Page 5 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

I planned to sell the house. But I hadn’t thought about how to dispose of the antiques. I definitely didn’t expect this much stuff.

“Hey, check this out!” Ocean exclaimed, pulling a stack of old rock concert and movie posters from a pile. She flipped through them eagerly, the task of opening windows forgotten. “These are so cool! I bet Grandma’s got some real hidden gems in here.”

“Let me know if you find a Woodstock poster in there,” I said. “It’ll be bright red, with a white bird sitting on a guitar.”

The summer before I left for college, Clare came home from an estate auction with a box full of old posters.

Buried in the middle was an original Woodstock poster.

I’d gasped when I saw it, and without hesitation, she handed it over.

For four years, it hung above my dorm bed like a flag of freedom and rebellion, a slice of history I felt proud to claim.

On graduation day, I packed it carefully in a box.

It disappeared while I was loading the car.

I blinked, brought back to the present by the rustle of papers as Ocean flipped through another stack. She turned to me, her voice steady and sure.

“Mom, we can’t just get rid of these things,” she said. “I want to go through them.”

“We’ll go through them together. But for now, let’s get these windows open and get settled.”

We made our way into the next section of the house. A jumble of furniture. It looked more like a warehouse than the dining and sitting area I remembered. Ocean moved around quickly, pulling back curtains and yanking the windows up.

A cross breeze began to waft through the house, and the musty smell started to fade.

“I’m going to check upstairs,” Ocean said.

“Good. Get all the windows.”

“Got it.”

My eyes were drawn to the back corner of the room. It was the only uncluttered space in the entire downstairs, so far. An oasis amid the chaos.

Time seemed to have stood still in that spot.

Just like when I was a kid, Clare’s favorite chair and ottoman were positioned in front of a TV that had to be at least two decades old.

On the small table beside her chair, a delicate porcelain teacup, still half-filled with tea, rested on a saucer.

Next to it, something new, a framed photo of me and Ocean standing on either side of Clare, with a shimmery Pacific Ocean stretching out behind us.

Rhys had taken that picture two summers ago.

He’d captured the moment just as Clare slipped her arms around our waists, her smile as warm as the setting sun.

On the floor sat a basket filled with birthday and Christmas cards we’d sent her from California over the years. Notes we’d hurriedly written were carefully arranged, as well. Traces of glitter sparkled in the light from the window.

I never knew she kept them.

A well-worn copy of The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver was tucked into the chair cushion.

Several delicately pressed flowers marked some passages.

That novel was one of my favorites. Clare’s too.

My mother and I had read it together for the first time when I was Ocean’s age.

I’d thought I was getting too old for reading with her, but we shared some powerful emotions as we worked our way through that book.

Draped over the arm of her chair was the crocheted blanket she’d made for me when I left for UC San Diego.

Some of the knots along the edges were worn, but the colors were still vibrant.

I’d wrapped myself in its warmth many a night while I was away at school.

But I gave it back to her during one of my summer breaks, insisting that she’d need it more.

The Harbor View winters were far colder than anything out west. Now, seeing it carefully folded there, I wasn’t so sure who had needed it more.

The lump in my throat returned. This corner of the room wasn’t just tidy. It was a quiet haven of love and memory. It was, I suppose, a testament to the way Clare had been holding on to us, even when we were far away.

“Thank God! You’re finally here.” Arthur’s voice rang through the house as he strode through the open front door, his presence as regal as ever.

He was handsome—a Bill Nighy lookalike—and he hadn’t lost one iota of his good looks. Seventy-ish. Fit. Effortlessly stylish. Gay. Single by choice. The most well-connected person in Harbor View and Clare’s only true friend.

Arthur Booker had been a fixture in my life for as long as I could remember, seamlessly slipping between needed roles.

Friend, uncle, protector. He’d patched my scraped knees as a child, listened to teenage dramas with a knowing smirk, mediated battles between me and my mother.

And later, as I stumbled through young adulthood, Arthur had been ready with words of wisdom or solace.

Whatever was called for. And always with his own often hilarious brand of incisive sarcasm.

He was a man of action, the one everyone in town turned to when something needed doing.

Whether it was organizing a charity gala, fast-tracking a building or event permit, or quietly ensuring that someone guilty of a minor misdeed got what was coming to them.

In short, Arthur was Harbor View’s own Don Corleone.

“I saw you pull in, but I had to get rid of the head of the Zoning Commission and her husband. How are you, my love?”

Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped me in a warm hug, his arms strong and his embrace familiar.

I breathed in spicy notes of the same expensive cologne he’d worn for decades.

We just held on, neither of us needing to say what people were supposed to say when they’d lost someone they loved.

Actually, the silence between us conveyed more than any spoken condolences ever could.

“It wasn’t her time,” he said finally, his voice rough as he drew back, staring at the chair in the corner. “She shouldn’t be gone.”

“No.”

“But what the hell was she doing going out into that damn building at that hour?”

I knew Arthur was the one who found her body the next day.

“Uncle Arthur?” Ocean’s voice floated down from the top of the stairs.

We both turned, and in the next moment, my daughter was in his arms. He was hugging her with the same fierce affection he’d always given me. He released her and gave her a slow head-to-toe look.

“Are you all living next to a nuclear power plant these days? You’ve grown six inches since last time I saw you.”

“Exaggeration,” Ocean said with a laugh.

“It’s the truth. How old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

“You were twelve,” Arthur replied. “Twelve...the last time you came to Harbor View.”

“Not true. We came last summer. But you were away for something.”

“Oh, yes. You did come last summer. For roughly thirty-six hours, I believe. It was one of those fly-by trips that half of your parental unit enjoys.” He struck a dramatic pose. “ I’m far too important to stay away from Hollywood for more than ? — ”

“Okay,” I broke in. “Enough with the hard time.”

“We’re staying longer this time,” Ocean chirped. She tugged on his arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Come help me with the windows. It’s like a cave in here.”

As Arthur followed her, Ocean called back, “Mom, everything’s open upstairs. But can we get something to eat? Order in, maybe? I’m starving. Pizza. Let’s get pizza.”

Arthur called out the name of the place we should order from.

“Sure thing.”

I went back into the front room where I’d dropped my bag. The sound of their laughter coming from the kitchen was exactly what I needed. It was a welcome break from the weight pressing down on me. I really had to push the sadness aside and focus on what had to be done.

But Ocean was right. Food first. We were still on California time, and aside from a few snacks, we’d missed breakfast and lunch.

As I reached into my bag for my phone, fingers clamped around my wrist.

Cold, strong…and lifeless.