I sighed and tried to damp down my disappointment. “Well, that could have gone better.”
Ethan looked sheepish. “I... I’m sorry. I thought if he met you, he’d be more...entranced.”
Entranced?What did Ethan possibly think I had that he didn’t? “It’s all right,” I said, trying to maintain a positive attitude. “Look, we can take some pictures outside. Get a feel for the place. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”
I pulled out my camera, but the moment I pressed the shutter, a bitter taste of guilt rose in my throat. I was intruding and felt like I was violating some unspoken code. This wasn’t just a house to Walter; it was a piece of his soul. And I, with my camera and talk of renovations, was an unwelcome intruder.
I put my camera back in my bag, a knot forming in my stomach.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
*ETHAN
I stood on the deck, watching Grandpa push his weathered rowboat out into the surf. The waves lapped gently at the shore, the sun glinting off the water. Clare was inside, her camera clicking away, capturing the scene. I should have stayed with her, I thought, and unease slid down my spine. I barely knew her, and leaving her alone in the house with my cantankerous grandfather’s things seemed like a bad idea.
But then I thought of the house itself, the old, creaking floorboards, the faded photographs on the walls, and the sea-salt smell that clung to everything. What could she possibly steal from this place? It wasn't like there were any valuables lying around.
Nostalgia washed over me as I watched my grandfather row away. I remembered the day my mom had brought me here, all those years ago. We had just moved from our little house in Irvine, where I had friends on every street corner, to this isolated beach house. After Dad left, Mom had said this was the only place she could afford.
I hadn't been happy about the move. I missed my friends, my school, my old life. And Grandpa Walter hadn't seemed too thrilled about having us either. He had always been a solitary man, content with his books and his fishing rod.
But then, one morning, he had taken me out on his boat. He had shown me how to bait the hook, how to cast, how to feel the tug of a fish on the end of my line. We had spent hours out there, the sun warming our faces, the sound of the waves a constant lullaby.
And that was how it had started. Slowly, tentatively, Grandpa included me in his daily routine. He would take me fishing, teach me how to man his small sailboat, tell me stories of his adventures at sea. He had even started to teach me how to play chess, though I always seemed to lose.
I realized that this house, this old, creaking beach house, was more than just a building. It was a place of memories, a place where I had learned to love the ocean, to appreciate the simple things in life, to know the quiet comfort of an old man's company.
And as I watched my grandfather row away, I knew that no amount of money could ever replace that.
A creak of the deck roused me from my memories.
Mrs. Henderson, Grandpa’s closest neighbor, stood, shaking like a leaf on a windy day, on the first step. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen her without dirt under her nails. Today, she didn’t have a trowel in hand and, without it, she looked oddly naked. Her wild silver hair shook, and she twisted her floral apron in her hands. “He shouldn’t be living here by himself,” she whispered without even saying hello.
“He's just... he's getting older,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
She’d been our neighbor for as long as I could remember, and had always kept a watchful eye on Grandpa. She was a sweet, if slightly dramatic, gardener.
“We all are,” she said, her voice tight. “But he's becoming reckless. I saw him trying to fix that railing last week. He nearly fell! And he insists on going out in that old boat of his, even when the surf's like this.” She gestured towards the churning ocean. “I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself, or worse, someone else.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair, and thought about pointing out that there was no else here to hurt, but I knew she was right, to some extent. Grandpa had always been fiercely independent, but lately, his age was catching up with him. That's part of why I was trying to convince him to sell the house.
“I know,” I said. “I'm trying to... to figure things out. It's just... he's stubborn.”
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air.
My pulse stumbled, then raced ahead. I spun around, my lawyerly calm vanishing. “Clare?” I yelled, my voice cracking.
I didn't wait for Mrs. Henderson's reaction. I bolted, my adrenaline surging. The back bedroom overlooked the beach, and I knew Clare had been taking pictures in there. I sprinted through the living room to the back bedroom, and out the French door, my eyes scanning the scene below.
Clare was scrambling down the wooden stairs that led from the balcony to the sand, her face white with terror. She was practically falling, grabbing at the splintered wood for purchase.
“Clare! What the heck?” I shouted, my voice trembling.
She didn't answer. She just kept pointing, her hand shaking violently towards the water.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes following her frantic gesture. And then I saw it.
At first, I couldn't make sense of it. It looked like Grandpa Walter was...wrestling? With something. Something enormous.
