Sunset Beach(20)
“Uh, thanks. That’d help a lot.”
“I’ll text you the address, unit number and key code for the gate, but you’ll need to come by here to pick up the keys. Anything else?”
“I’ve got to get the cottage cleaned. It’s been closed up for so long it’s like a mildew buffet. The first thing I need to do is pry the windows open so I can breathe, but I don’t even have a screwdriver.”
“Yeah, I guess it would be pretty bad, what with the hurricane damage to the roof. Tell you what. Alberto’s shed is still there. We never gave any of the tenants access to it. Maybe his tools and stuff are there. The keys are on that ring I gave you. Okay, well, Wendy and I are about to leave for dinner at the yacht club, but I’ll put the storage unit key in our mailbox for you. Unless you want to join us?”
She looked down at her shredded jeans, tank top and flip-flops, thankful for an excuse to decline.
“Better not,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of carpet to rip out tonight.”
8
Papi’s toolshed was a peak-roofed wooden building he’d built in the side yard of Coquina Cottage.
As far as she could tell, the shed was just as he’d left it. She pictured him here now, puttering away at the workbench that ran along the back of the shed, his bald head bent over his project, the transistor radio blaring his favorite talk radio station. He’d be chewing one of the cigars Nonni banned him from smoking in the house, humming as he worked, or talking back to the radio host, dropping the occasional cuss word in Spanish.
Everything was in order, although coated in dust, cobwebs and what looked like an entire village of dead bugs. A pegboard held his saws, chisels, hammers, vises and screwdrivers. He’d used old wooden cigar boxes with tiny knobs screwed to each to construct drawers for a homemade cubby holding a wide assortment of nails, screws, bolts and washers. The power tools were neatly arranged on the wooden shelves beside the bench. An old nail barrel held scraps of lumber. She inhaled deeply. The shed smelled of cigar smoke, WD-40 and sawdust. It smelled like Papi.
She gathered hammers, screwdrivers, pry bars and a box cutter and loaded up the leather tool belt that hung from a nail near the door.
Back in the house, she used the pry bar to remove a wooden broomstick that had been jammed inside the aluminum sliding-door track in the living room, and with what felt like herculean effort, managed to shove the door open, allowing for a welcome rush of fresh air. She stood in the doorway, looking out past the now rotting deck toward the beach. It had gotten dark while she worked, but she could hear the waves lapping at the shore and that was enough for now. She had work to do.
She dragged a box fan in from the shed, set it up near the open front door and got busy. For the next two hours she pried and cut and cursed and sweated and ripped at the filthy carpet, bagging it up and ferrying it out to the trash in the wheelbarrow she’d found inside the shed.
It was a clean sweep, she thought elatedly, sitting on an upended mop bucket to survey her work and eat her dinner—a convenience store sub sandwich, bag of chips and quart of red Powerade. She swallowed three Advil and was considering her next move when her cell phone rang.
She was surprised to notice the time—after 10:00 P.M.
“I thought you were coming by to get the key to the storage place,” Brice said. “We just got back from dinner, and the key’s still here.”
“I got busy ripping out all the old carpet, and I lost track of time,” Drue said. “Anyway, I can’t put furniture in here until I get it cleaned. This house is like a toxic waste dump.”
“Okay, well, maybe tomorrow,” Brice said. “Call me and let me know your plan.”
* * *
At midnight, she carried in her suitcase and the few boxes of belongings she’d brought from Fort Lauderdale and set them down in the clean but barren living room.
She washed up and brushed her teeth, then went out to the living room and unearthed her sleeping bag from one of the boxes, unrolling it on the floor in front of the open sliding-glass doors.
Every bone in her body ached, and the wooden floor beneath her was unforgiving, but she propped her head on a pillow improvised from a rolled-up sweatshirt and sighed a deep sigh of contentment. She closed her eyes and listened to the hypnotic whoosh of waves washing up on the beach. She was home.
* * *
She felt a toe, gently prodding her in the ribs. “Hey, lazybones!”
Drue’s eyes blinked open. Sunlight streamed in through the open sliding-glass door. Her father looked down at her, clearly amused.
She sat up, yawned and stretched. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Seriously?” She grabbed her phone and saw that it was. “Oh my God. I haven’t slept this late in months.”
She stood up and headed for the bathroom. When she came out, dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans, he handed her a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a white bakery bag.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a gulp. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”
Brice turned and pointed toward the front door. “It was standing wide open when I got here. You might want to lock it in the future. Sunset Beach isn’t like it was when your grandparents were alive. There’s actual crime now.”