Secrets Whispered from the Sea - Emma St. Clair Page 0,6
my key into the lock. I had to resist calling out for Nana as I swung it open, like her absence might be untrue if I didn’t put words to it. As if the beach’s magic and my hopes could somehow bring her back.
The familiar scent wrapped around me as I stepped inside, bringing a fresh round of tears. In contrast with the smell of the ocean outside, Nana’s cottage forever smelled of warm apples and cinnamon. I never knew why, because I hadn’t ever seen a candle or air freshener. Once, I’d even gone through her lotions and perfumes, trying to find the source, finally deciding it must simply be Nana herself, or maybe something that emanated from the house.
When I went to close the door, my key stuck in the lock. I jiggled and shoved and twisted, but it was not moving. Fantastic. I removed the rest of my keys from the ring and, hoping the island was still as safe as it always had been, closed the door, leaving the house key in the lock.
When I turned on the light, I saw that Ann hadn’t been lying about Nana’s hoarding. Which was now maybe television-worthy. The kitchen counters were completely covered in dishes. Different kinds of dishes, like she’d gone to estate sales and thrift stores, picking up set after unmatching set. Almost every square inch of the open living area had some kind of box or lamp or thing on it. Near the fireplace, a stack of what looked like old Cosmopolitan magazines leaned to the side.
Cosmo, Nana? Really??
I went to drop my bag in the guest bedroom I had stayed in since I was little. But when I flicked on the light, I stopped in the doorway. I had to stop. Because the room was filled almost floor to ceiling with … more stuff. It looked like a thrift store had thrown up in here. Or maybe a dumpster. There was a path to the small closet through the boxes and stacks and junk, but even the twin beds were covered.
I turned off the light and backed into the hallway. Closing the door, I leaned my forehead against the smooth wood.
As much as I loved to disagree with Ann, she had been right about the house. Nana really had left this place a mess. With Nana gone, I guessed now it was our mess. Mine and Ann’s. Somehow, I had the feeling that I would end up being the one to bear that burden. At least until I left. And first thing tomorrow, I would start looking for jobs.
from A Full Accounting of My Mistakes and Failures
#85 - Don’t actually throw spaghetti at the wall to see if it’s done. Just follow the instructions on the box. That’s why they’re there.
#86 - Don’t rub your eyes after dicing jalapenos.
#87 - Never use Tupperware in the oven.
#88 - Never put metal in the microwave.
#89 - Never bake with a glass casserole dish that was in the fridge overnight.
#90 - Never underestimate the power of a good takeout meal. (see #s 86-89)
4
I woke up with a crick in my neck and sweating like it was July in Houston. I had probably forgotten to turn down the AC the night before. Knowing practical, perfect Ann, she’d probably set it on some economical level to save on the bills until we sold the cottage.
The mere thought of selling made me feel a little sick. So did the thought of staying on Sandover for any length of time. Maybe that feeling was the lack of coffee. Either way, I was sweating, and now my stomach rolled unpleasantly.
When I got to the thermostat in the hall, I found that Ann was not the problem. The AC was broken. With no air circulating, the scent of cinnamon and apples was suffocating.
“There isn't enough coffee in the world for this,” I said, groaning as I fell back on to the couch where I’d slept. The second guest bedroom, when I finally got around to looking inside, had been just like the first. Maybe worse. I couldn’t bring myself to open Nana’s door. Not yet.
“Not enough coffee for what, dear?”
The voice startled me, but I instantly recognized it. “Aunt Viv!”
I stumbled over my bag getting to the petite older woman, who seemed to have shrunk three inches and sported turquoise hair.
“You left your keys in the door,” she said with a grin, shaking them at me. “Expecting any nocturnal visitors?”