Page 50 of Summer Love

Flip comes barreling up the beach path, tail wagging, tongue out, sixty-five pounds of pure joy covered in wet sand. He charges me, plants his paws on my thighs, and licks my hands.

“Ugh, Flip! No!”

But he doesn’t care.

“We both know your owner had it coming, right?”

Flip barks. I take that as a yes.

I rub my hands in the sand, which solves nothing, then scratch the dog behind the ear. After that, I head back into the yard for the jugs and my beach cruiser.

With its fat tires and steel frame, the bike weighs a ton. I lift it up the porch steps, prop it against my hip, and walk it through the house. Sand sifts from the tires onto the tile floor I swept this morning. I leave through the back door, since the beach gate’s blocked by some spiteful jerk’s bus.

The back path is narrower, steeper, with gravel that crunches under the tires. A jug slips; I catch it just in time. I’m panting, sweating, cursing under my breath.

My revenge is sweet, but it cost me a detour and a sore wrist.

I climb onto the bike and pedal. The coastal wind pushes at my back. I smile.

Day four in Coral Bay. Score: one apiece.

CHAPTER 18

Summer

When I get off the beach cruiser in front of the lodge, I already know I’m not going back to the house this afternoon.

I thought I’d make it to the evening. But a stiffness settled between my shoulder blades around midmorning and it’s only gotten worse. Three days of scraping, scrubbing, lifting, ripping, peeling, hauling. My body knows how to work. But not like this—not hunched under a sink, not with my arms over my head taking down curtains nobody’s touched in ten years.

One good stretching session and it’ll pass. I still know my body well enough for that.

The shower in Bungalow 17 is tiny—my elbows hit the walls when I wash my hair—but the hot water does its job.

I pull on navy running shorts and an I Love NY tank top I’ve had since college—the red heart cracked from too many washes. I tie up my hair, grab Stroke of Desire off the nightstand—I need to finish it before book club tomorrow night—and head back up to the bar.

Miles waves at me from the counter. He disappears for a second and comes back with a steaming bowl.

“I saved you the special,” he says, setting it down in front of me.

A bowl of udon. The broth smells like ginger and soy sauce. The noodles are thick, there’s pulled pork, green onions, a soft-boiled egg cut in half.

“How does Yumi make everything taste this good?” I ask between bites.

“Beats me. I tried to watch her cook once. She chased me out with a wooden spoon.”

Sushi is settled on the counter, paws tucked under her. Every time Miles walks by, he scratches the top of her head. Near the pool, a white cat I’ve never seen before sleeps in full sun, sprawled on his side, belly exposed. His coat is a little yellowed in places, smudged with dirt—an outdoor cat, not a picture-perfect one.

“Who’s that one?” I ask, nodding toward him.

“Pickles. He showed up three months ago. He doesn’t do anything. He sleeps, he eats, he sleeps some more.”

“A philosopher.”

“A freeloader,” Miles corrects, fondly.

I finish the bowl—I could’ve eaten two—and, book in hand, head for the nearest lounge chair. The water’s calm. Two kids with floaties splash around in the shallow end. The sun beats down on the tiles; the air smells like chlorine and sunscreen. I open an umbrella and stretch out full-length in the shade it casts.

I pick up Stroke of Desire where I left off last night. The swimmer’s just reunited with his physical therapist after three months apart, and things are heating up.