Page 36 of Marriage is a Shore Thing (Wilks Beach #2)

thirty-five

Van

The swift afternoon breeze tickles my cheek the following Tuesday as I finish up the siding.

Geneva and I painted Sunday afternoon and all of yesterday until she left to teach her popular Monday night class.

The house now fits with the peach, yellow, and seaside blue of her neighbors—not that Geneva would care about fitting in.

I’m just glad she picked a color that makes her happy.

Sunday night, we went to dinner at Joanna’s after breaking the news to Mama. At first, she was madder than a bull in a hornet’s nest, but her voice caught on the video call as she welcomed Geneva to the family.

Geneva asked if Mama and Mark had time for us to visit sometime soon, saying she wanted to get to know her better. That made Mama’s eyes mist over, and she blamed allergies as she set the phone down to find some tissues.

After we disconnected, I kissed my wife breathless. I’m not sure how I got this lucky, but I’ll never take a second for granted.

It turns out Mama couldn’t wait to meet Geneva in person, because she asked if we could visit this coming weekend.

Being in Nashville will give me the opportunity to not only show Geneva my favorite music spots but tie up some business as well.

I’d like to say goodbye to colleagues and officially resign.

Since my medical director is a romantic at heart, I know she’ll understand.

Closing out my apartment should be easy.

I’d always worked so many hours that I never put any personality into it.

Not like Geneva’s—not like our house.

A contented sigh leaves me as I rub my forehead with the back of my hand. Prunella and Stella peck at the clover beyond the tarp dotted with splats of pink paint while Hank inches closer to my boots, clucking softly.

“Girls, I think we’re done.” I survey the siding, hands on my hips.

It’s a good thing, because another tropical storm is rolling in, the wind already picking up. Even though it’s not supposed to hit us until tomorrow evening, this one shouldn’t be too bad.

“I’m going to double-check the front and then clean up,” I say, leaning down to pat Hank on the head.

I take the paint tray and brush with me as I round the side of the house, closing the gate so the girls don’t get any wild ideas, like trying their wings at surfing again.

When I turn around, one of my favorite locals is frowning at the house, one hand on the hip of her cable knit sweater, the other clutching her cane.

“Pink?” Carol asks when I come to stand beside her.

“It’s Geneva’s favorite.”

“Since when?” Disdain drips from each word.

My shoulders bounce as I try to keep my smile contained. “Since she realized she can be both tough as nails and feminine, grouchy and caring. A beloved grump.”

Carol sniffs, but her chin dips in what I’m considering approval. Of course, she could just be holding in a sneeze.

My mouth opens to ask Carol about her day when a voice lilts on the wind.

“Van.”

I wince reflexively, nearly dropping the paint tray.

Though Taylor isn’t using my government name, the sound of her calling sends shivers down my spine.

I assumed after finally chipping away at my mountain of grief, I’d be spared these unexpected encounters.

A shaky inhale fills my tight lungs as I try to slow my heart rate.

It takes several seconds to notice that Carol’s assessing gaze is zeroed in on me.

“What?” I ask as it feels like she’s lasering off years of medical knowledge.

“You can hear that?”

I’m about to deflect when I hear my sister’s voice again.

“Van.”

This time, I fumble the paint tray, spilling pink paint down my jeans.

Carol hums, her tone indiscernible. Then she tilts back her head and yells into the sky, “He’s busy. We’re having a conversation if you haven’t noticed.”

I must be hallucinating, because the wind dies down immediately—almost as if chastened. Goosebumps prick my skin as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What—” I swallow. “What is going on?”

Carol waves a hand at me, irritated. “You think you’d get a break once they’ve gone, but some people just can’t take a hint and leave you alone.”

A man’s laugh—deep and husky—echoes between the houses. It could almost be mistaken for the distant rumble of thunder if not for the cloudless sky.

Another splat of pink falls on the gravel, prompting me to set the tray down and shove my shaking hands in my pockets.

“They can’t talk as much as they used to. Only a couple of words, a short sentence at most. Which is good because Charles used to yap like a squirrel on espresso.”

Laughter surrounds us again, playful and rich. Carol rolls her eyes at the sky before her narrowed focus drops to me.

“I assume you can hear him too.”

I nod, the movement unsteady.

“Guess you’re supposed to be here after all,” she says with a casual shrug, like the sky isn’t laughing at us, like all of this isn’t outside the confines of reason.

My mouth opens, closes, and opens again as questions whir through my brain. “Who’s Charles?”

“My late husband.” She tilts her head back. “And a pain in my behind.”

The chuckle resonates again, but this time, a breeze blows between us, warm and soft, as it lightly ruffles Carol’s white curls. Her face fully relaxes, the slightest hint of a smile gracing her lipsticked mouth. When Carol closes her eyes with a satiated sigh, I can’t help my responding grin.

She harrumphs when she notices me smiling at her. “Who’s talking to you?”

Pain sears though my chest like someone pushed a hot poker through my ribs.

“My sister,” my voice cracks. “Taylor.”

“It’s a double-edged sword,” she says, pulling her lips to the side. “It’s nice to hear them again, but it’s not the same as them being here. Their voices are strongest at the beach and only during hurricane season. Most of the time, I can’t bring myself to walk down, to—”

Carol suddenly looks small and vulnerable, not the spitfire who runs this town. Her shoulders, already curved from the hyperkyphosis that comes with age, now slump with fatigue. The worn creases of her face loosen as her scowl fades, grief creeping in.

I step forward to offer her comfort, but Carol snaps back to her usual self, batting me away with her cane.

“Back up, Tex. I don’t need your paint-splotched mess dirtying my clothes.”

“Van,” I correct for what feels like the ten thousandth time.

Carol tilts her head. “I like Tex better.”

Then, without another word, she cane-stomps over to her friend’s house, letting herself in.

I let out an openmouthed exhale, blinking. “I guess I’m going to the beach to talk to my late sister.”

My feet are leaden as I tromp over the deck boards of the beach walkway.

Since there are several locals walking near the shore, I sit at the base of the dune, wrapping my arms around my knees before realizing I’m covered in wet paint.

A chuckle escapes me as I rub at the pink now smeared on my arms, and I swear I can almost hear Taylor laughing along.

“Um, hi?” I say after several long seconds.

I rub my eyebrow with a knuckle, not sure I’m doing this right. None of this makes logical sense, but neither did fireflies swirling above Geneva and me as we finally admitted our feelings for each other.

The responding, “Hi,” brings moisture springing to my eyes.

All I wanted right after Taylor passed was to be able to talk to her again, to be able to tell her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her. I’d told my sister all the time, but not being able to have that final goodbye wrecked me.

But now, to have the ability to tell Taylor how much she meant to me…

Silent tears roll down my cheeks. “I miss you.”

“Van.”

Air swirls around me, affectionately wisping my cheeks, my hair, my brow.

A memory surges forward from when I was six and couldn’t sleep.

I was supposed to start a new school for advanced children, and nerves kept me up.

Taylor pretended that her hand was an octopus and had it crawl onto my forehead to suck out all the bad thoughts, like it was pulling a mollusk from its shell.

She made exaggerated slurping sounds that made me giggle.

When ‘the octopus’ had its fill, it slinked to my pillow and snored softly.

I never slept better than I did that night, so naturally, I asked Taylor to do it whenever my mind wouldn’t quiet down.

I look into the clear blue sky. “Do you remember…”

Twenty minutes or two hours later—time seems to have suspended while I’ve told my sister all the things I wished I could have—Geneva sits next to me in her sleek pantsuit. She had interview training at OWRC today.

She rests her head on my shoulder, intertwining our fingers. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I drop a kiss on her temple. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Carol told me to check on you.” Geneva kicks off her heels and wiggles her toes in the sand.

“Did she now?”

I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d intrinsically known how soft and sweet Geneva was despite her gruff armor. Carol is probably the same.

“What’s going on?” Geneva’s beautiful brown eyes survey my face, concern staining them an even richer hue.

As much as I’d like to tell my wife everything, I’m wrung out from speaking to Taylor. Besides, I know that Geneva will be there for me tomorrow, the next day, two weeks from now…forever. Warmth seeps into my chest despite the cool wind now ruffling our hair.

“Bye.”

I draw my attention away from Geneva to nod at the sky.

Though the idea of talking to my late sister had been terrifying initially, hearing the whispers of her laughter on the breeze has been unexpectedly comforting.

The knowledge that I can come here and be connected to her again feels like being wrapped in a blanket straight from the dryer, which is something that Taylor used to do for me in the winters when our apartment never quite got warm enough.

A soft grin lifts my lips before I glance down at Geneva. “Can we talk about it later?”

My wife nods, never taking her focused attention off me. Her fingertips gently trace the dried tears on my cheeks. “Promise?”

I chuckle. “When have I been known to hold my tongue?”

Geneva’s devious little smirk makes my day. “I swear you could talk the paint off the walls.”

My beaming smile is reflexive. I’ll never get tired of this back and forth with her.

“That so?” I murmur, leaning in until our noses brush.

The halting inhale that slips between my wife’s lips makes victory surge through my bloodstream.

“Besides providing you with endless conversation, I can think of something else this tongue is good for.”

Her eyes flash with heat, but she tilts her chin defiantly. “There you go, being all cocky aga—”

“Confident,” I correct, smiling against her lips.

Then my fingers thread through Geneva’s loose hair as I decimate those final inches, kissing my wife on the beach of my new home.