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I glanced at my watch again: 8:51. Almost time. I put my hand on my stomach in an attempt to settle the nerves that had come sneaking back. I could do this. Icould.
Taking a moment to scan inwardly, I searched for any dire signs of distress and found none. I let out a breath of relief, wondering for the thousandth time—maybe the millionth—when I would stop checking and accept that my body was healed.
The truth was that I’d probably never stop.
Self-screening for symptoms—warning signs—had been ingrained into me early. I had been only four years old when my life, my health, had taken a sharp turn on a road that offered no way back to what once was.
Outwardly, there was no hint that I’d ever been anything but healthy, except, perhaps, the dark bags under my eyes that I tried to hide with concealer. Truly, I hadn’t slept a whole night through since Alexander had passed away. If I was being completely honest, I hadn’t felt well since then, either, my grief and guilt affecting me physically as well as emotionally.
“Give it a little time,” my mother had said, “but call a doctor if it gets worse. You don’t want to take any chances.”
So far time hadn’t helped much at all. Yet I hesitated to call a doctor. I didn’t really want to go down that dreaded road again.
Lost in my thoughts, I jumped in surprise when the door to the shop flew open and a beautiful older woman with long black hair ran out like her feet were on fire. She quickly disappeared around the corner, her hurried steps pounding against the sidewalk.
A moment later Norman’s companion came out of the shop, carrying an iced coffee in a plastic cup and a paper dish full of whipped cream that he placed in front of the dog. Norman immediately set about lapping it up. The man took a pull from his straw as he waited for Norman to finish, then shifted on his feet, looking like he’d rather eat glass than make small talk with the stranger standing idly by.
Finally, he said, “Not from around here, are you?”
“That obvious?” I asked.
Thin gray clouds began to drift apart, revealing glimpses of cobalt-blue skies as he gave me a quick once-over. Then his gaze drifted toward my car—the only one parked nearby. My hatchback with its Ohio license plates screamed exactly how far I’d traveled to chase this particular wild goose.
“Not many wear wool around here, especially this time of year.”
As a smile warmed his eyes and chased away the somberness, I guessed him to be in his early thirties. He wore a wrinkled short-sleeve button-down shirt patterned with miniature red crabs, and blue twill shorts. On his feet were well-worn boat shoes but no socks.
“I know it’s a little out of place here at the beach, but it’s my lucky blazer.” I tugged at my vintage speckled purple jacket. It was an expensive piece that I’d found on a Goodwill rack years ago for a steal because it had a rip in the sleeve, a tear that had taken me no time at all to mend. I’d been offered every job I’d ever applied for when wearing this jacket to the interview. Granted, that had been all of two jobs, but still.
“Are you in need of luck, then?” he asked, the soft twang of a southern accent barely noticeable.
I smiled, hoping he could see only my hopes and not my regrets. “Aren’t we all?”
He glanced at his left hand, bare of any rings, and flexed his fingers. “Some believe you make your own luck.”
As a butterfly drifted between us, a monarch, identifiable by its deep-orange-and-black coloring, I said, “Well, I’m not one of those people. I’ll take all the luck I can get.”
I noticed this particular monarch had a unique anomaly—its right forewing had a white tip, almost as if it had been dipped in paint. The unusual marking shimmered, looking opalescent, even in the gray morning.
The wind gusted and the man lifted his chin, inhaling deeply as if he’d been suffocating the whole time he’d been standing there. “I’m Sam, by the way, and this here is Norman.” Norman had emptied the dish and was licking his lips with a tiny pink tongue. “Are you here on vacation…?” With eyebrows lifted, he bent slightly forward and trailed off, obviously waiting for me to supply my name.
With him so close, I could easily pick up his scent. Hazelnut and citrus, deep woods and melancholy. “I’m Ava. And I’m actually here for a job interview.”
Suddenly I felt queasy at the risk I had taken by coming here. Before yesterday, I’d never driven farther than an hour away from home. Heck, I’d only had a driver’s license for a few years. Now I was in Driftwood, Alabama, all because of a ghos— I cut my thought off, silently revising it. All because of a mysterious letter.
When I’d opened that strange letter with thateverything you’ve always wantedline, it felt like an opportunity to start life over, to take a leap of faith.
Which was why I was here, a stranger in a strange, charming land, ready to take a big, scary chance.
“I see,” Sam said. “That explains the lucky blazer.”
I nodded.
He turned his face into the wind again, breathed deeply. “I’m not sure you need that coat. I feel luck blowing in the air today. Blowing around you.”
“It’s the blazer, trust me.”
He only smiled at that, as if he knew better but had the good manners not to argue.
