Page 3 of A Breeze Over Rosewood Beach (Rosewood Beach #9)

CHAPTER TWO

Oscar Jennings set down the cardboard box he’d been holding with a huff.

I’m getting too old for this , he thought grumpily, wiping sweat from his forehead. He glanced up at his New York townhouse and felt a pang of sadness. I’m too old for all of this.

He looked behind him at the sidewalk. That was the last of the boxes. All of the furniture that he was keeping was already in the trailer. All that was left in his house was his suitcase full of clothes and toiletries and a couple of books, waiting for him just inside the front door.

“That’s it?” The man from the moving company walked around from the front of the truck, where he’d been answering a phone call.

“That’s it,” Oscar said, feeling both relieved and struck with disappointment. He didn’t feel ready to move away from his house, which he’d lived in for many years.

“Perfect. The company will be in touch. Safe travels, Mr. Jennings.”

“You as well,” Oscar said, although he thought to himself that a truck driver drove long distances all the time, so it wasn’t as if the trip would be anything special to him.

To Oscar, it felt like setting out toward the jungle.

He’d spent decades living in New York, working as a stock trader.

He’d been excellent at his job, and his success had become a core part of his identity.

Now, however, it felt as though his identity had crumbled at his feet.

It was as if the house standing in front of him wasn’t really there anymore, and instead it was a pile of rubble that he felt he was trying to crawl out from underneath.

His life had turned into a kind of nightmare, he thought darkly as he turned around and made his way up the steps to his front door.

During the last few months, his success had been snuffed out like a candle.

Everything had taken a turn for the worse, and along with his plummeting finances, his confidence in his abilities as a businessman had sunk into the depths as well.

He looked over his shoulder as the moving trailer began to pull slowly onto the street.

Impatient New York drivers honked at the massive truck in frustration.

Oscar shook his head, hoping that he saw all of his things again one day.

The driver was bringing the trailer out to a storage unit many miles away.

Eventually, Oscar would have his belongings shipped to him. For now, he had nowhere to live.

Well, he had plans to put a roof over his head. He wasn’t that destitute. But he was leaving the city for good, and leaving behind his house that he could no longer afford to live in.

He stepped inside the front door and picked up his suitcase.

He almost didn’t look around the room, as if it was a sight that might burn him if he got too close, but in the end, he couldn’t help himself.

He looked around the open front room slowly, his eyes tracing over the empty walls and floorboards.

Gutted, he thought. I feel gutted, just like this house.

He swallowed, never having been one for crying. Instead, he scrunched his face up into a well-practiced frown and left his home.

Once the door was shut behind him, his heart felt somewhat lighter. That, at least, was over. He slipped the key into the mailbox, not caring if anybody saw him do it. It wasn’t his house anymore. His landlord could deal with any incidents of breaking and entering. Not his problem.

He walked down the steps one last time and turned around and looked up at his home. A few seconds later, he got something in his eyes and had to blink hurriedly as he turned away.

Seasonal allergies, he thought with a grunt. He conveniently ignored the fact that he didn’t get seasonal allergies in the dead of winter.

He shook his head as he walked toward his car. He’d hung on for as long as he could, but it had been time to admit defeat. At least this way, he still had some money. It was enough to give him a place to stay for a while. He could get back on his feet in that little coastal town—what was it called?

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the email confirming his rental of a seaside cottage. Rosewood Beach. Kind of an overly cutesy name for a town, he thought with another grunt.

He peered at the image of the cottage that he’d rented.

It was small and made of white stone, with sea blue shutters and a beautiful garden in front.

The photograph had been taken in summer, of course, and it would all be cold and frozen when he arrived.

Still, it was a roof over his head in a place that was far less expensive to live.

He couldn’t recall ever having been to Connecticut, but he’d heard his great grandmother talk about Rosewood Beach when he was a child.

She’d called it paradise, and it had stayed in his mind as a kind of fairytale place.

He’d convinced himself it wasn’t even a real town, but then he’d seen it on the map while looking for a place to start over in.

He’d decided it was as good a place as any to try to pick up the pieces of his life, so he’d rented the cottage.

He wasn’t feeling particularly enthusiastic about his new living situation, but at least he would be away from New York.

Maybe then it would be easier to forget about everything that had gone wrong, and everything that he’d lost.

A fresh start, he thought as he heaved his suitcase into the trunk of his car. Fresh. Start. I don’t feel fresh, and I don’t have the energy to start anything.

He got into his car and started the ignition. He just needed a roof over his head, and a place to be left alone to lick his wounds while he decided what to do next. That wouldn’t be too hard, right?

He swallowed as he glanced over his shoulder. He could only hope it wouldn’t be.

Letting out another grunt, he pulled his car out onto the street and started his long drive to Rosewood Beach.