Chapter 11
“HELLO,” SAID THE man languishing behind the counter at a hardware store with the clever name of Nailed It. He had a straw fedora hat pushed back on his cropped hair and wore a Burning Man T-shirt. “What will it be today?”
“I need some interior paint,” Ivy said. “Quite a lot, probably.” Summer Beach didn’t have giant big-box stores or fast-food drive-thrus, or even chain restaurants, which added to the charm of the small coastal town. Every shop and restaurant in town was family owned and splashed in sunny shades that gave Summer Beach a sherbet-hued color palette that Ivy loved.
The color palette reminded Ivy of the Amalfi coast, where she’d once visited as a foreign exchange student. She imagined painting a village scene here, along with an expanse of beach and endless ocean in the background. Soon, she promised herself.
“Happy to help you. My wife is better at paint than I am.” He called out to the back of the hardware shop. “Jen, you have a customer. I’m George, by the way.”
“Nice meeting you, George. Ivy Bay.”
“Bay…I had a Flint Bay in earlier this morning. Your husband?”
“My brother.”
George snapped his fingers. “You’re the new owner of the old Erickson estate, aren’t you? Nan at the antique store was talking about you yesterday.”
“I am,” Ivy replied, surprised at how quickly word got around here.
“You didn’t tell me Flint was in this morning.” Jen emerged from the stock room, tossing her long, straight hair over her shoulder. She moved with vitality and self-assurance, and with her faded blue jeans and T-shirt, she looked as youthful as her husband.
“Is this your shop?” Ivy asked.
“It’s ours,” Jen said. “I inherited this shop from my father. Worked here when I was a kid.”
“I’ve been living in Boston for nearly three decades.” Ivy’s words stuck in her mind. Thirty years. It seemed as if she’d woken from a long slumber and found herself back on the west coast.
“The old Erickson house.” Jen’s eyes lit up. “Glad it’s got a new owner. That last one—Jeremy Marin—was a piece of work. But then, you’ve probably heard all about that ratbag.”
“I’m beginning to.” Ivy tried to maintain a pleasant expression, but inside, she felt like screaming.
Jen leaned conspiratorially across the counter. “That guy was smooth, I’ll give him that. Not my style, though.” She gave George a peck on the cheek.
“I can just imagine.” Ivy’s pulse quickened. The more she learned about her husband, the more her old life seemed like a facade. She crumpled the list she’d made into a tight ball in her fist.
Anxious to change the conversation, Ivy reached into her purse and drew out a blue washcloth from her mother’s linen closet. “Can you match this, but go a few shades lighter? I’m planning a blue-and-white nautical theme—mostly white, but with accent walls of blue—and adding pops of orange, pink, and yellow. I’ll use antiques and white-washed pieces throughout the house.”
Although the house had been more formal, Ivy envisioned an airy, casual style since the house was so close to the ocean. She imagined opening the windows and filling the house with fresh sea breezes.
Jen studied the color. “I know just what you need. Come with me.” She pulled three paint cans from the shelves, opened them, and dipped a stick inside each one.
Ivy hadn’t chosen interior paint colors since her daughters were young and she’d repainted their rooms, but as an artist, she could envision the shade on a broad swath of wall. “The one in the middle, the nautical blue.”
“Good eye,” Jen said. “It’s on trend, but will work well with the age of the house. How much will you need?”
Ivy spread out the list she’d crumpled and tallied the wrinkled figures for Jen.
“You got it.” Jen counted out the number of cans.
Soon, Ivy had everything on her list. And she’d made two new friends.
George and Jen helped Ivy load everything into the back of the Jeep, and soon Ivy was driving the short distance back to the house. The entire trip had taken her a fraction of the time she would have spent in Boston driving to a giant home store, circling for a parking place, walking miles through the store, searching for an employee to help her, and waiting in a long check-out line. And no one would have helped her put her purchases in her car.
Ivy rolled down her window and breathed in the fresh morning air. Summer Beach was certainly a less complicated lifestyle. And despite Jeremy’s lingering presence here, she was finding herself very much at home.
Except for Bennett Dylan. She could still remember the evening so many years ago that he sang to her, strumming his guitar and seated around a fire with her and her friends. She’d fallen utterly, absolutely, unquestioningly, in love. All summer she’d been in love and dreamed of seeing him alone again.
Not anymore.
After arriving home, Ivy slid out two cans of paint.
Skyler and Blue, Flint’s two lanky sons, bounded outside when they saw her taking paint cans from the back of the Jeep. “We’ll get that for you,” Skyler said.
“Thanks,” Ivy said, surprised. “I’ll take these.” Her daughter Sunny seldom lifted a hand to help, and Misty hadn’t been around much to offer, though she supported her frequent rehearsals and lessons. At least Misty was dedicated to her craft. She sighed, hoping that her relationship with Sunny would improve.
When Ivy walked back up the front steps to the house, music was blaring from speakers Shelly had set up and her nieces Poppy and Coral were belting out songs while they cleaned the front windows. They were having fun, and Ivy couldn’t believe how fast they’d worked—or the difference clean windows made. Already the house looked more inviting.
“Looks great, you two,” Ivy said, and the girls beamed at her. A warm feeling gathered in her chest. She was so
