Christie Ridgway - The Love Shack

It had been paradise for Gage, Griffin and the rest of their posse of kids who’d run wild every June through September.

Rolling down his window, Gage breathed deeply of the salt-and-sun-laden air and dismissed his disquiet. He had a few weeks to rest and recharge before his next assignment overseas, and Crescent Cove was the best place in the world for that. “It’s still got that ol’ magic, doesn’t it?” he murmured, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” Griffin said. “Maybe I should go with you to collect the keys.”

Uh-oh. Uneasiness kicked up again. “What’s going on?”

“Look. About Skye—”

“Don’t say any more,” Gage said, already irritated. The older by eleven minutes, Griffin often acted as if he were the much-wiser sibling. “I know her as well as you. Better than you.”

“You haven’t seen her since we were kids. You might be, uh, I don’t know, surprised by how she looks.”

“I don’t care how she looks,” Gage said, aware he sounded a little angry. What? His brother thought he had some shallow set of standards when it came to female companions? Okay, he supposed it could be true when it came to a certain kind of female companion, but that didn’t apply here.

“I’m not interested in her appearance.” Gage pressed his shoulder against the passenger door and pushed it open. “She’s not a woman to me.”

His brother might have mumbled, “Oh, hell,” but Gage was already on his way toward the footpath that would lead him straight to Skye Alexander.

He knew exactly where the property management office was, just as he knew all the cove’s other landmarks from his childhood explorations. Then, Skye’s father had been in charge, always dressed in his trademark khakis, wilted denim shirt and bush hat. Skye and her sister could often be found in his office, playing with paper dolls or with their shell collections, leaving Mrs. Alexander free to stay engrossed in her easel and paints.

Skye held her dad’s job now. Gage knew this, because they’d fallen into an accidental correspondence nearly a year ago. When planning his R & R a few months back, he’d thought of her and the cove and made a snap decision to rent the beach house where he’d spent those idyllic summers. To surprise his pen pal, he’d reserved it under a fictitious name.

He couldn’t wait for her reaction when she saw him.

His palms itched, and for a moment he regretted leaving his cameras packed in the car. His hands seemed too empty without them, though he hadn’t felt much like taking photos lately, which worried him a little.

A lot.

Maybe Beach House No. 9 would be the antidote to that, too.

Ahead was the simple clapboard structure that was the one-room management office. He slowed his approach, taking in the small yard enclosed by a white picket fence that was brightened by bougainvillea vines of varied colors: fuchsia, white, coral and red. The front door stood open, and a woman’s voice floated over the threshold, the notes snatched away by the cool breeze before he could make out the words.

He stepped over the low gate instead of chancing squeaky hinges that might give him away. Then he strolled up the path until he came to a stop on the small, stamp-sized doorstep. The midmorning sun was bright, the interior of the office dark in comparison. Feet planted on the concrete, Gage peered into the dim interior.

A woman was half-turned away from him, a phone pressed to her ear. “Sure, I can email you a scanned copy of Edith’s letter to Max. Yes, they are my great-great-grandparents. Sure. Fine.” She paused to listen.

For the life of him, Gage couldn’t figure out what Griffin’s warning was all about. Yeah, his recollection of Skye stalled on her at about eleven years old, but this grown-up version didn’t clash with his memory. She’d had that long, coffee-dark hair as a little girl. The woman before him was average height, he’d say, and looked slender, though she was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt that could have been her father’s.

The phone conversation seemed to be winding down, and Gage felt another surge of eagerness. He couldn’t remember the color of her eyes or the shape of her nose, but any moment now she’d turn his way and he’d have a face to put with those letters that had become so vital to him during his hellish two-week ordeal in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m thrilled you’ll be featuring the cove in an upcoming edition of the paper. Thank you. If I can answer any more questions, Ali, don’t hesitate to call.” She clicked off the phone, but still didn’t glance toward the door.

Gage felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t move or say anything for another long moment, while the ocean breeze played with the hem of his jeans and the tail of his thin white shirt. It was stupid, maybe, but he felt as if he was poised on the brink of something and he wondered, weirdly, if he should have brought flowers.

Then, rejecting the odd thought, he lifted his foot to enter Skye’s domain. The movement must have alerted her to his presence. She whirled to face him.

And screamed bloody murder.

September 15

Dear Gage,

Salutations from a childhood friend! Your missive to your twin reached me at Crescent Cove’s property management office. Thought you should know Griffin’s not expected at Beach House No. 9 until April. Loved the picture on the front of the postcard—one of yours? Over the years, I’ve noticed your photo credit lines in magazines and newspapers and remember the camera you carried every summer, strapped to your chest like a second heart.

Hope this finds you in good health, Skye Alexander

Skye,

Thanks for the info re: Griff. Are you still playing tea party at your dad’s desk in the Crescent Cove office? Because I can see you there in my memory. What summers we had! When it’s blistering hot here, I take off to the cove in my imagination and lie on the wet sand, letting the cool Pacific wash over my skin. When the temperature turns freezing, I remember our tribe of Cove kids playing beach soccer under a burning sun. Do shore crabs still make you squeal?

Gage

Skye Alexander’s friend and neighbor Polly Weber leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You didn’t tell me Gage Lowell was gorgeous.”

“You’ve become friends with Griffin. Since they’re twins, it should come as no surprise.” Skye didn’t even glance at the man seated at the head of their table on the open-air deck. Besides Gage, Polly and Skye, there were five more people attending the welcome dinner at Captain Crow’s, the restaurant/bar located at the northern end of the cove. Griffin and his fiancée, the twins’ sister, Tess, and her husband, and an elderly family friend were gathered close to the man of honor. Skye had chosen a seat as far from him as possible.

She was counting on distance to calm her heart—it had been beating with an erratic wildness since she’d looked up that morning and found a dark figure looming in her office doorway.

He was telling the story now, speaking up so that Rex Monroe, the nearly deaf nonagenarian who lived full-time at the cove, could hear him. “My ears are still ringing from her scream,” Gage said. “I meant to surprise her, not send her into a full-blown panic.”

“She’s been jumpy for months,” Rex said, shaking his head. “Nervous like a rabbit since March.”

“Really?” There was a new alertness in the younger man’s voice, and Skye sensed he was studying her over the plates and glasses.

She pretended an avid interest in the surface of her white wine and ignored the embarrassed heat crawling toward her cheeks. Good thing she was wearing a cotton turtleneck with her boy-styled black trousers.