“Is that right?” Jill asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“You better believe it. You see that house over there? The little one?” She gestured to the house next door—a sweet little cottage overshadowed by Marc’s. In the yard, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat stood before a spindly tree.
“Yes, sure I do.”
“Nancy Pellish lives there. That’s her with the pruning shears—again.” The woman’s lips formed a tight frown. “She’s been trying for years to save that plum tree and it’s not going well.” She sighed as she shook her head. “Her grandfather brought that tree over from Italy and planted it in the yard to remind him of home. He tended it for years and it grew lush and tall. Every fall, he’s share the harvest with neighbors and friends—he even tried his hand at plum wine one year.”
“That must have been fun,” Jill offered.
“It wasn’t.” The woman grimaced. “The poor man didn’t know the first thing about making wine—could have given us all brain damage. Anyway, my point is that it used to be a magnificent tree, substantial, you know? Now look at it.” The woman tutted. “Nancy’s tried everything—special fertilizer, pruning, staking—even hired a specialist to come out, but nothing helps. She’s going to lose that tree.”
“Is it sick?” Jill asked.
“It’s not sick. It needs sun,” the woman replied simply.
Jill looked again and understood what the woman meant. The neighbor’s garden—the majority of her side yard, in fact—was cast in shade, overshadowed by the structure of Marc’s house.
“Folks around here call that thing ‘The Monstrosity,’” the woman continued. “And we’ve been complaining about it for years.”
“Complaining about this house?” The news was surprising and not in a good way. “Complaining to who?”
“Anyone who’ll listen. Not that it’s made any difference, mind.” The woman’s frown deepened. “We even filed a petition once, with some state agency. Dick and Nancy Pellish were the ones who started it. Dick’s an attorney, so he drew it up. Nancy was charged with gathering the signatures and she collected quite a few, I’m told. But in the end, nothing came of it.”
Jill groaned. Petitions would surely influence a house sale and not in a good way.
The woman misunderstood Jill’s groan as one of solidarity. Bolstered, she continued her story. “I was there the day the new foundation was poured, you know. Two houses stood on this lot, both destroyed by the hurricane. The man who built this house stole them both.”
“That sounds terrible.” Jill hoped the woman was exaggerating.
“Oh, it was. We were in such a state after the hurricane. You can’t imagine the chaos.”
“The hurricane? Do you mean Hurricane Sandy?” Jill had a vague memory of watching the news coverage. “That was so long ago.”
“November of 2012.” The woman’s expression faded. “Years by the calendar maybe, but not so long ago in memory. Many of us residents are still recovering. The storm’s destruction was physical and lasted less than a week, but what came after lasted much longer and ripped our hearts out.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at what Marc had built. “That house right there is plunder. The man who built it was a pirate, all there is to it.”
“You mean it was illegally built?” Jill held her breath, awaiting the answer.
“No, it was legal.” The woman scoffed. “But legal and moral can be two very different things. That house would never have been allowed to go up if Hurricane Sandy hadn’t come along. That man took advantage of a terrible situation. Of course the planning commission should have stopped it, but they didn’t.”
“Why not?” Jill asked. “Why didn’t they stop it?”
“It’s a long story and not a pleasant one.” Abruptly, the woman shook off the memories and her mood lightened, like a sunbeam peaking from behind a storm cloud. “Oh, listen to me go on like we both have nothing better to do. The day’s too nice to talk about all that.” The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Here I am talking your head off, and we haven’t even been introduced. My name is Betty Grable.” She dropped her voice and her cheeks dimpled as she grinned. “No relation to the movie star, though I have been told the resemblance between us was remarkable, especially in my younger days.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Jill said, laughing. “I’m Jill G—” She stumbled a bit on her new name but recovered in time. “Jill DiFiore.”
The woman tilted her head as she considered. “Don’t believe I know a DiFiore. Are you new in town or are you visiting?”
“I’m visiting, just for a little while. I’m a photographer. The scenery here is beautiful.”
“I believe you picked the best time of year to come. Dewberry Beach is at her best in the fall if I say so myself. Much less crowded. A person can breathe in the off-season.” Betty nodded, good humor restored. “I’ll let you get to it then. You don’t want to waste a day as beautiful as this chattering with an old woman. Go—enjoy the scenery.”
They said their goodbyes and the woman continued her walk.
Suddenly the idea of immersing herself in the sights of the shore was too compelling to put off. She’d done enough. Everything else could wait. This light would not. She paused a moment to make sure no one was watching. Then she ran up the beach stairs and slipped into the house to retrieve her camera.
Within a few minutes she was outside again. As the autumn breeze drifted up from the ocean, Jill closed her eyes to breathe in and she was transported to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney’s house. The best summers of her life had been spent there, without a worry in the world. She could spend whole days on a lounge chair outside, lost in the pages of a book. Afternoons were spent on the screen porch with Uncle Barney listening to approaching thunderstorms and
