IN THE MORNING, I was on the porch of the Hatteras Village library, waiting in the lingering morning mist when the librarian opened the door. Three minutes later, I was on a computer, poring over web listings, looking for any place new that might take a chance on hiring someone with no references. I couldn’t exactly put Trammel’s name down as my last employer, and over the Internet, it was hard to successfully deploy the story that I was a recently divorced stay-at-home mom just reentering the workforce. Growing up, I’d learned that the more you stick to one story, the easier it is. Gina never figured that out. When things were bad at home, she invented one wild tale after another, letting out so many lines that she eventually hung herself in them.
I was finished on the library computer and heading for the door before I really wanted to be. There wasn’t anywhere else to apply. Stopping by the front alcove, I considered my next move. If a job didn’t magically come through soon, I’d have to leave Iola’s place and Hatteras Island behind. The idea hollowed me out in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I felt like I’d failed, like there was something I was supposed to unearth here, something I was meant to find in that big house, but I hadn’t been looking in all the right places.
“The builders positioned that so it points true.” The librarian motioned to a compass rose built into the tile floor of the alcove. “Follow the north arrow and you’ll be heading due north.” She gave the tile work a fond look as she moved past me with a bottle of Windex and a rag in hand.
I studied the compass rose for a minute, waiting for the librarian to clean the glass door. If only true north were so easy to find in real life. I needed someone to show me which way to go, what to do now.
The librarian must have read the desperation on my face. “Can I help you with anything else?” She offered a kind, accommodating look.
I took the opportunity to ask for directions to Sandy’s Seashell Shop. Nothing was too hard to find in Hatteras Village, but I couldn’t afford to waste gas wandering around, and I hadn’t noticed the store during previous trips down the island with Ross. I wanted to drop off the box of hummingbirds while I was here. If Sandy’s Seashell Shop’s financials looked anything like mine, they’d probably appreciate it.
The librarian pointed out the door. “Just keep on going around the corner. It’s on the sound just up from the ferry landing. The storm took out their sign, but you can’t miss the place if you know what to look for. Cute little I-style house with yellow siding. It was built around the turn of the century by a Dr. Parnell, but it’s a shop now, of course. Blue Adirondack chairs out front and a wraparound deck with ice cream tables. I’m not sure they’re officially back open yet. It’s been a nightmare around here, dealing with insurance claims, FEMA paperwork, and then . . . well, just try to find someone to do construction work who’s not booked six months solid, and if you can get all that done, you’ve got all the inspections to deal with for your occupancy permit and whatnot.” She shook her head, sighing and looking out the window. “Sorry. I guess that’s more than you needed to know. Are you visiting the island?”
“Just moved here,” I said, shifting toward the door a step. “How far is the shop? Can I walk?” The SUV was on empty, and I had five dollars in my pocket.
“It’s around a mile. You could walk it, but you might want to drive.” She smiled pleasantly and finished wiping the door.
I thanked her and made my way out, then debated the gasoline issue for a minute before finally deciding to drive. I’d be running on fumes by the time I made it back home, but there was work to do at Iola’s house, and aside from that, I wanted to find some time for the prayer boxes today.
But first I had one last errand to do. A little hummingbird mission of mercy. Today’s good deed. The idea of it lifted my sense of impending doom as I drove past the shops and weathered houses of Hatteras Village. It’s hard to feel bad about your own life when you’re helping out someone else.
Iola would like this one too, I had a feeling. I felt like she was right there in the car with me, watching the sound through the bright, silvery eyes the UPS driver had described. She was smiling, her gnarled hands folded in her lap, resting against the blue-flowered dress.
Paul’s ladder would probably be waiting when I got home. I could get the glass box off the top shelf and see what she had hidden inside. The UPS driver would be stopping by on his route also. I’d called and told him I had a surprise for him, from Iola.
Sandy’s Seashell Shop melted into view as I rounded the corner. It was just as the librarian had described —yellow lap siding, a front porch with blue Adirondack chairs, a wraparound deck where ice cream tables and twisted-wire chairs waited in the shade of live oaks that looked scrappy after the last two storms. The tables and chairs were lying on their sides, as if a sudden wave had swept from the placid waters of Pamlico Sound and toppled all the furniture.
As I climbed the steps, a black-and-white Boston bulldog wearing a bandanna and doggy swim trunks yipped at me and dashed through the open front door. I followed, stopping on the welcome mat to let my eyes adjust.
Inside, the place was definitely in a state of construction. Store fixtures and shabby-chic tables sat stacked against the wall by the door. Two overstuffed sofas and a mismatched collection of lamps had been pushed together with display cases in the center of the room, and bamboo stools sat legs-up atop a rough-hewn wooden bar on the left side of the room. Overhead, a chalkboard advertised coffee and free Wi-Fi. Other signs here and there offered wisdoms such as Life is better in flip-flops. Wake up and live. You can shake the sand from your clothes but not from your soul. If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it. Sandy feet always welcome. May you always have a shell in your pocket and sand in your shoes. And my favorite of all: Sand castles or seashells? That is the question.
The wall opposite the bar had a hole in it where someone had torn down the Sheetrock and exposed the studs. Pieces of wallboard lay on the floor, the mildewed lines of water damage drawing a landscape of mountains in black and brown. It looked sadly familiar. I’d driven my father to many a construction job involving flood damage and repair. Usually people didn’t know they had a lingering problem until mildew started coming through the Sheetrock months later.
“Hello?” I craned first to one side and then the other, searching for anyone working in the adjoining rooms. They were darker than this one, no lights on and the blinds drawn. A set of double doors hung open along the back wall, offering a view of the rear deck and the water. The remains of what must have been a tree big enough to shade the entire area stood barren, the limbs sawn off. Storm damage, no doubt.
The dog hopped onto a stool behind the bar and barked at me, standing up and resting his paws on the counter like a miniature Starbucks barista. His nub tail wagged through a split in his swim trunks, indicating that his bark was all bluster.
“Did they leave you alone to run the place?” I asked, and he sneeze-nodded in response, his overbite creating an upside-down smile.
Now what? I wondered. I couldn’t just dump the box of suncatchers without any explanation. Someone had to be working here. There was shop merchandise all over the place —stained-glass pieces hanging in the bay windows, jewelry in the case beneath the cash register, shell sculptures in the front display area, a cubbyhole case of beads and strings for making necklaces, a rack of colorful sun hats and sarongs with fringe along the edges. Beach shoes, blingy flip-flops, coffee mugs, shellscapes in bottles. Small glass globes that looked like snow globes, except they had beach sand and shells inside. The sign leaning against the box read:
BYOB
(Build Your Own Beach)
Turn over, shake gently, and see what surprises sift to the top.
Take home and enjoy a day at the beach anywhere!
I rested the box of suncatchers temporarily atop a display case built from an old writing desk with crackled green paint. Inside, the viewing area had been filled with sand, and clamshells lay here and there, serving as mother-of-pearl cups for jewelry made from beach glass and silver wire. I leaned close, reading the paper tags.
Mermaids’ Tears. Treasures from the deep, which sailors once believed to be the tears of mermaids. The color of the glass was thought to match the color of the mermaid’s tail. Original art jewelry by Sandy and Sharon.