Page 2 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Two: Gabe

I never get tired of Tchaikovsky.

Even though I’ve never been much of a ballet fan—just watching it makes my feet ache—the famous score for Swan Lake is one of my go-tos when it comes to easy listening.

I hum the bright, cheerful tune to “Dance of the Little Swans” as I continue the work of setting up my temporary music room in our summer rental. If I can craft something even half as brilliant as what Tchaikovsky accomplished in his lifetime, I’ll die a happy man.

The music room in question is little more than a tiny office space in the back corner of the apartment. It gets great light for most of the day and, once I finish sticking blocks of insulating foam to the walls, it’ll have great acoustics to match.

Really, I had intended to take the summer off from composing. Coming off the high of a Grammy nomination for Best Original Score certainly affords me some time to rest, but the fact of the matter is… I didn’t win. And while a nomination is definitely an honor—a feat that most people will never achieve—it’s not good enough for me.

I’ve always had high standards for myself. Even if, more often than not, something gets in the way of me reaching them.

So, when I told my daughter the good news that we would be spending another summer in Mermaid Shores, I knew I had to leave room in the car for my electric piano and an acoustic guitar. I’ve also got a saxophone with me, but that was a last-minute whim, and then Wren threw in a tambourine simply because she’s going through a percussion stage. At seven years old, my kid has clearly inherited my passion for making loud noises.

I’m just praying for the day when she’s able to turn those loud noises into something a little more rhythmic.

I set the electric piano on its stand and plug it in, testing it out by playing a few notes from Tchaikovsky’s iconic “Swan Theme.”

“Good to go,” I mutter to myself.

I made sure to bring the headphones that can plug into the piano as well, since we’re not the only family in this building. This year, Mermaid Shores seems to be a more popular tourist destination than usual, so it was difficult for me to even find a place to rent. I had to choose between a drafty cabin on the outskirts of town or this converted duplex close to the beach.

Historically, Mermaid Shores has always been a well-kept secret. A hidden gem on Cape Cod where celebrities, dignitaries, and other VIPs make their escape every summer. Regular people also vacation here, but they typically belong to the families that have been coming here for generations.

Like me. I grew up in New Hampshire, but every June, my parents would pack up me and my older brother into the trusty Subaru and come down to the traditional New England cottage that had been in the family since my great-grandfather worked as a lobsterman down in this area.

Unfortunately, a hurricane did some pretty bad damage to the cottage about ten years ago, and Grams decided to sell the land to some fancy folks from New York City. There was a period of time when I didn’t come to Mermaid Shores for years, nor did anyone else in the Sterling clan. But I’m trying to restart the tradition with Wren. It’s the least I can do to give my daughter a fun summer at the beach, given how many hours I work during the year.

It’s just me and her most of the time. Or rather, me and her and the nanny I had no choice but to hire for an extra hand. I gave Nadya the summer off, though, so it really is just me and my daughter on our own until August.

Once upon a time, things might have been different, but there’s no use in dwelling on past tragedies. I don’t want to get lost in that headspace right now. Not while it’s such a beautiful day outside. Sunny and breezy—the perfect June day.

Speaking of Wren, I should really make sure she’s not getting herself into trouble. She’s impressively mature and capable for someone who has only been on this earth for seven and a half years, but she’s still way too young to be allowed to wander off on her own.

Currently, the second floor of the house is suspiciously quiet. That can’t be good.

I step out of my makeshift music room and peer down the hall toward her little bedroom facing the sea.

“Wren? You up here?”

No answer.

Just to be sure, I poke my head into her room. It’s empty, save for the fact that we just arrived last night and her purple suitcase has already exploded all over the place. I’ve been trying to work with her on forming tidy habits, but she has her mom’s chaotic spirit.

But now is not the time to be thinking about Wren’s late mother. I’m on vacation. The sun is shining. It would do me some good to look on the bright side of things.

I head to the first floor, the wooden stairs creaking underfoot. I know almost nothing about architecture, but this house is like a relic from a bygone era. I don’t think anything other than the kitchen appliances have been updated since the nineteenth century. I like it. It reminds me of the big, old house that I grew up in and the decrepit attached barn where I used to go and practice violin so I wouldn’t disturb the rest of my family.

Even now, after all these years, the thought of that cursed instrument puts a sour taste in my mouth.

Wren isn’t in the living room, nor is she in the kitchen.

“Wren?” I call out. “Where’d you run off to?”As I approach the back door, which has been propped open to allow the summery, salted breeze through the screened storm door, I finally hear my daughter’s bright, cheery tone.

“—and did you know that there’s a magical lady here in town? I mean, I think she’s like a fairy godmother or something. They call her the wise woman . Isn’t that cool? A waitress at the restaurant my dad took me to last night told me all about her.”

Oh, goodness… who is she even talking to? Probably the neighbors that we’re sharing this place with. I hope she hasn’t been talking their ears off for too long.

“Is that so?” Wren’s unknown companion replies. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a magical lady before.”

The voice is soft and feminine. Kind, too. At least she’s humoring my kid rather than telling her to scram.

“Me either! I really want to find her. I hope she tells me the future. I want to be a drummer when I grow up. My dad writes music, but it’s classical —ugh! I like rock music, don’t you?”

An indulgent laugh follows. “Actually, I’m afraid to tell you that I like classical music, too.”

Weirdly, this stranger’s voice sounds a little familiar. Maybe she’s another Mermaid Shores regular—someone that I’ve unknowingly crossed paths with during past summers.

“Aw, really?” Wren whines. “But what about Metallica? Don’t you like when the guitars are all like RAAHHH! ”

When my daughter lets out a deafening roar, I know it’s time for me to intervene.

I push open the screen door and step out onto the back patio, where flat stones form a surface just large enough for a grill, a table, and some chairs before melting away into the brown sand that spills down onto the sloping beach.

There’s a woman sitting in one of the chairs at the table, a book laying open in front of her. I bite back a groan. I’ve really tried to teach Wren that interrupting people while they read is one of the worst things you can do. I’m sure she’ll learn eventually.

The woman’s back is to me. She has long, light brown hair that’s glinting a dark gold in the sunlight. It’s wavy and thick, spilling like a cascade of water down her back. What I can see of her bare arms is covered in a spray of freckles, and there’s a sharp glint of sunlight reflecting off a silver ring on her left index finger.

Wren is standing beside her chair, close enough to indicate that she’s treating the woman like an old friend instead of with the caution she should be using with a stranger.

I open my mouth to call her inside, but she notices me in her periphery first, whirling around with a bright smile on her face. Despite having her mother’s wild and unpredictable personality, Wren looks so much like me that it’s almost baffling. Black curls, light brown skin, and green eyes. Not to mention the gangly limbs, which she’ll eventually grow into just like I did.

“Daddy!” she exclaims when she sees me. “You should come meet our neighbor. I was just telling her all about Miss Maisie!”

“Honey, how about you come inside? Our neighbor is clearly trying to read her book.”

“No, it’s alright,” protests the woman, turning around at last.

She twists in the chair, gaze lifting from my boat shoes and slowly dragging up to the collar of my polo before finally resting on my face.

Instant recognition slams into me so hard and fast that it jolts me a step backwards. The woman has a similar reaction, flinching so dramatically that you’d think someone just reached out and tried to slap her.

Wren, already bored with the turn of events, slips past me and skips into the house. In the silence that follows her absence, the woman and I stare at each other with matching expressions of horror.

“You,” I bite out.

She narrows her eyes. “ You .”

Alina Sokolov. Daughter of famed cellist Vladimir Sokolov, Juilliard graduate, and esteemed violinist from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

I haven’t seen her in years, but the hatred in those doe eyes—the color of honey—is viscerally familiar. Even after all this time, I’m clearly still her least favorite person.

Well, two can play at that game.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

Alina rises from the chair, crossing her arms against her chest to square off against me. Just like that, I’m nineteen again, battling it out with her in a fluorescent-lit rehearsal room while our classmates look on nervously.

Very little has changed about her, though something in her facial features has become sharper, harder. Like she’s slowly been turning to stone since the last time we saw each other. I can see that she still favors dark colors in her attire, though, given that she’s wearing loose black trousers and a matching blouse even in the June sunshine. She looks like she’s about to walk onstage and perform a symphony, except that her violin is nowhere to be seen.

“I’m visiting my cousin,” she snaps back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been coming to Mermaid Shores since I was a kid.”

She frowns as if she doesn’t believe me. Despite being a grown man, I roll my eyes. She purses her lips.

“Hm,” is all she says.

“But what are you doing here ?” I ask, waving at the house behind me.

“I told you. I’m visiting my cousin.”

“Here.”

“Yes, Gabriel. Here. In this very duplex.”

I scoff. She’s always insisted on calling me by my full name, despite the fact that I’ve been going by Gabe since birth.

“That’s not—that can’t be…” I trail off, closing my eyes for a moment.

“Wait, don’t tell me…”

When I open my eyes, she looks horrified. Like Niccolò Paganini himself rose from the dead just to tell her that she’s a talentless hack.

Unfortunately, even I have to admit that wouldn’t be true. Alina Sokolov isn’t talentless at all. That’s the problem.

“I’m staying in the other half of this house, yes,” I confirm. “And clearly, you’re staying in the other half. What an interesting twist of fate.”

Alina wrinkles her nose. “If I’d known…”

I snort loudly. “What? If you’d known that I’d be here, you would’ve vacationed somewhere else? It’s not too late, little Ali.”

She sneers at the despised nickname I used to call her by.

“Shouldn’t you be in Boston?” she snaps.

My brow furrows automatically in confusion at the question. It takes me a few seconds to understand her meaning.

She thinks I’m still performing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. She has no idea that I quit after barely two years. That I haven’t performed with an ensemble since then, and that I’ve not even touched a violin in just as long.

Evidently, she hasn’t even bothered to keep tabs on me. Which wouldn’t be embarrassing to realize, if not for the fact that I have, in fact, been keeping tabs on her. She’s been doing well at the CSO, flourishing in the spot that we fought to the death for when we were seniors at Juilliard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was promoted to first chair before she reaches her forties.

I hate having to admit that, though. I hate that I know how successful she is. I hate that she’s beautiful and enigmatic and brilliant, even when she’s scoffing and rolling her eyes at me.

Really, I hate everything about her.

It’s fine, honestly, because she hates everything about me, too.

Instead of bothering to answer her question, I jerk my chin at her. “Shouldn’t you be in Chicago?”

I know for a fact that the CSO’s summer performance season starts this week. It’s not exactly the time of year that one of their best violinists would be allowed to take time off.

Alina doesn’t bother answering me, though. Not that I expected her to. When we were sophomores, she once told me that every word she’s forced to speak to me is akin to torture.

Likewise , I think I replied.

Ignoring the question, Alina grabs her book off the table and marches toward the back door of her side of the house.

“Nice seeing you, Gabriel,” she spits out without even bothering to glance over her shoulder at me. From her tone, it’s clear that she meant to say, I’d been hoping I’d never have to be within a hundred miles of you ever again .

The door slams after her.

I stand alone on the patio, gazing out at the sea. This can’t be happening. What are the chances? And why can’t I ever catch a break? What force of fate has such a strong vendetta against me that they’ve seen fit to bring back my old nemesis and all the terrible memories that come with her?

What did I do to deserve an entire summer spent under the same roof with Alina Sokolov?