Beach Retreat

The gravel crunches beneath the tires of the Rav four like breaking glass, a sound that causes Melody Blackthorne’s heart to hammer against her ribs. She cuts the engine, but her fingers remain glued, curled tight around the steering wheel until her knuckles turn the color of the white waves crashing ahead of her. For close to two thousand miles, she had checked her rearview mirror every sixty seconds, waiting for the sleek, silver glint of Blaze’s Mercedes to appear like a shark in the wake. She’s thirty-nine years old, and currently a fugitive from her own life, hiding on the sandy outskirts of Emerald Isle, North Carolina.

“Mom, are we here?” seven-year-old Mia already unbuckling her seatbelt, hazel eyes wide as she peers at the freshly stained white and blue cedar shingled cottage, then over at the beach.

“Wait one moment, darling. Let’s make sure it’s safe first before we unbuckle and get out. Ok.” Melody whispers, her voice cracking. She takes a shuddering breath, trying to force the southern steel back into her spine. She has to be the anchor, like she’s always done. She can’t let them see the way her skin crawls with the phantom sensation of Blaze’s hand gripping her upper arm. A bruise hidden beneath her linen sleeve that is just beginning to fade into a sickly yellow. You’re safe, He doesn’t know about this place. He thinks you’re at your sister’s in Dallas.

Mia nods her head in obedience, “yes, ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m so excited for the beach.” Her little voice sings in enthusiasm. Mia’s big, bright green-brown eyes with hints of blue nearly resemble hers.

“Yea, Mia, you have to wait for Mom to tell you it’s ok, to unbuckle. What is she had to drive again?” nine-year-old Leo says sternly yet caring.

The two story, pastel blue, cement dome like cottage, on cement stilts once belonging to her beloved Grandmother, now hers, is rather large. Weary yet unyielding; a resilient survivor from decades of Atlantic storms. It’s smaller than the pristine, minimalist mansion in Denver where every throw pillow had a designated coordinate, and every word was measured for its potential to trigger a blowup. Here, the air smells of sea grass, salt, and sea, a wild, honest scent that didn’t care about appearances. Melody steps out of the SUV, her cushioned flip-flops hitting the sand-dusted driveway. The humidity drapes over her like a warm towel, heavy and thick, but it felt like a shield rather than a weight.

Opening the side doors for the children, “ok, go ahead,” she says, gesturing toward the wooden walkway that cut through the sea oats. “Stay where I can see you, okay? Right by the edge of the grass.” Mia, a spitting image of her mother and father, wearing pink sand shoes, glances towards her brother, Leo. He is his mother’s mini male version of her, bearing the same chestnut locks, like his sister as well, nods in unison. His blue and green sand shoes tap the sandy walkway down to the beach, by the roaring water.

The kids bolt, their laughter sounding foreign and beautiful in the open air. Melody falls into nostalgia, spending time at the cottage as a child with her grandmother who raised her. She just passed away. It’s been years since Melody was here.

The letter from her grandmother’s lawyer; she has passed on, it’s all yours. Somewhat encrypted. Melody has been isolated from family for a few years as Blaze firmed his grip since she had the children. She sent photos of the kids, mailed letters here and there, and occasional phone calls. Her grandmother had been in a nursing home for years; Blaze held her back from visiting. Tears surface in Melody’s whiskey green-amber eyes. Her grandmother, the woman who raised her, has left this world. Feeling a little orphaned for a moment, she focuses on her children playing by the shore. Breathing, salt air, restoring. Melody regaining composure thinks back to her early memories visiting here, before her parents died in a car accident. She was only five, faint memories surface of being hugged and loved by them. As if their spirits surround her now, here at the beach.

She has nearly forgotten Blaze standing here, immersed in childhood memories. She begins the ritual that has become her shadow. Her eyes scan the perimeter of the cottage, for any vehicle that looks too expensive, any man who moved with Blaze’s predatory grace. She checks the front door lock, then the back, then the front again. Three times. It was a compulsion born of a decade of gas lighting and the kind of trauma that left a person’s nervous system permanently altered. She was hyper-vigilant, a rabbit in a world of wolves, and the peace of the beach is the only serenity she has. Memories of her parents and grandmother. She wants everything inside. She wants the door barred. She wants to disappear into the cedar walls until the divorce papers are finalized, and the monster in the expensive suit finally realizes he can’t own her anymore. Tears swell, as a wave of grief hovers over Melody, like a dark cloud. She lets the beach cruiser bikes off the rack, of her dark blue Rav four. She just bought it. A cashier’s check from a separate account, covered it. Paid off, in her maiden name. She sold the minivan they had while visiting her sister in Dallas. In an effort to hide from Blaze. She grabs a heavy duffel bag, her chestnut hair flowing freely in the salty breeze, sticking to her damp neck. She feels a sudden, sharp spike of panic as she realizes she can’t hear the kids anymore.

“Leo? Mia?” She calls out, her voice rising an octave. She drops the bag and runs toward the beach, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She gazes around and stops short. Her children aren’t alone. A massive, snow-white Golden Labrador is dancing around them; its tail wagging with such force that its entire back half wiggled. Mia was giggling, her small hands buried in the dog’s thick fur, while Leo was trying to play a lopsided game of tag with the beast. Standing a few feet away was a man who looks like he has been carved out of the very driftwood scattered along the shoreline.

He is tall, at least six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out a faded charcoal hoodie despite the early summer warmth. The sun exposes glistening copper-brown hair, and grey highlights. His face, the only skin showing, has been kissed by the sun. He didn’t look like the men Melody knew in Denver or Dallas— air around him feels heavier, more stable. When he turns to look at her, his eyes are the exact blue of the deep water beyond the breakers.

“Jet, easy,” the man said. His voice a deep, resonant rumble that seems to vibrate in Melody’s chest. It isn’t loud but beholds the authority of a calm sea. “He’s a bit of a greeter. Hope he didn’t give the little ones too much.” Melody observing the kids playing with the dog, weight lifts off her chest, and a breath escapes her lungs. They deserve this moment, freedom, a fluffy sweet dog playing with them at the beach. She feels the lightness of the man’s gaze—he doesn’t move toward her. He stays exactly where he is, giving her space; his hands tucked casually into his white linen pant pockets.

“They’re fine,” Melody managed to say, though her heart is still thudding a frantic rhythm. She walks down the sandy path, her movements stiff and guarded. “I just… I didn’t see him coming.”

“He’s got a way of sneaking up on people when he smells joy,” the man says, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He whistled softly, and the dog immediately trotted to his side, sitting down with a happy pant. “I’m Gage. Gage Sterling. We live a few houses down, near the old pier.”

Melody reaches the kids, pulling them slightly toward her. She feels the man’s eyes on her—not with the calculating coldness of Blaze, but with a quiet, observant intensity. He notices her shaking hands. He saw the way she scanned the empty beach behind him. He sees the “vacation” façade for exactly what it is: a thin, cracking mask. It makes her feel exposed and flustered towards him for it.

“I’m Melody,” she expresses, mustering up the courage to speak. “It's my grandmother’s cottage. I visited here a lot as a child.”

“Not the first time on the Banks?” Gage asks. He reaches down to scratch Jet’s behind the ears; his movements slow and deliberate. He’s not a talker, she can tell. He uses direct, simple language, and he seems to be measuring her just as much as she is measuring him. “It’s a good place to be if you need to hear yourself think. The ocean has a way of drowning out everything else.”

Melody looks at him, really looks at him, and feels a strange, long-buried spark of attraction flicker in the pit of her stomach. It terrifies her. She isn’t ready for sparks. She is barely ready for oxygen. But the contrast between this man’s quiet strength and Blaze’s volatile demeanor gives her a sense of hope. Blaze is not the only man she’s ever seen or been around. She had boyfriends before him.

“We should get back to unpacking,” Melody says. Her breath catching as Jet lets out a friendly bark and nudges her hand with a wet nose. For a moment, she lets her fingers brush the dog’s soft head. The simple, tactile reality of it grounds her.

“Welcome to the edge of the world, Melody,” Gage says softly. He tips his head toward her, a silent acknowledgment of the walls she’d built; before turning to walk down the beach, the big white dog trotting faithfully at his heels. “See you around.”

Melody watches them go until they are just specks against the shifting sand.

Hours later, the night has darkened over, tucking in the children, reading a book, in the same room she stayed in as a child. She and her sister. A hint of ocean waves sound outside.

The white wooden twin beds creak as the children shift their weight, drifting off to sleep. Melody checks the locks one final time, then stands in the dark kitchen, remembering cooking with her mother and grandmother. A wave of grief, weighs on her, again wiping Blaze out of her mind. It’s been remodeled and renewed. As if her grandmother knew she would need to be here. She looks in the sunroom, through the window inside, at the beach cruiser bikes. A ride along the boardwalk. Tomorrow, with the kids. For the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a beginning. She touches the bruise on her arm, then looks at the door. She is still afraid, but as the tide roars outside, she wonders if she has finally found a place where the waves could wash the scent of fear away.