Page 7 of A Breeze Over Rosewood Beach (Rosewood Beach #9)
CHAPTER FIVE
Oscar rolled his shoulders back with a groan.
He felt as though he had been driving forever and a day, even though the last time he’d gotten out of his car to walk around and stretch for while had been an hour previously, when he’d stopped by a nice rest stop that had a vending machine and a duck pond.
He’d wanted to buy himself some caffeine, but of course there wasn’t any kind of decent coffee at the rest stop.
He’d finally settled on a Coke, and the bubbling, fizzing drink made him feel as though he was ten years old again.
He didn’t like it. He hadn’t had soda in decades.
He glanced at his GPS and was relieved to see that he would be arriving in Rosewood Beach soon.
It was only another fifteen minutes or so.
He was still driving through coastal farmlands and woods, and he felt as though he was in the middle of nowhere.
Was there really a town up ahead, nestled in the middle of all that nature?
If he hadn’t been following a map to find it, he might have come to the conclusion that it was a mirage.
He downed the final sips of his Coke as he drove up a hill along the coast. The sun glittered on the ocean waves, looking as beautiful as a painting.
He found himself reminded suddenly of a painting that he’d forgotten about entirely for years.
It had been hanging over the mantelpiece at his great grandmother’s house and had been of a beautiful coastal landscape like this one.
He remembered the flecks of white and gold paint that were meant to represent the sunlight on the water, and the way it danced.
It had been a wonderful painting, and one that had filled him with joy when he was a child.
He found himself wondering if the painting had been done by an artist from Rosewood Beach.
Maybe his great grandmother had referred to it when she’d told him about the “paradise” of the little town, and he’d forgotten the connection until that moment.
He drove up to the top of a hill, and all at once the land opened in front of him, and he was looking down at a picturesque little town.
To his left, the ocean sparkled like an azure-blue fabric covered in diamonds, and in front of him were rows of charming streets and quaint buildings.
A sign on the side of the road read, “You are Now Entering Rosewood Beach.”
He began his descent down the hill into Rosewood Beach, finding that his heart was beating faster.
His eyes scanned the buildings, noting that they were a mix of modern and old—some of them very old.
Most of them had fresh coats of paint in pleasant, cheerful colors.
He even passed a bridal shop that was painted a vibrant shade of pink.
A bit much, he thought with another grunt, but he had to admit that the shade suited the style of the antique building, with its latticed windows and white shutters.
He drove slowly through the streets, hardly paying attention to what his GPS was telling him.
He’d known it would be different from New York, but the extent to which the town was pervaded with a sense of quiet and peacefulness floored him.
He knew that the sidewalks were more likely to be bustling with people during the summer months, but the people that he did see walking or getting out of their cars seemed to be moving at a relaxed, cheerful pace that was foreign to him.
He was so used to seeing the people of New York barreling down the sidewalks as fast as they could go, trying to get to whatever urgent business they had to do as quickly as possible.
Quaint, he thought, looking around at the shops and sidewalks that were lined with trees and flower beds.
Although everything was covered in a sparkling coating of snow, he could easily imagine how bright and cheerful the streets must be in the summertime, when there were colorful flowers growing alongside the cheerful buildings.
I know I came here for a drastic change, he thought, but that was because of my finances.
I didn’t expect it to be quite this drastic.
He drove past more streets, and there were fewer and fewer shops and more homes. After turning around a large pine tree, he arrived at the cottage that he had rented.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw it. The white of the stone walls and the even cleaner white of the snow contrasted beautifully with the navy hue of the ocean. The sky was a creamy shade of light blue, with a couple of cirrus clouds wafting across it.
He swallowed, feeling an intense relief that he hadn’t expected to feel.
Here was a place where he could close the door and be alone for a while.
It would be quiet, and peaceful, and it would be beautiful.
He hadn’t expected himself to be so moved by the majesty of the view the cottage offered.
Even in winter, the lawn surrounding the little house looked marvelous.
There was a gentle slope leading down from the house to the road, and there was a cluster of birch and pine trees near the house that did nothing to impede the breathtaking view of the ocean.
He parked in the little garage, got out of his car, and lugged his suitcase out of the trunk.
His feet made crunching sounds as he walked across the thin dusting of snow that hadn’t been cleared from the driveway.
For a moment, he was tempted to find fault with the landlord, but then he reminded himself that the driveway had clearly been recently shoveled—and there was salt on the path leading up to the front door, which had made most of the snow on the cobblestones melt.
He looked up at the sky. It was clear at the moment, but the snow had probably arrived early in the morning. It was more than possible that whoever owned this cottage was too busy with other things to clear away the snow.
Or they just don’t think I’m that significant, he thought with a grunt. Who would? I’m just a random old man coming here to live for a while.
He remembered times during his career when he’d been treated with the utmost respect.
At galas and other city events, he’d been given special places at dinner, and he’d been given VIP treatment when it came to his car or buying a hotel room.
He shook his head, trying to dispel all the memories.
They made him feel as small as one of the grains of salt lying on the cobblestones.
He found an envelope poking out of the front door. He tugged it out and opened it, finding the key and a cheerful note from his landlord. He frowned, weirded out by the lack of security. Were there really no people there who would have taken the key and gone into the cottage to steal valuables?
He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. It swung inward slowly, revealing a short hallway decorated with a colorful pastel rug and a thin table sporting a few colored glass vases and a stack of books on photography.
Heat wafted around his face, kissing his cheeks.
He stepped inside and set his suitcase down on the floor, glad to enjoy the feeling of warmth.
He shut the door behind him and looked into the room to his left, which was clearly some kind of living room.
There was a comfortable couch and an armchair, and a little fireplace with a stack of real wood beside it.
He wandered into the kitchen, which was clean and smelled pleasantly of lemons.
He opened the refrigerator and found fresh eggs, a loaf of homemade bread, and a quart of milk.
There was another cheerful note from his landlord, welcoming him to Rosewood Beach and stating that the food was complimentary. A welcome gift.
He frowned. There would be some catch in it somewhere.
Business owners never gave you anything for free, not really.
There would be some request for a tip or a fine print addition to the final price of the cottage, something like that.
But he didn’t really care. Eggs and milk and bread would be nice to have.
His stomach growled loudly, and he realized that he was hungry.
He opened the cupboards, looking for dishes, and found that everything was clean and put away in an orderly fashion.
He pulled a frying pan out of one of the lower cupboards and set it on the stove.
He noticed a bottle of olive oil on the counter, and he poured a little into the pan.
He hadn’t cooked for himself in a decade or so, but it couldn’t be that hard, right?
He cracked open a couple of the eggs and threw the shells away in the garbage can, which had a fresh, empty bag in it. He washed his hands, noticing that the hand soap smelled like mint and blueberries.
He left the eggs cooking on the stove and made his way up the little staircase to the second floor.
It was small, but it contained a four-poster bed covered in a handmade quilt and a small bathroom with a bathtub and an old wooden medicine cabinet over the sink.
Here too, everything was clean and smelled nice.
Even though it was clear that many of the items in the house were antiques, nothing gave off an indication of decay.
The place was clearly well-maintained. Oscar had to admit that he liked that.
He’d just finished putting away some of his clothes in the dresser when he noticed an odd smell. He sniffed the air in confusion. Was something on fire? A problem with the electric system maybe?