The movers arrive early the next morning, and I’m occupied for the rest of the day sorting through boxes and getting things organized in the house. I barely slept, as usual, tossing and turning on the air mattress I brought with me in the car.

The sound of breaking waves isn’t nearly as soothing as I’d imagined it to be.

The Buttercup Inn sits on a massive dune near the ocean’s edge. Whatever color the old Victorian used to be, it’s a dingy gray now. The windows are rimed with a layer of salt, and everything smells of sea and sand.

And mold. The inspection showed none of the toxic black mold that can cause illness, but various walls have been colonized by patches of the furry green version of the stuff, and when I opened the basement door, the odor was so strong, I quickly slammed it shut.

I probably should’ve taken Suzanne’s advice and rented a house while work was being done on the Buttercup, but I’ve never been good at taking advice. And despite its state of disrepair, this crumbling old inn feels like home.

We’re both in ruins. We can keep each other company while repairs are made to our insides.

There are six guest rooms in the inn and one larger master suite upstairs with its own wraparound balcony. Fortunately, the master is in the best shape. It only needs mopping and some scrubbing of the bathroom countertops to make it habitable. A huge, claw-foot porcelain tub dominates the bathroom. When I run water from the tap, it comes out rusty brown, but in a few minutes turns clear. This is lucky because I love baths the way I love breathing.

I decide to leave the bath for later and give Suzanne a call about the contractors. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Suzanne, it’s Megan Dunn.”

“Hi, Megan! Did you arrive safely?”

“Yep. Came in last night.”

“How was the trip out?”

I think of gas stations and bad coffee, endless hours of staring at the tailgates of eighteen-wheeler trucks. “Long.”

“Yeah, that’s a hell of a drive. But I’m glad you made it. If it’s okay, I’ll come over later. I’ve got a little something for you.”

Realtors and their housewarming gifts. She better have bought me something nice, because though I got a good deal for the Buttercup due to all the repairs it needs, two acres of beachfront property still ain’t cheap.

“Sure, I’ll be here. Come over any time. I was calling to get the numbers of those other contractors in Portland you mentioned, but you can bring them with you if it’s more convenient.”

A short pause follows. “Theo wasn’t available?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t call him.”

“Why not?”

“I stopped at Cal’s Diner on the way in, and he was there, sucking up all the happiness in the place like a black hole. No matter how good a contractor he is, I’m allergic to assholes.”

Suzanne’s tone turns defensive. “He’s not an asshole. He’s just…been through a lot.”

Why is it that when a woman’s been through a lot, she’s expected to handle it gracefully with fake smiles and a stiff backbone, but when a man’s been through a lot, he’s given full license to storm around like a giant baby throwing a tantrum?

“Everyone’s been through a lot,” I tell Suzanne, my voice flat. “If you make it to thirty, you’ve got enough emotional scars to keep a therapist in business for the rest of your life. That’s no excuse to go around glaring at strangers like you want to chop off their heads.”

Her voice rises in surprise. “He glared at you?”

“Let’s put it this way: if the man had a chainsaw available, I’d be missing a few body parts.”

“You must’ve misunderstood. I mean, he’s not what you’d call friendly, but I’ve never heard him described as a glaring asshole before. He’s very hands-on with all his projects, oversees everything from start to finish, and is totally trustworthy and reliable. I recommend him to all my clients and have never heard a complaint.”

“Great, so it’s just me. Even more reason not to call him. I’ll see you later.”

I hang up before she can answer, because I know more defense of this Theo, Moody Raincoat Guy is coming, and I know I’ll only get more and more irritated listening to it.

I’m not the kind of woman who thinks surliness is charming. All these alpha-holes from romance novels have given women the wrong idea that bad manners are attractive. I also hate talking on the phone, which I stubbornly refuse to remember until I’m in the middle of a conversation, wondering why I didn’t just send a text.

I go back to cleaning and organizing, emptying boxes, and attempting to make a dent in the mountain of work I’ve got ahead of me. By the time I hear Suzanne’s voice calling my name, it’s six o’clock, and the sun is going down over the ocean.

It’s a spectacular sight. I stand in the middle of the master bedroom and stare out to sea, nearly blinded by the huge orange ball and its glittering reflection on the water. This alone might be worth the price of the place, even if I never fix a single thing. Born and raised in Phoenix, I’ve never seen a sunset over the ocean. I find it strangely moving.

Cass would’ve loved this.

“Megan? Are you in there?”

I cross to the glass doors that lead to the balcony, pull them open, and look over the edge. There stands Suzanne on the brick patio below, her neck craned and a hand shading her eyes as she stares up at me. Gusts of wind blow her dark hair all around her face. She waves.

“Oh, hi! Your doorbell isn’t working!”

“I’ll be right down.”

I take the stairs two at a time and head out to the back patio. It’s enormous, as wide as the house, with an excellent view down to the beach. Off to one side, there’s a fire pit made of huge chunks of stone thrown together in a circle, ringed by half a dozen ancient Adirondack chairs, which look so weather-beaten, I can’t believe they haven’t collapsed into piles of rubble.

I open the French doors and wave Suzanne inside. “C’mon in.”

She picks her way across the patio, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven bricks. Why she’s wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a blouse unbuttoned almost to her navel to visit me is a question I’m not sure I want an answer to.

Cass used to tease me that I’m a lesbian magnet because of the frequency I’m hit on by women. I used to tell him that’s because lesbians have good taste. Then he’d wonder aloud if I could find a lesbian who might also find him cute, and I’d wonder aloud what was the best way to get rid of a dead body.

As it turned out, cremation.

The list of things I’ll never joke about again is almost as long as the trail of tears I’ve left behind me.

“It’s getting blustery out there! You can really feel the end of summer!” Suzanne sweeps into the room on a gust of cold wind, pushing her hair out of her eyes and laughing. She’s about my age, attractive in a brassy way, one of those women who wears perfume that inhabits a room long after she’s gone. I close the doors behind her and gesture toward the grocery bag in her arms.

“You need help with that?”

“It’s not heavy. It’s just a bottle of wine and a little something I made for you.” She looks around the empty living room. “Did the movers not make it yet?”

“They came this morning, but as you can see, I didn’t bring much with me. Mostly just my clothes and books, some bedroom stuff.”

When she looks confused, I feel forced to explain. “My place in Phoenix was very Southwest, lots of cowhide and leather. None of it would fit here. I’m planning on getting an interior designer to create a modern-meets-Victorian vibe, keeping all the cool character of the Victorian era but updating it with contemporary touches.”

Suzanne looks impressed. “That sounds amazing, Megan. I have several great designers I can put you in touch with if you need recommendations.”

“Yeah, that would be great. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? At least there’s a flat surface in there.”

I lead the way as Suzanne follows, her heels clicking hollowly over the wood floor.

The house is built around a central rotunda which rises up two stories and highlights an elaborate curved staircase. We walk past the empty drawing room, music room, parlor, and guest bedrooms, and arrive at the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it’s big and airy. Unlike the rest of the house, the windows are all boarded up and covered with a tarp on the outside to protect from weather damage. Evidence of the fire still remains: soot clings to the ceiling, scorch marks mar the black-and-white checkered floor.

“Oh Lord!” exclaims Megan, surveying the damage. “My cleaning crew was supposed to come out here before you arrived!”

“Someone must’ve come out, because the floors have been swept and the banisters have been dusted. And there are no cobwebs anywhere.”

She shudders dramatically, wriggling her shoulders. “Ugh, don’t talk to me about cobwebs. Spiders scare the bejeezus out of me.”

I have to smile. I used to be afraid of spiders too, until I had bigger things to worry about. PTSD tends to put things like arachnophobia into perspective. “I promise I’ll kill any that might jump out at you.”

Looking around warily for any critters preparing to pounce, Suzanne heads over to the large marble island in the center of the kitchen. She sets down the bag, pulls out a bottle of wine, and puts it aside, then withdraws a plate covered in aluminum foil.

“I baked you a key lime pie. You said it was your favorite.”

I’m touched. I can’t believe she remembered that detail. We must’ve spoken about it months ago during one of our many phone conversations before the house went into escrow.

“That’s so sweet of you. And here I was expecting a half-dead plant.”

She props a hand on her hip, all sass and sarcasm. “I’ll have you know I never do the half-dead plant thing. I’m a classy girl. Usually it’s a half-dead flower arrangement.”

We share a smile until I notice the label on the wine and almost have a heart attack. “Suzanne, that’s a very good bottle of Burgundy.”

She’s pleased I recognized it. Her grin goes from ear to ear. “Thank God you know your wine, because I had to go into Portland for something nice. When I told the guy at the wine store how much you paid for this place, he steered me right into the back where the good stuff was all kept behind a locked door.”

I pick up the bottle, running my thumb over the label of the Château Corton Grancey, blinking hard because water has begun to pool in my eyes.

“This was the wine my husband and I used to have on our anniversary every year,” I murmur, swamped with memories of Cass. “We went to France on our honeymoon and discovered this old man on the side of a country road one afternoon. He’d fallen off his bicycle and hurt his knee, so we gave him a ride back to his house. Which turned out to be this incredible wine estate—he was the patriarch of a family that had been making wine in Burgundy for more than two hundred years. He made us stay for dinner with his family and served us this.”

I have to stop because my throat has closed around the lump in it.

After five years, this still happens. Something will remind me of him, and suddenly, I’ll hear his laugh, I’ll feel his arms around me, I’ll smell that soap he liked to use, the scent still lingering on his skin after a shower, and it’ll be like no time has passed at all. The knife is plunged into my chest all over again. All over again, my heart bleeds.

I’ve died a thousand deaths since the day I lost Cass. People say time heals all wounds, but that’s a lie. Grief is a chronic disease. The pain just keeps on coming.

“What are the chances of that?” says Suzanne in a voice like she’s sure she’s made a terrible mistake.

“No, it’s amazing.” I meet her eyes. “Thank you. Really. It’s a very special gift, and so is your pie. I’ll have them together for dinner tonight.”

It was an attempt to be lighthearted, but Suzanne looks horrified by the thought of me eating pie and drinking wine alone on my second night in town. She clutches my arm.

“Why don’t you come with me tonight? My friends are having their annual cocktail party in honor of the last day of summer. I was on my way over when I stopped by.”

So this is the reason for the heels and short skirt. I’m relieved I won’t have another awkward You’re very attractive, but I’m not into girls speech in my future.

“I couldn’t barge in like that—”

“No, no, it’s very casual, and I know they’d love to meet you. Everyone’s curious about the woman who bought the Buttercup. It’ll be a good way for you to meet a few people!”

When I balk at the mention of meeting new people, Suzanne renews her efforts even more energetically.

“You can just pop in for a few minutes if you’re too tired to stay long, and I can introduce you around—oh! And the building inspector will be there! Not only is he a good guy to know for all the permits you’re going to need on this place, he’s really cute.”

When I wrinkle my nose, she insists, “Like, really cute.”

“I’ll go if you promise not to try to set me up with the building inspector.” When she looks like she’s about to offer up a few other names, I warn, “Or anyone else!”

She pouts, but damn if she doesn’t pull it off. Usually, grown women pouting like two-year-olds makes me want to punch someone in the throat.

“All right. I promise not to try to set you up with anyone. Tonight.”

When she smiles smugly, I can see that Suzanne and I are going to have issues in the future about her insistence on thrusting single males at me and my insistence on being uninterested in said males. Better to deal with it now rather than later, when I want to strangle her.

I’ve been through this with the friends I left behind in Phoenix. People will give you a year to get over your dead husband, tops, then they start throwing men at you like confetti. Young widows make people nervous.

“Suzanne, you seem like a very nice person, and I hope we’ll be friends. But if you ever try to set me up with anyone, I’ll start a rumor that you only charged me two percent commission on the Buttercup Inn.”

She inspects my face with narrowed eyes. When I don’t flinch, she demands, “Do you have any idea how fast that would get around this town? All my past clients would be mad I charged them more, and any new clients would expect a discount!”

“Yeah, small towns are a pain that way, aren’t they?”

“I don’t believe you. You’re bluffing.”

I lift a shoulder, nonchalant. “Only one way to find out.”

We engage in a stare off, which lasts until Suzanne breaks into another pout. “You’re too pretty to be this mean.”

I scoff. “Passive-aggressive flattery doesn’t work on me, girlfriend. I practically invented the backhanded compliment.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. I wonder if she majored in theatre in college before she went into real estate. Then she relents.

“Fine. I won’t try to set you up. But I can’t vouch for anyone else. The ladies of Seaside are a pushy bunch. Once they find out you’re single, they won’t rest until they’ve married you off to one of their underachieving, mouth-breathing offspring.”

I lift my brows. “Sounds like the dating pool here is swimming with winners.”

I get another one of her dramatic sighs, this one accompanied by a toss of her head. “I’d move to Portland, but it’s overrun with real estate agents. I like being a big fish in a little pond, even if that pond has a serious lack of hot men.”

“What about the super cute building inspector?”

She turns practical, not even having the decency to look chagrined. “He’s a foot shorter than me. When I said he was ‘cute,’ I meant in a ‘look at the cute little fella’ way.”

“You were gonna set me up with a man who’s eye level to my belly button, weren’t you?”

She keeps a serious face for a split second, then breaks down laughing. “My mother keeps telling me I’m too picky and should look on the bright side: I’d get to set my drink on his head if there wasn’t a cocktail table nearby.”

“Wow. I think I love your mother.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s a character. Eighty years old and she can drink the rest of us under a table. Now go put on a dress and some lipstick. I can drive over. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

I look down at my jeans and David Bowie T-shirt, then back up at Suzanne. “I don’t own a dress, and I don’t wear lipstick unless I’m going to church. Which I haven’t set foot in since I was married.” I lift my arms. “This is as good as it gets.”

Suzanne’s pursed lips aren’t quite a pout, but they’re not not a pout either. She eyes me up and down. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve got coffee stains on your shirt, dirt stains on your jeans, a smudge of something that could be bird poop on your cheek, and your hair’s a little…funky. You look like you might’ve recently been living under a bridge.”

Inevitably when someone starts a sentence with, “I don’t mean to be rude,” they’re about to be rude. She’s lucky I’m tired, or I’d be inclined to give her a hard shove and watch her topple over on those skyscraper heels of hers.

“If you’re one of those super girly-girls who refuses to go out of the house without an hour’s worth of prep, full makeup, and a bra, we can’t be friends.”

Suzanne isn’t fazed by my disdain. “I am, in fact, one of those ‘super girly-girls’ because I like to look my best—which isn’t a crime, by the way. It’s called being put together—and when you have thirty-eight double Ds, going out of the house without a bra is like getting into a car without a seat belt: careless, dangerous, and something you can get in trouble for.”

All the cleavage she’s baring is dangerous too, but it’s none of my business how much skin she likes to show. Truth be told, if I had boobs like hers, I’d probably be showing them off too. They’re pretty spectacular.

Sometimes I feel sorry for men, having to try to maintain eye contact while two of their favorite things in the world are smiling up at them from the open neckline of a woman’s blouse.

“Okay. You win. I’ll go change and brush my hair, just for you. Feel honored, because I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. And they better have delicious fried things at this so-called party, or I’m walking out.” I make my way out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the stairs.

She calls out after me, “You can’t walk out, I’m your ride!”

It occurs to me that a town this size might not have decent taxi service, but it wouldn’t be much of a problem anyway. I’m accustomed to taking long walks alone in the dark. It’s one of the only things that’s kept me sane the past few years.

When I enter the master bedroom, I notice a handprint on the sliding glass door I hadn’t seen earlier. It’s backlit by the setting sun, so it glows against the glass like it was breathed there by a ghost. It strikes me as oddly compelling, so I cross the room for a closer look.

It’s big and surprisingly detailed, as if the person who made it however long ago pressed his hand there with the fingers spread wide and stood unmoving for a long time, looking out at the ocean. The ridges, lines, and whorls seem strangely intimate. I feel like I’m looking at a clue someone left behind. A secret moment in time marked by skin.

The lifeline that runs down the center of the palm is broken in half right in the middle, as if part of it was erased.

I lift my hand, spread my fingers, and hover my palm over the ghostly print on the glass. When a gust of wind rattles the glass, I jump, sucking in a startled breath.

Then I scold myself for being an idiot, wipe the print off the glass with the sleeve of my shirt, and go get ready for the party.