The Beach House

I’m almost finished packing. I struggle to find my book and flip flops. My eyes are playing tricks again. Brain fog creeping in. My unkempt home is sneering at me. I’m disorganized. Changing course, I usher my folks outside. Thankfully, they’re all packed for the beach house.

I’m convinced the shore will heal our sadness. The recent passing of my husband, Shaun, has taken a toll on our family. He was the ringleader, our patriarch. My kids are expected later. How different this summer will be. Our beach house is waiting for us. Magically, it transforms our inner being. Reduced to talking instead of texting is just the beginning. Charades and the raucous fun they create, laughing at each other’s gestures!

As we arrive, the front door is thrust open, suitcases dispersed, sturdy bags of groceries brought to their rightful place. I look around the kitchen like greeting an old friend, and see nothing has changed. The charm of this house doesn’t go unnoticed. Brushing against the blue Formica table, I hurry through the outdated kitchen. The back door opens creakily. I inhale deeply, overtaken with the hypnotic breeze!

The decor is unimpressive, staying true to another era – the wood panel walls, the overstuffed sofa and chairs covered in white cotton slip covers. The multicolored hook rug lays under the old wood chest. Seascape prints, along with photos of the local harbor, adorn each wall.

As I move from room to room, the lace curtains are moved aside. I push up the hesitant windows. Musty smells are replaced with fresh salt air!

Guilt weighs heavy as a bullet proof vest. Nervously, I conjure up an explanation. The children deserve the truth. Half truths won’t suffice. Their dad wasn’t shot by a stranger, as local authorities reported. His past had caught up with him.

For now, I’ll forgo unpacking. Mom, Dad and I retrieve our swimsuits. Sand chairs are leaned against the porch rails. As we trek through the warm sand, the shoreline welcomes us back.