Page 23 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

THE MOON RISES UP AHEAD.

Celia sees it as she drives the dark roads home.

It’s a heavy half-moon casting a pale glow on the street.

Shadows are long beneath its illumination.

Shadows of tall roadside trees. There are houses, too, set back on front lawns.

The homes are hulking shadows with gold lamplight smudging the windows.

But Celia keeps a watchful eye ahead, on that low moon.

Doing so stops her from looking in her rearview mirror and spotting Shane’s pickup on the road behind her.

She knows he’s there. They’re both heading back to their respective cottages.

But seeing his truck will only make it harder to veer right beneath the railroad trestle as he veers left.

Because that might be the last glimpse she catches of the pickup, of him behind the wheel, for a long time.

So… the moon it is.

Tonight, she just can’t face reality. The reality of Shane leaving here. Of him not being just blocks away from her. Close, close by.

Suddenly, there it is—that arched train trestle.

Celia pulls beneath the stone tunnel and barely pauses at the stop sign.

As she accelerates, though, she can’t help seeing something in that darn rearview mirror.

Seeing the headlights of Shane’s pickup arriving beneath that same trestle.

Seeing him wait at the stop sign when he emerges.

Seeing him stay right there until her car is out of his sight.

She briefly squeezes her eyes shut against sudden tears, takes a quick breath and a few blocks later, turns into her driveway.

It’s hard to get moving there. To collect her purse, brush fingers through her hair, grab her tote from the trunk and head to the front porch.

But she does.

“Get a grip,” she whispers to herself right before opening the door to her cedar-shingled cottage. Inside, she takes another quick breath—swallowing that stab of sadness—before crossing the living room. “Elsa?” she asks.

“In here,” Elsa’s voice comes from the kitchen.

When Celia turns into the room, Elsa’s sitting on one of the blue-painted chairs at the table.

Framed seascape paintings hang on the white-paneled wall behind her.

Recessed lights shine on the cluttered kitchen tabletop.

“Hey, Elsa,” Celia says. Walking beneath dried flower bunches hanging from exposed beams, she approaches the cozy table-corner.

“Celia!” Elsa looks up from her big leather calendar-ledger splayed across the kitchen table. A fine-tip marker is in her hand. Steam rises from a cup of tea beside the ledger. “How’d your class go? ”

“Excellent.” Celia, with her tote on her shoulder, sits with Elsa. “There were about twelve adults. Very engaging students, too. So eager to learn.”

“Now are these people about to sell their homes?” Elsa asks, lowering her leopard-print reading glasses on her nose. “And wanting to stage them for a better sale?”

“Some are. But others just want to… rethink their homes. Clean up the clutter and bring fresh decorating to the rooms.” Celia lifts the heavy tote off her shoulder and sets it on a chair. “How was Aria?”

“Aw, she was good. A little fussy at bedtime. I think she wanted her mama. But she finished most of her bottle and settled down. She’s been asleep a solid hour now.”

“Okay, I’ll check on her in a minute. But what are you up to here?” Celia asks, motioning to the open ledger.

“Before I explain… well, when I heard your car pull in, I started a tea for you. It’s steeping. Near the stove.”

“ Perfect . I can use it.” Celia goes to the stove, saying over her shoulder, “Thank you, Elsa.”

Elsa nods and details her recent ledger entries. She explains how even though the inn’s closed, she charts the zoning progress on the marsh rowboat rides. And jots chore reminders.

“ And things like this,” Elsa goes on as Celia brings her teacup to the table and sits again.

“The Connecticut Tourism Conference. It’s this Monday,” she says, pointing to that date on the ledger.

“In Hartford. Business leaders and tourism professionals will be in attendance. There’ll be talks on marketing strategies.

And panel discussions on building our state’s tourism business. Networking opportunities, too. ”

“ Ooh . That sounds fun. Want me to come?”

“Not this time, Cee. It’s an all-day thing. And would you really want to leave Aria with a babysitter that long?”

“No, I guess not.” Celia sips from her porcelain teacup. “But you take a lot of notes for me!”

“Oh, I will. We’ll have a business meeting, you and I, sometime next week. To discuss.” Elsa turns back a page in the ledger and adjusts those leopard-print glasses. “But in the meantime, we do have plans for Friday morning.” Her finger taps that date. “At the inn. Be there.”

“Tomorrow? What’s happening?”

“We’re going to finish the inn’s autumn decorating. The whole inside needs fall freshening.”

“But we’re not even open.”

“I know. It’s good to have practice runs, though. Don’t you think?”

Celia slowly spins her teacup. “I guess it would be.”

“So, tomorrow? We’ll fine-tune our décor, Celia. I’ve got all the boxes out and ready. And hey, people do come by.”

“You’ll be starting up your Sunday dinners for everyone again, too.”

“That’s right.” Elsa lifts her porcelain cup and tips it up to finish her tea. “And it’s all practice for us—the decorating, the hosting. We’ll have the inn opening down to a science.”

“Okay. How about this? I’ll bring Aria over early tomorrow. She can have her morning nap at the inn—while we work.”

After they arrange a time, Elsa belts her long sweater over her leggings and slip-on sneakers, tucks away her reading glasses and rinses her teacup in the sink. A quick hug then, before she scoops up her ledger and bustles out the guest cottage front door.

Celia stands in the open doorway. She watches Elsa cross the leaf-strewn lawn to the inn and gives a wave when Elsa glances back.

But still, Celia stays there even after Elsa’s safely inside.

Celia cradles her teacup and leans against the doorjamb.

Minutes pass. She just looks out at the night.

There’s a whisper of waves lapping on the distant beach—from the far side of the inn.

That pale half-moon rises higher now, too.

The stars twinkle a little brighter in the vast night sky.

Across the lawn, a few lights come on in the inn’s windows.

Celia looks elsewhere, then. She sets her sights in the direction of a little beach bungalow where she supposes lights are also coming on.

A bungalow with seven olive-painted steps leading to the best back porch.

An open-air porch where, these past few months, words were whispered, conversations were had; where touches were felt; where lanterns flickered; where a freebie ice-cream card was counted down.

All at a rented cottage where Shane now settles in for the night.

Just then, a faint sea breeze reaches Celia. It teases her with some hope of its antidote. So she tries—oh, does she try—closing her eyes and deeply inhaling that salty tonic that’s supposed to cure what ails you.

But … not tonight.

The sweet salt air actually does nothing—nothing—to soothe her.

** *

Oh, Concetta! Elsa types on her laptop.

Having changed into her cozy black thermal pajamas, Elsa’s sitting up beneath the blankets in bed now.

Sitting up because she absolutely must end her day with this email.

There’s something that needs to be said.

She can just… feel it. So with pillows propped behind her, and with her computer on her lap desk, and her leopard-print reading glasses on, she lowers her hands and types to her Italian friend.

A little update for you to wake up to in the morning …

I did it, Concetta. I took your advice and started locking Celia down. Tomorrow, she and I will be fall decorating the inn’s interior and taking steps to opening—one day.

But the thing is, Concetta? I could never tether Celia to Stony Point. Staying here has to be her choice. Has to be her own heart to follow. Not mine.

So though your advice to lock her down can’t fairly be done, it did something else. It helped lock ME down. And to commit to things important—to me! You see, I got a little lost this past summer … with Salvatore gone a year now. In my renewed sadness, I lost my way in my own life.

Until I took your lock-it-down message to heart.

And locked myself down!

So now? Now I’m personally fixing things I’d been neglecting.

Like my work, yes. And the whole Ocean Star Inn.

And hosting. And people in my life, too.

Oh, I have not been fully present to some—some to whom I always should be.

Yes, Celia—mother to my beautiful granddaughter.

Oh, Cliff too. (Swoon—I swear his sexy cowboy hat’s put a spell on me.) I’m restoring myself to everyone here, actually.

Though it’s sad … the way it feels like I’d been away, somehow.

Until I followed your advice. Things changed then. Or, more honestly, I did.

And now I kind of feel like—I’m back!

So grazie, Concetta, for the little kick in the caboose. I’m forever indebted.

Your friend across the sea, with all my love and affection,

Elsa

***

Shane sits on the gray rattan sofa in his living room. The tarnished lantern flickers on the mantel. He’d already cleaned out the fireplace before his imminent departure, so he doesn’t burn any logs in it tonight. In the room, there’s just that lantern and a table lamp throwing a little light.

And his one thought.

Yep, it was.

It was the best half hour of his day—those thirty minutes with Celia tonight. No doubt about it.

And now? The void.

He sits there and looks around the dimly lit cottage living room.

At the thin checked curtains framing the paned windows.

Windows that the October night presses against now.

He looks at the sponged-down, white-painted walls.

At the one wood-paneled fireplace wall. There’s more wood up above, too.

The beamed ceiling is unpainted, exposing raw planks beneath the crossbeams. In the corner of the living room, nicely dusted blue and green glass fishing floats hang from ropes.

The carved sandpipers on the mantel are also dusted.

Everything’s clean.

Everything’s in order.

Everything’s neat and tidy.

Except his life.

He walks to the kitchen now. That room’s also cleaned up.

Everything’s in its place. His cell phone charges on the counter.

Dishes are returned to the aqua-painted cabinet.

Some boxes on the table are already packed with paper items and dry foods.

He tapes up one full box. The packing tape rips loudly in the still cottage.

Then he stacks the box back near the door.

Turns around.

Takes a breath.

Checks his watch. It’s almost nine-thirty.

He turns back to the counter and grabs his phone.

Walks to the living room.

Crosses the wood floor.

When he sits on the couch again, he joggles his phone. Scrolls through his contacts, too. In the shadowy room, he sends—one by one—text messages to every single person here who matters to him. Everyone gets the same message.

Can we meet up tomorrow for a short time? I’m leaving Stony Point and back to Maine Saturday—pretty much for good. So let me know.

Shit, this is it.

The stairs are complete for Jason; this cottage rental is up the end of the month; his captain wants him to finish out the local lobstering season; soon after that, he’s out fishing federal waters .

It’s really here. There’s no way around it. Sitting alone on the shabby gray sofa, Shane just holds his phone. Goodbyes are in order.

What surprises him, though, is the immediate dinging of his phone. Not only that, everyone’s so enthusiastic in their replies.

From Noah: Good to hear from you, my boy. Stop by Lobsterland first thing.

From Cliff: Swing by the trailer in the morning. Have a coffee from the cart.

From Nick: One last ride in the security cruiser, dude.

From Walter: It’ll be like old times when your dad rented my cottage for you boys. He liked to chew the fat with me. We’ll do the same. I’ll be in the yard, shutting off spigots, doing fall cleanup. Stop by.

From Kyle: What do you want for lunch? My treat at diner—like I promised. Ell will be there, too.

And Matt: One darts game before my afternoon shift. In the sports room Barlow built at my place.

Then Elsa: Perfect timing. Can I put you to work? Busy with inn tasks and need rowboat taken out of boat basin. Can you help?

From Maris: Give a knock at shack door. I’ll have a coffee and doughnut for you. We’ll take a beach walk, too.

And lastly, Jason: Got you covered. Dinner for your stair work tomorrow night.

Shane looks at his messages, then sets his phone on the end table.

That lantern flickers on the mantel. The cottage is quiet.

The phone is now, too. The only person he doesn’t hear from is Celia.

He just didn’t have the heart to text her because, damn it, he doesn’t really know how to say goodbye to her.

Or if he even can.