Then she went to work.
She padded the inside of a sturdy box with bubble wrap and lined it with tissue. When she was sure that nothing she placed inside would jostle or break, she carefully opened the case and removed the items inside. One by one, she wrapped each piece in tissue and then in bubble wrap before tucking it securely into the box. Then she added a final layer of bubble wrap and brought the box downstairs.
Writing the note would be the hardest part, explaining why she’d kept the items in the first place. She needed to ask forgiveness for her arrogance in thinking these things ever belonged to her. Somehow Marc had taken possession of heirloom jewelry that had rightfully belonged to Dianne, pieces from her grandmother that should have been passed along to her daughters. Shortly after their wedding, Marc had presented the box to Jill, gleeful at what he’d accomplished. Jill had been horrified and had never worn any of the pieces, but neither had she returned them.
She used the last of her monogrammed stationery, and though it took three attempts to write, she was satisfied with the result.
Dear Dianne,
I’m returning something that never should have been taken from you in the first place.
I’m sorry to have kept it this long. It’s too much to forgive but please understand that I’m sorry.
Jill
She tucked the note inside and taped the box closed, then found Dianne’s address in Marc’s office and wrote it, in bold letters, across the box. She’d mail it on her way out of town and would pay for express delivery and insurance. It was the least she could do.
When she left the Summit house, closing the door firmly behind her, she knew she’d never return.
And that was okay.
Thirteen
The rain that began as a late afternoon patter when Jill left the post office turned into a downpour on the Garden State Parkway, drumming on the roof of her car and spattering across her windshield. As a result, traffic backed up, and what should have been an easy trip of just over an hour turned into a hard three. Ahead of her was an endless line of taillights as cars merged from four lanes to two, so the State Patrol could manage a fender bender a few miles ahead.
This trip to Dewberry Beach was a business errand, nothing more. Her task was to list the house and price it low, aiming for a quick sale and a fast close. At least that’s what Jill told herself as she jabbed the radio station buttons on her console. Accepting this house in trade for the fraudulent mortgage was a mistake, Jill could see that now. She should have insisted Marc pay off the loan or gone to the judge if he refused, but she hadn’t. She’d let her emotions take over, she’d been so angry at what Marc and Cush and Nadia had done. Now, all she felt was vibrating anxiety. She should be at Ellie’s, looking for a job, but instead she was wasting time driving down to the shore to sell a house she knew almost nothing about—except that Marc had cheated on her there.
She did her best to steady herself. Phyllis had said emotion was a trap and she was right. The Dewberry house was an anchor and would pull her under if she lost focus. This was a project, same as any other, and the key was to break the whole into smaller tasks. She’d done her research. She had her to-do list. Stick to both and she’d be fine.
The house was closed for the season and it would take some time to open it up again, but Jill had a plan for that too. She’d found an affordable motel on the edge of town and made a reservation. Maybe a motel wasn’t the best way to spend her limited money, but the alternative was to sleep in the same house Marc had shared with his mistress and that was almost unthinkable. So she’d get a good night’s sleep and in the morning, an early start to readying the house for the property agent the following day. It was a good plan, solid.
Now all she had to do was find the motel.
By the time Jill arrived at the exit for Dewberry Beach, dusk had fallen. The pounding rain from earlier had slowed to a dull patter, and the gathering mist made navigating difficult. The air inside the car felt close, heavy and thick. As she waited for the traffic light to change, Jill cracked her window, hoping the fresh air would clear her head.
When the light changed, Jill continued on her way, relying on her car’s GPS to guide her to the motel. She might not have found her way otherwise, especially in the dark. She’d only been to the shore a few times and Marc had driven while she napped. She came to a narrow bridge and slowed the car to cross the inlet, hearing her tires hum against the metal grating. On the far side, fishing trawlers had docked for the night, and Jill could hear water slapping against the hulls. The air shifted as she drew closer to the ocean. It was thicker and threaded with the scents of the shore, a muddy low tide, salty air, woodsmoke and fall.
The website for the Dewberry Beach Motor Lodge described the property as secluded, which was fine with Jill. She hadn’t planned to walk along the beach, and she didn’t want anything from the shops in town. The pictures provided online looked basic, not even close to the luxury Jill had grown accustomed to, but even that didn’t matter. She didn’t plan to stay long.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Jill stopped the car and switched on her high beams, stunned. There had to be a mistake, a terrible mistake.
The property in front of her—the one her GPS insisted was the motel—had been abandoned, and from the look of it, for a long
