“Let me just check that,” Hans said. She could hear his fingertips flying over a keyboard. “Just a moment,” he said, putting her on hold.
A moment later he was back on the line. “Mrs. Stanton?”
“Ms. Stanton,” Grace said pointedly.
“Right. Um. The thing is, you don’t have access to the blog dashboard.”
“I know that,” she said sharply. “That’s why I’m calling you. Because I need access. It’s my blog.”
“Wellll,” he said. “From what I can tell, the domain owner has changed the user sign-on and password. That would explain why you’re locked out.”
“That can’t be,” Grace said, feeling her face get hot. “I’m the domain owner. The blog is Gracenotes. I’m Grace Stanton.”
There was a long meaningful silence on the other end of the line. “Actually,” Hans said, “according to our records, the domain owner is Ben Stanton. And apparently, he’s changed the access.”
“He can’t do that,” Grace cried. “Change it back. It’s my blog. I started it, I write it, I own it. And I want you to change it so I can have access to my own blog.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Stanton, but I don’t have the authority to do that,” Hans said. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
* * *
Downstairs, in the bar, Rochelle was pouring a longneck Sweetwater Pale when she heard an unearthly shriek coming from the direction of upstairs.
Frank, a mailman who’d just come off his shift, gave her a questioning look.
“My daughter,” Rochelle said apologetically. “She’s having some marital issues.”
4
Three days had passed since Grace had walked out of the house on Sand Dollar Lane.
They were three of the longest, most miserable days of her life. During the days, she tried to help out around the Sandbox, working behind the bar, waiting tables, even doing a brief stint as a short-order cook, until her mother unceremoniously fired her from that job after she caught Grace substituting ground turkey for ground chuck in the bar’s signature Sandbox burger.
“I know you mean well,” Rochelle said, ordering her out of the kitchen. “But my customers don’t care about saturated fats or sodium or antioxidants. They just want a big, greasy, salty burger on a puffy, white, highly processed white bun. With maybe a slab of gooey yellow cheese on top. And they definitely don’t want a side order of smug advice about healthy dining.”
Evenings, Grace locked herself up in her bedroom, spending hours writing blog entries she couldn’t even post. When she finished writing and editing, she slipped out to the second-story deck overlooking the Cortez marina. Growing up, she’d hated that marina. She hated the stink of the diesel fuel burned by the boats and the shrill cries of seagulls wheeling overhead as the shrimpers and commercial fishermen returned to the docks with their catch. She’d hated the greasy water lapping against the seawall, and the constant ebb and flow of fishermen and regulars who regarded the Sandbox as their home away from home.
Most of all, Grace hated the fact of where she lived. In high school, the guys she dated thought it was awesome that she lived right on the water, and above a bar! But she didn’t want to live on a marina. She wanted a regular suburban house, with a grassy green lawn, and although she loved her parents, she longed for a father who worked in an office and wore a necktie, with a mother who stayed home and played bridge and got her hair done every Thursday.
The only ties Butch Davenport owned were bolo ties, which he wore with his ever-present violently colored Hawaiian shirts. As for Rochelle, who cut her own hair, Grace was fairly sure she didn’t even know how to play bridge, although she was a demon at pinochle.
For some reason, the sights and sounds of the marina, and the bay that flowed beneath the weathered gray boards of the docks, were now oddly comforting. When sleep wouldn’t come, and it rarely did, she crept out to the deck, in her nightgown, and sat for hours, her knees tucked to her chest, staring off at the sparkling black water and the shadowy hulks of the fishing vessels tied up at the dock.
That first morning Grace had moved home, Rochelle found her like that when she arose at seven to make coffee.
Her mother sank into the chair next to her, wordlessly handing her a steaming mug. Grace nodded her thanks and sipped.
“Gonna be another hot day,” Rochelle said finally, looking at the pink-tinged sky.
“Hotter than the hinges of hell,” Grace agreed, repeating one of Butch’s favorite sayings.
“You sleep any?” Rochelle asked.
“A little,” Grace lied.
“I’ve got some Ambien, if you want,” her mother offered.
Grace stared at her, shocked. The only drugs she’d ever known her mother to take were baby aspirin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Rochelle said. “The doctor gave ’em to me, after your daddy died. I only took the one. Slept for fourteen hours straight, and when I finally did wake up, I’d eaten most of a pecan pie somebody brought to the house after the funeral. I looked it up on the computer. It’s a real thing. Sleep eating, they call it. Hell’s bells, I eat enough when I’m awake. I don’t need a pill that makes you eat a whole pie without even remembering it.”
Grace was forced to smile.
“You hear anything from the asshole?” Rochelle asked.
“Not a word,” Grace said.
“Are you okay for money?” Rochelle asked.
“For now,” Grace lied.
Rochelle knew it for the lie it was, but didn’t call her daughter out on it. Instead, she sighed and gave Grace a sideways glance. “I think you better give your Uncle Dennis a call.”
* * *
When she couldn’t access her blog, Grace reluctantly called Ben, leaving a voice mail when he didn’t pick up. Three days later, Ben still wasn’t returning Grace’s phone calls. But he’d been a busy
