Undertow (2 page)

1

Centerville, Massachusetts (Cape Cod)

Present Day

When Mae and I first found out
about the house a mont
h
ago it screamed fraud - especially since our luck was always worth dirt.

But according to Mr. Talbot, the auction house owner, the transaction was legit, though highly unusual. I never even knew about the house until my phone rang at the beginning of August and he was on the other end, deed in hand. Apparently, when the estate went up for auction, a
n anonymous buyer purchased it . . . and put my name as owner and rightful heir.

             
Yeah, talk about Twilight Zone.

I will admit that even Mr. Talbot was a bit stunned to learn I was still in high school, and I was sure he had the wrong person. I mean, seriously, what seventeen-year-old is given a million-dollar estate?

But he had my address in Kansas correct, scumball apartment that it was, and the names of my parents, though he was unaware they had been dead for the past fifteen years. Mae, my mom's BFF and my legal guardian, had been my only family since I was two and she was working herself into the ground to keep that rotted roof over out heads. But with one call from Cape Cod, we were given the chance of a lifetime.

We couldn't say no. We didn't say no.

Thankfully the home, number 408 on Main Street, was in good shape and downright massive in size. It had been updated regularly, due to a trust fund that had cared for it until the money ran out. And yeah, the house still needed a bit of work and a nuclear-fueled weed whacker. As for the barn and carriage house, however- only a bulldozer could help. Or a time machine.

Mae and I had driven out to see the home two weeks after Mr. Talbot had called. During that three-day trip, I didn’t really get a chance to feel out the Cape, though stunning definitely applied. It was a seaside paradise speckled with quaint little towns and outgoing locals. A few bumper stickers even claimed that the area was basically a “friendly drinking village with a fishing problem.”

It turned out my 4
th
great grandparents, Elizabeth and Josiah, had built the place, an elegant, three-story black and white home, in 1850. It was graced with huge windows and a wrap around porch large enough to host my old high school’s junior prom . . . not that I went. Not that I wanted to either.

The roof was topped with monstrous chimneystacks and a Widow’s Walk that could see the glittering bay. And even though it was more than 160 years old, it was simply the most beautiful house I had ever seen. Surrounded by other antique homes, it was, without question, the best of the best.

            I will admit that I had some serious reservations about the move from Kansas. I was torn between the tantalizing idea of living in such a spectacular home by the beach, and my reservations about a small town mentality.

And school . . . which would start in two days.

It was like a countdown to inevitable torture.

The mere mention of Barnstable High sent my stomach twisting into a sailor’s knot. I had no desire to meet my classmates until I was forced to, especially given the fact that I was such an easy target in elementary school.

Back then I had even more freckles, was a tad chub, and had a funky scar on my lower back from a damn radiator incident when I was a baby. Top that off with being raised by Mae, who was barely an adult herself, and I became quite the bulls-eye.

Granted, I still had the freckles, the scar, and Mae, but the roundness sort of stretched-
out, as I grew taller to five and a half feet. I was in no way a string bean, but I wasn’t a sumo wrestler either. I also had become accustomed to living life as a reject and, quite frankly, enjoyed the nosebleed section. I had no desire to be dragged into the ridiculous, self-serving dramas that so often plagued the cliques of my old high school.

Yup – there was a plus side to being ignored.

The grand view from my four-poster bed however, suggested that anonymity might no longer be mine. One did not dodge the radar when they walked home to this house.

I
lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of my new bedroom, noting that gravity had managed to chip away the antique plaster’s stubborn resolve. Snuggling down further into my lush blankets, I was grateful that I located the moving boxes for my room when we arrived last night.

My personal stone fireplace was buried somewhere behind those boxes and my very own bathroom looked like a hair-tie tornado had struck. But I had a fireplace! And a bathroom! And wh
o cared if they looked less than pristine at the moment?

Out of the eight – yes
, EIGHT bedrooms we now had, I claimed the room above the front porch. Scoping it out last night, it appeared that I should be able to crawl through my window and hang out on top of the flat roof. Well, minus Mae obviously.  Yes, I had to admit, Cape Cod, or at least the Walker homestead, might be a true piece of heaven after all.

The slant of the Saturday sunlight painting my floor tipped me off to how early it must be. Seven, maybe? Seven-thirty?
  No way I was getting out of bed yet.  It was the weekend after all, and I should head to the beach after breakfast and get some sun. Enjoy these last, few days of freedom.

I lolled in bed running through my plan for the day. My wish list was waylaid, however, by the sound of footsteps coming up the main, mahogany staircase.

“Eila?” called Mae from somewhere in the outer hall.

How on earth did she know I was awake? I stayed silent, wishing that I had pushed the moving boxes against the entrance. Sure enough, there was a knock at the door and a slow squeak of the knob as it turned.

“Eila?”

Dang. I swear the woman had radar
.
“Hmmm – yeah?”

She peeked her head around the door, eyeing my pile of boxes and me, tucked happily into bed. “You need to get up. I have a lot to do today.”

“Uh, I was hoping to head down to the beach today,” I pleaded. Okay, maybe whined.

“I need you to . . . geez, you have a lot of stuff,” she declared, trying to pick her way through my minefield of boxes and bags. “Look. I need to do a ton of errands today and there are workers coming to do some things on the house. I need you to hold down the fort while I’m gone and show these guys what needs to be done.”

She looked at me for a moment, assessing whether a battle of wills was to ensue. She decided to seal the deal, “We work as a team remember?  I moved my life across the country for you, don’t forget.”

Ugh, I could see
that
pity card being played till it was flimsy and dog-eared. The fact that we moved from a run-down building with an ex-con neighbor seemed to have escaped her memory. I sighed,  “Sure. Give me a few and I’ll be down.”

“Meet me in the kitchen.” She started heading out of the room and closing the door behind her, but at the last second, the door opened slightly again, “And Eila?”

I semi-sulked, knowing my beach plans were just washed away.

She looked around the door to make sure I heard her. Her eyes connected with mine, “Hurry up,” she said and the door closed.

I lay in bed a moment more. What was it I said before, about enjoying the beauty of an antique home?  Yeah, let’s scratch that off the list. Turns out you have to babysit homes like this. Turns out they need a ton of work and, as such, any plans for a relaxing day of sun and sand disappears. “You and me house – we need to have a chat,” I muttered, stretching out of bed and onto the oak flooring. 

I walked to one of the massive side windows that faced another antique home beside ours. Slipping my fingers into the lower sash handles, I gave a firm, upright pull. The pane rattled up about two inches and stuck.
Perfect
.

Through the 2-inch gap, the light smell of freshly cut grass and pine trickled in on a feathery breeze.
  I leaned down and breathed in deeply. It was cool and elegant and absolutely intoxicating.

I looked out at the home next door. Similar to ours, white with black trim
, but its porch was enclosed with glass and the overall feel of the house was more feminine – tea and fancy little cakes came to mind.

It looked like no one was home.

Either that or they were still SLEEPING.

Lucky suckers.

Resigned to a beachless day, I ditched the idea of a shower until the evening. I rummaged through my junk, locating a navy tank top, sports bra and some very old cut-off jeans. 

Stripping off the oversized Black Keys shirt I had worn to bed, I pulled on the bra and
 top and wiggled my way into the jeans. Thankfully they zipped, but my beloved cut-offs now looked more like Daisy Dukes. I hadn’t worn them since last summer and this past year I really grew. Not just in height, but in curves as well. Shopping for end-of-summer clothes was now a priority, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to leave the house. I quickly brushed my long, wild hair and twisted it into a coffee-black rope, managing to then jam it all up under my black pageboy cap.

I headed out my door into the large, curved second-floor landing. The air inside 408 was crisp and I rubbed my arms furiously as I headed down the grand staircase to the first floor, jumping the last three stairs with an echoing thud.

The ceilings on the first floor were easily 14 feet high and I noticed the windows on this level were opened to a full 12 inches. Either Mae was hiding some real biceps under those long-sleeve shirts or I was an absolute weakling. The latter seemed more probable.

As I came into the kitchen, the smell of coffee and sugary carbs filled the air. Mae stood washing a coffee mug at the sink and my eyes drifted to the stained glass window above her, which threw red and purple blobs of color on the tiled floor.

“The lady from down the street brought by muffins and the Cape Cod Times,” said Mae, gesturing toward the table.  Sure enough, a basket of the biggest blueberry creations ever was in the center of the pale pine table. I selected one as I sat and Mae opened the fridge. “You want milk?”

“Milk sounds good to me,” I replied distractedly, my attention caught by the headline on the front page about a drowning. I quickly scanned the article, learning that a middle age tourist was assumed dead after going swimming and not returning.

Something about a current dragging him beneath the waves.

When I finally looked up Mae was across from me, her coffee in her hand. “I know. I read it too. And here I was thinking it was those sharks that will get ya.”

“I read that Cape Cod doesn’t usually have shark problems. That’s a myth,” I reminded her.

“Didn’t you see JAWS?” asked Mae with a quirked smile. I just rolled my eyes as she slid a note pad to me. It was covered in her chicken-scratch handwriting that matched her crazy red hair and glasses.

“I’m heading out, but I thought you could tell the guys what we need done on this list. And while you’re here, you might as well start looking for a vehicle. I pulled some money from the savings your parents had left so you could finally have your own car. You are going to need one soon, especially since my trip is coming up next month.”

She drew a deep breath and sighed, “You know
, I’m not so sure traveling overseas is a good idea anymore. I mean, when I booked the trip a year ago we had no clue we’d be moving. I could just cancel.”  She pulled her purse from the back of the counter and fished out her car keys. Her face was conflicted.

Mae had saved for years to finally be able to tour the castles and cities of Europe. She had an inner fairy-tale dreamer lurking beneath her
bookworm looks and quiet nature. I knew that leaving me for two weeks in Kansas, where we did in fact know a few people, was okay with her. Leaving me in a new town with a giant, antique home however, was a different story – from her perspective at least. Not to me though.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “The Cape is so safe it’s insane. I mean, what is their biggest crime? Stealing lobsters out of someone else’s trap? I will be fine. You can trust me.”

“I know I can, but I still get to worry,” she said, kissing me on the top of the head as she strolled for the door. “Read the list so you know what needs to get done. The gardener is already out back working. Call me if you need anything. I love you.”

“Love you too,” I said, waving over my head, my mind now consumed with thoughts of my very own chariot. I flipped to the back of the paper and found the classified section and started scanning the ads.
  Unfortunately, everything seemed either on its last leg or way too much cash for the financially stunted such as myself.

As my finger slid down the third column, it slowed on an older, “Black and Chrome Jeep Wrangler.”
  I hadn’t really entertained the idea of a Jeep, but the tantalizing thought of climbing over the dunes in some convertible 4x4 was suddenly all I could think about.

My mind spun away from me, visions of the off-road creation being my ticket to absolute freedom. I got up and reached for the house phone hanging next to the kitchen’s screen door.
  Excited, I punched the phone number in the ad. 
Don’t be sold. Don’t be sold.