But the worst thing was the structure itself, the place Jill had assumed she’d be spending the night. The motel was not one building but three. Three small cabins that could be generously described as “chilling.” On one, the front door was missing entirely, and Jill didn’t want to imagine what lurked inside. Another seemed to have no roof at all, just a gaping hole covered loosely with a blue tarp that flapped in the wind. The third cabin seemed intact but not inhabitable. The front windows were cracked, and the moldy curtains hung in tatters.
Jill stared at the property in front of her, open-mouthed. The motel’s website had taken her reservation, though not her payment, which was something at least. But she had a plan, a carefully constructed plan that included staying at this motel. Of course she wouldn’t now. She’d seen motels in horror movies that were more welcoming. And because the Dewberry Beach Motor Lodge was the only motel in town, there was only one place left for her to stay.
She closed the windows and put her car in gear. It was late and this place was creepy so the last thing she wanted to do was linger. Before she drove away, she tapped in the address for the house into her GPS. It wouldn’t be so bad, staying at that house, would it?
She could manage a night or two.
A five-minute drive put her back on the main road where she picked up Route 35 to Dewberry Beach. Closer to town, the road narrowed from four lanes to two. As she slowed, she noticed the scenery had changed, the feel more inviting—the cottages cedar-shingled with wide front porches set with chairs for neighbors and friends. The homes were decorated for Halloween too. Pumpkins lined the front steps, and cobwebs stretched across the shrubbery. One house had arranged a scarecrow, wearing fishing waders and a pirate hat, sitting in a chair with his arm extended as if he were waving to the neighbors.
It was unexpected, the idea that a shore town didn’t shut down during the off-season. Jill has assumed it would. Most of the properties in the Hamptons did, and Jill couldn’t think of one instance they’d visited this town outside of summer. And hadn’t Marc routinely shuttered the Dewberry Beach house for the winter, even hiring a company that specialized in winterizing summer homes? They brought in the outdoor furniture and stored it, unplugged appliances and cleared the house of unwrapped food. It was a full weekend job, and when they were finished, they set the house alarms and locked the door behind them.
The road to the house wound through the little town, and Jill slowed even more. Old, sturdy trees lined the street, stretching their branches to meet overhead. The canopy above the street was striking, and Jill felt as if she were traveling through a tunnel, with the warm glow of streetlamps lighting her way. Jill slowed the car almost to a full stop just to take it in. The sight would be even better in the daylight, with the sun shining through a veil of fall color, and Jill made a mental note to notice it on her way out of town.
She continued to the house. As she got closer to the ocean, she smelled the sea air and the scenery changed once again. The road was dusted with gritty beach sand that crunched under Jill’s tires. Here, front gardens were filled with plants that didn’t mind a bit of ocean spray. Jill recognized stately clusters of beach grass, scrubs of sea lavender, and hardy climbing roses. All of it conjured memories of summer, reminding Jill of Aunt Sarah.
Jill didn’t recall any of this from previous trips. With Marc, the trips to Dewberry had been perfunctory and filled with purpose—a quick party to host, clients to meet. She and Marc arrived together and left immediately afterward, so lingering wasn’t part of the plan. She’d never seen the town up close, and she was surprised, now, at how idyllic it appeared.
But the town of Dewberry Beach was small and the drive through it was short.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Jill stared at the house in front of her, looming like a black monolith against the gray horizon, and her heart sank. It was by far the biggest house around, almost like an office building in a neighborhood. It wasn’t at all charming and wasn’t intended to be. With three floors, nine bedrooms and six bathrooms, it was meant to impress weekend guests. Worse was that it had a contrived nautical theme that Jill had always found off-putting. The exterior was painted a storm-cloud gray with crisp white trim because the designer has liked the color combination. And the shiny black shutters, meant to be protection against ocean storms, were purely decorative and didn’t latch. The oversized entrance was flanked with a pair of huge gas lanterns that a designer in New York had decided fit the theme and so had ordered from a catalog. According to papers found in Marc’s office, landscaping on the property was meant to look “beachy,” but it didn’t look that way to her. The plants brought in were tropical, not native, and the stones in the dry bed had been machine tumbled before being cemented in place. Around the back were two outdoor decks that faced the ocean, a rooftop patio, and a three-car garage.
Marc’s designs had borrowed heavily from massive summer homes in the Hamptons. But what worked in East Hampton didn’t
