given me life skills few kids had, and taught me how to be independent. She hadn’t been perfect, but neither was I.

We both crossed to the van. Kaitlin started the engine, which rattled to life. The air-conditioning felt good against my sweaty skin. I lifted my shirt and leaned in to the vent. I didn’t know anyone who’d known Mom when we were here, beyond a few sailors we’d spoken to in passing. But there had to be someone who’d known her.

“The dinner crowds will hit soon. Want to grab a quick burger and celebrate your first full day?”

“You have time before camp?”

“I do.”

“Sounds amazing.”

“Arthur’s has great burgers. And it’s on the sound side of the beach road.”

“Perfect. Shouldn’t we shower?”

“We can wash our hands and faces in the diner’s ladies’ room. This place is the spot for local contractors. Everyone is wearing their day’s grime. Not many tourists until later.”

“Sounds good.”

We parked in front of a two-story wood building with upstairs and downstairs porch seating. The tables and chairs were painted in aqua and white, and colorful strips of fabric dangled from the porch roof.

“What’s with the fabric?” I followed her up the stairs.

“Supposed to catch bad spirits,” she said.

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

Inside, the cool air brushed my salty skin. Kaitlin and I made a beeline for the restroom. Kaitlin peed, washed her hands quickly, and was reaching for the door while I was still splashing cool water on my face. By the time I’d dried my face and hands, combed my fingers through my hair, and secured it back in a ponytail, Kaitlin had already gotten a table and two beers.

“I see a friend,” Kaitlin said. “Let me say hi quickly.”

“Will do.” I saddled up on a stool and took a long sip of beer. The salty barley flavor was about the best I’d ever tasted. I huffed out a breath and relaxed. This place wasn’t my home or my permanent anything, but it felt good to be here.

“Tula.”

The deep voice drew me to Nathan, standing there with a cold soda. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. His sun-streaked brown hair was wet and brushed off his face. “What brings you here?”

“Taking a break after work. Kaitlin will be right here.”

He sat on the barstool next to me as if we hadn’t missed a beat in the last seven years. He looked me over. “Rough day?”

I guess I really should have stopped at the apartment and taken that shower. “Kaitlin says our projects averaged a five on a scale of one to ten.”

His smile was dazzling. And there was an edge of humor in his deep tones. “I’d hate to see you after a ten.”

My chin lifted. “Me too.”

“Far cry from office work?” he asked.

I sipped my beer. “Very different. My back might have more comments to make tomorrow. But all in all, better than moving papers from one end of the desk to the other.”

“You’ll get used to the manual work. Give your body a chance to adapt.”

Once I had been very strong, so I knew he was right. “You look like you’ve been in the water.”

Hair curled against the nape of his neck. “I took a group of tourists out to dive.”

“I thought you were here for the Oceanus.”

“I am, but as you know, bills don’t care about dreams.”

I laughed. “That’s very true.”