Page 27 of The Treasure House

“One room.”

“The whole apartment is one room?” She pulled another face, this one more extreme than the last. “I’m not going to hate Oxeye that much.” She reached for my phone. “Can we have a campfire tonight, at the campground?”

“I don’t know what the laws are about fires in the summer. You might need a permit.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s wildfire season,” I said as I booked the cabin. At least we’d still be on the coast, and only a stone’s throw from our new home. It was only after I booked that I learned I’d have to pick the key up from one Jake Abernathy at Oxeye Hardware (and Lobster Shack). Great.

“Do you have the keys to everything around here?” I asked when I returned to Oxeye to meet him at the store. He was sitting out front at one of the picnic tables, watching the light fall rosy on the choppy bay as the day waned. He had a beer in one hand and a book open in front of him. The salty breeze eddied around us, riffling the pages of his novel. He was still stupidly good-looking.

“Pretty much, yeah,” he admitted, reluctantly closing his book and leading me into his hodgepodge of a store. “It’s a convenient location.”

The windows at the hardware store were closed, and the place now had a hushed, sleepy feel. Jake reached behind the counter for a key, which was hanging on a little hook on the wall. The key was attached to a toy-sized orange and white plastic buoy. “So it doesn’t sink if you’re out on the water,” he said, when he saw me looking at it. “If you’re boating or whatever. It floats.” He handed it over and my arm tingled as his fingers brushed mine. “Where’s the kid?”

“In the car. She says she’s overstimulated and needs some downtime.”

His lips twitched at that, and a flicker of double dimples appeared. “Her and me both. I’ll give you a map so you can find your cabin. You’re in number five.”

“No need to show us around this one,” I said quickly, worried he was about to volunteer to give us a tour. One tour with Jake Abernathy was enough for today. “I’m sure I can manage to look around a one-room cabin on my own.”

Jake gave me a reproving look with those blue-green, marble-glass eyes as he slid a photocopied map toward me. “I was only trying to help.” He took a pen and used it to trace the path from his store to the campground. “Here’s the bay, and this is Beach Road here. You’re going to drive down this road—”

I stopped listening about then, because I got distracted by his hands. He had working hands, suntanned, with gilded hair on his knuckles and a freckle on the back of his right index finger. His fingers had little nicks and scars, and there were specks of paint on his square nails. Also, he was leaning so close that I was enveloped in his scent, which was a blend of sea salt and wood shavings, sunscreen and beer. It was a summery smell that made my heart skip like it was the first day of vacation. “Got it?” he asked as his pen circled cabin number five on the map.

“Yep,” I lied.

“Each cabin is off on its own in the woods, so be careful. The campground isn’t staffed but you’ve got my number—call me if you run into any trouble. And if you’re looking for breakfast tomorrow, the café two doors down from this place opens at seven; show them your key and they’ll give you a fifteen percent discount. Colleen will look after you.”

“Okay, thanks.” I took the map.

“You know, you should probably spend some time in the town before you move here,” he said gruffly. “Stay a couple of days. Meet a few people. Make sure you’re not making a mistake.”

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice,” I said. The man was impossible. Although he wasn’t wrong. “But my bid on the house has already been accepted. So you can stop warning me off now.”

He was silent. He looked sorry for me.

“And thanks for your heartfelt welcome to town,” I said dryly.

He didn’t follow me out when I left. His beer and book sat forgotten on the picnic table as we drove off.

The campground was only a couple of minutes down the road from Oxeye, on a wooded spit of land which curled into the bay. The rusty cliffs grew lower and gentler as we drove, and there was a glimpse of a secluded sandy beach as we turned onto the spit. The photos hadn’t done the campground justice. They’d made it seem low-rent and sad but in reality it was peaceful and secluded, everything you could want from a camping retreat. It felt like we were winding out of everyday life and into the wilds. The dirt road led through a woodland of spruce and oak, pine, maple, and hemlock.

When we passed a faded sign with curly writing on it, Flo squinted out the window to read it. “Welcome to Saint-Cyr,” she said. “I thought this was still Oxeye?”

“It is,” I said absently, focused on navigating the narrow track.

We drove by a sweet wooden playground of swings and monkey bars and a busy barbecue area. There were children squealing as they hung upside on the bars while their parents cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill in the fading evening. The campsites were discreetly scattered through the woods, just in sight of one another but far enough apart to feel private. Our cabin was in its own stand of trees, close to the water. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t fancy, but it was full of charm. It was a proper old-fashioned one-room log cabin with a raw timber porch, complete with a couple of rustic, weather-beaten rocking chairs. There was a cold firepit directly in front of our front door, but I’d forgotten to ask Jake if we’d need a permit, so I didn’t let Flo have her fire. I made up for it by letting her use my phone for a while.

“Culch doesn’t just mean junk,” Flo called to me across the cabin as I washed my face in the bathroom, which I was relieved to find was clean and serviceable.

I stared at myself in the small, fly-specked mirror. I looked pinched and stressed. I’d just spent so much money…

“Culch means usable junk,” Flo told me, sounding pleased. “The word culch comes from oysters.” Flo looked up from the phone, frowning. She was draped over her camp bed upside down, her head over the edge and her braid dangling on the floor. “Is an oyster a fish, or a shell, or what?”

“I think it’s kind of both. It’s a shellfish.” I’d never stopped to think about oysters and didn’t really care to think about them now. I dried my face and hands.

I moved to the windows, glad to see they were screened to keep the bugs out. I opened them all, letting the woodsy sea air in, leaning into the sound of the bay murmuring and sighing. The wind made the trees shiver and rustle. I took a deep breath. At the very least, there were no more decisions to make today.