The Mailbox Read online

  Lindsey held the phone away from her ear with a grimace on her face. She counted to three before putting the phone back to her ear. “Doing the same thing over and over expecting to get different results,” she supplied the well-rehearsed answer. “I just—”

  “I just want you to realize what a treasure you are,” Holly interrupted.

  “Thanks, Holl. But … I just want my family to stay together,” she said. “It’s all I ever wanted.” Holly knew that better than anyone. She had been there when Lindsey’s mother stayed out all night, brought strange men home, and left her to make her own meals day after day. Holly had also been there when Lindsey vowed that if she ever had kids, they’d have a different, better life. So much for that vow.

  “I know, Lindsey. I want your family to stay together too. And it hurts my heart that Grant’s turned out to be a total louse.” She paused. “But he is. A total louse. A total cheating louse, I will add. Not to mention an idiot for letting you go. By the time he figures that out, it’ll be too late, because you will have moved on.”

  Lindsey looked toward the ceiling. She didn’t like Holly bringing up Grant’s extracurricular love life or her moving on. The divorce was final, yet the idea of moving on with her life seemed about as likely as being suddenly able to perform a heart transplant operation. Come to think of it, a heart transplant sounded like exactly what she needed.

  “Listen, I gotta go.” Lindsey could hear Rick’s voice in the background and Josie’s faint cry. “Don’t forget where you’re going tomorrow. Your favorite place in the whole world.” Holly’s words were rushed as the sound of the baby’s crying got closer.

  Lindsey smiled. “I know. I am looking forward to it.”

  “Even without Grant you can still have the best trip you’ve ever had.”

  “At this point just surviving it sounds good.”

  Holly laughed. “O ye of little faith. I am going to pray that this trip is life changing for you.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. I’ll pray for that too.” Lindsey laughed along with her best friend. “I’ll be sure and tell you how it goes when I get back.”

  “I’m counting on it!” Lindsey heard Rick’s voice. “I really gotta go now. Have a great trip! I love you! Bye!” and she was gone.

  Lindsey hung up the phone and thought about what Holly said. As much as she hated to admit it, her friend had a point. She had to get over Grant. Sunset Beach sounded like the place to start doing just that.

  w

  The drive to Sunset the next morning had seemed longer than Lindsey remembered. The kids, who normally contented themselves with music and movies, poked, elbowed, and annoyed each other and took turns tattling. Lindsey had resorted to playing the silly road games she used when they were little. “Look, kids! Cotton growing! Did you know that’s where cotton comes from?” Of course, that hadn’t worked now any more than it did then.

  They had barely unloaded the car when the children had settled into their usual positions: Jake played video games, and Anna watched Pirates of the Caribbean for the hundredth time. Now, with the kids settled, Lindsey stood in the sunny kitchen of the beach house and tried to avoid a single, persistent memory: One year ago she had watched Grant lay his house key on their kitchen counter back home. When she looked at him, his eyes had flitted away.

  “I didn’t think you’d want me to have this anymore,” he said, standing close enough to her that she could smell his unique scent—a combination of the laundry detergent she washed his clothes in, the soap she purchased at the grocery store, and the cologne she picked out for him. He looked at her for a moment, leaning in close as though he were about to say something. She backed away.

  “Just go already,” she mumbled.

  He stood, still and silent for a moment. “I …” he said.

  She looked up, breaking her resolve to not make eye contact, feigning more strength than she felt. “I want you to leave,” she said, a lie. “Why are you still standing there?” Holly had coached her, made her promise not to cave until he was gone.

  Shrugging, he turned and walked out the front door while she watched his retreating back. The sunshine filtered through the window over the front door and streaked his T-shirt with bars of light, a shirt she didn’t recognize from a place they’d never been together. She thought of his T-shirts, once precisely folded in his drawer in their room upstairs, now packed in a suitcase he stowed in the trunk of his car earlier while she pretended not to watch. She restrained herself from running after him, from asking him what he almost said, as if it would have made a difference.

  As she looked around her, she consoled herself with the thought that she stood hours away from the place where her marriage had quietly ended. The beach house spoke to her of fresh starts and possibilities. She put the bags of groceries she brought into the small pantry and unpacked the cooler. The bottled water and cheese and juice went into the refrigerator. She held the door open with her foot as she deftly moved the final contents from the cooler into their temporary home on the refrigerator shelf, her thoughts disobediently wandering back again to the day Grant left. She thought of all the firsts they celebrated in their life together. The first kiss. The first dance at their wedding. Their first night as a married couple.

  But she hadn’t found a way to mark the lasts that inevitably also occurred. It seemed tragic that the lasts just slipped by unnoticed, unmarked. The last breakfast he ate at her table. The last time they saw each other naked. The last kindness he extended for no reason at all. The last kiss he gave her, his scent as familiar as her own skin as he pressed his lips to hers. With sadness she realized she did not even remember the last time he kissed her. In spite of their problems, she had mistakenly hoped that his kisses were renewable resources, a lifetime supply. Like a fool she had hung on to the bitter end.

  “Get a grip, Lindsey,” she scolded herself. “You are on vacation. So act like it and stop this pity party.”

  She closed the refrigerator door and considered venturing to the mailbox. But at that moment, the idea sounded overzealous. Still, she felt the urge to go. Perhaps a walk would clear her head and reset her brain. She usually waited until later during her stay at the beach to go to the mailbox, savoring the anticipation and composing her yearly letter in her head. There had never been a better year to break with tradition than this one, she reasoned.

  She shut the cooler lid and headed toward the bedrooms in the back of the house. Engrossed in her movie, Anna did not hear her mother’s approach. It gave Lindsey an excuse to study her daughter without her whining, “Mo-om, you’re so weird!”

  Lindsey watched her for as long as she could, taking in the way her cheeks were losing their childish roundness, her eyes losing the expressive innocence and wonder they once carried. She couldn’t tell whether Anna’s burgeoning maturity had resulted from age or Grant’s departure. Anna looked up and caught her staring, removing her headphones and imploring her to state her reason for the interruption with one of her patented tweenage looks.

  Lindsey wondered what she had been doing when Anna morphed into this hormonal, exasperated preteen.

  “I’m going to go for a walk,” she said and—though she knew the answer—added, “Do you want to come?”

  Anna shook her head reflexively—“No thanks”—and wedged her earbuds back into her ears.

  Lindsey signaled for her to remove them again.

  Anna did, with an added roll of her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay to stay here without me for a little while?” she asked.

  “Mom, I’m almost twelve. My friends stay by themselves all the time.”

  “Okay, honey. I trust you. Keep an eye on your little brother.”

  “As if I wouldn’t,” she said, keeping her eyes on the movie.

  Lindsey turned to talk to Jake.

  S
he found him in the den, his whole body engrossed in a football video game, his thin shoulder blades hunched together like little bird wings underneath his T-shirt, a leftover from vacation Bible school two years earlier that still, miraculously, fit him.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said from the doorway of the den. The decor of the house hadn’t changed since she first came there in 1985. Jake sat on the same This End Up couch she used to sit on that first summer. “If you need anything, ask your sister.”

  But Jake kept playing the video game as though she hadn’t spoken. She moved in front of the TV, blocking his view.

  “Mom!” he yelled, suddenly capable of responding.

  “Yes?” she said with an authoritative smile while whistles blew and lights flashed behind her.

  “I can’t see the game!” he said, waving his hand at her to move as he spoke.

  “I told you I am going for a walk,” she said.

  Seeing that she had no intention of moving until he responded in a way that she liked, he huffed and said, “Okay.” Emphasis on the “kay.”

  She moved out of his way and exited the den, and he resumed playing as though she had never been there. She used to require respect from her kids at all times, but she had relaxed about that quite a bit after Grant left. Both her children’s attitudes showed it.

  Pick your battles, she reminded herself as she headed out the door.

  She made her way down the porch steps and into the street, which led to the beach. And the beach would take her, just as it always had, to the mailbox.

  Chapter 3

  Sunset Beach

  Summer 2004

  The funky techno-beat ringtone of Campbell Forrester’s cell phone went off, jarring his thoughts about the errands he had to run and the oppressive heat that overworked his truck’s air-conditioning. After his daughter, Nikki, chose the ringtone for him a year ago, he hadn’t had the heart to change it, even though it drove him nuts. “Every time my phone rings,” he had said to her with a smirk, “I will think of you.”

  With teenage sarcasm she had shot back, “Well, that won’t be very much, seeing as how the only people who call you are me, Grandma, and Minerva!”

  He scrambled for the phone as he drove, feeling around for it without taking his eyes off the road. Just before it went to voice mail, he found it and answered quickly. In the scramble he didn’t check the caller ID, and he cursed himself for picking up when he heard the voice on the other end.

  Ellie.

  It was a voice that had the power to ruin a perfectly good day.

  “I’m so glad I caught you,” his ex-wife said with that deceptive blend of smoky sexiness and Southern charm that has fooled a great many men. But now it had the opposite effect on him.

  He forced out the words, willing himself to sound more polite than he felt. “What can I do for you, Ellie?”

  “Campbell, listen. Nikki passed out at work and they rushed her to the hospital here in Charlotte. I don’t know any more than that. I am on my way now and I just thought—”

  “What hospital?” he broke in. Even as he waited for her to tell him what hospital and what floor, he turned the truck around and headed toward home to pack a suitcase. Nikki lived with Ellie in Charlotte, a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Sunset. His mind raced with possibilities of what had happened to his daughter. At seventeen years old, she was healthy and thriving as far as he knew. He pushed the thought from his mind that what he knew about his daughter wouldn’t get him very far.

  He dialed the number to work, a land surveying company that his father had started and he now ran. Minerva—his mother’s oldest friend and also the secretary he inherited when his dad died—answered the phone, sounding bored. “Campbell,” she sighed. “Thought you were going to the store and would be right back.” She didn’t bother to mask her frustration with him.

  He found it difficult to be the boss of someone who had rocked him to sleep and changed his diapers. Minerva had been a second mom to him and didn’t mind throwing in her two cents about most everything Campbell did, including business decisions, lawn care, personal purchases, his wardrobe, and his love life—which was admittedly lacking.

  “Listen,” he began. “I don’t want you to worry, but something has happened to Nikki.” He plunged on before she could comment. “I’m not sure of any of the details, but I’m going to head to Charlotte right away.”

  “What happened?” she asked, her voice weighted by her words.

  “Ellie called and said she passed out at work. That’s all we know for now. I’m going home to pack a few things. I will call you just as soon as I know more.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll be needing a room when you get there, then. I’ll look into hotels near the hospital and get you a reservation.” She paused. “You going to tell your mother?” He knew she would like nothing more than to be the one to tell his mother. Even bad situations weren’t off limits for Minerva’s meddling.

  “Yes, Minerva. I’ll tell her just as soon as I get home. Okay?”

  “Well, then, other than the hotel, I guess there’s nothing else for me to do but wait and pray. Of course, that’s the best thing I can do.” She paused. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Minerva,” he said as if talking to his Sunday school teacher. He hated that Minerva had to remind him to pray.

  “Okay, then, I will let you get on home to pack. You tell your mama I will call her if I don’t hear anything, so she better keep me posted.” Campbell knew he was in trouble when his mother and Minerva became armed with cell phones.

  Soon enough, as he drove, he let his thoughts drift into a prayer. He prayed for protection over his daughter and especially that he’d keep his cool—he didn’t want to expect the worst when her passing out could be the result of any number of benign things.

  He drove down the highway toward the bridge probably a little too fast, leaving Shallotte and heading for Sunset. All the cops that patrolled through the area knew him, so all he would have to do is tell them about Nikki and they would let him off. He loved the small-town security that came from knowing everyone—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Truth was he had grown up with most of the cops on the force and knew dirt on nearly all of them. It worked in his favor whenever he pushed the speed limit.

  The dog days of summer had descended, and the heat rose from the asphalt in shimmery waves. Tourists were out in force, making him miss the calm quiet of the off-season. He could still remember when people called Sunset the “best kept secret of the Carolina coast.” Not anymore. It seemed every Yankee in the free world had discovered the place, with license plates from Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York outnumbering the ones from North or South Carolina during the months of June, July, and August. They showed up in droves, smiling at the “cute” accents and talking about Southern charm. Campbell laid low and tried not to make eye contact with any of them. Of course, Nikki loved the tourists. She said that visitors from other parts of the country were exciting. She got that from her mother. All he ever wanted was his own little corner of the world, right there in Sunset Beach.

  He steered his truck through the town, past the Pelican bookstore and the Food Lion, past the planetarium where he and Nikki liked to waste time on rainy afternoons, past the liquor store/miniature golf place—a combination he never quite understood. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for the bridge to begin cranking open. Sunset’s dilapidated drawbridge sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t, only allowing one-way traffic and opening on the hour—stopping traffic on both sides—to let boats get through the Intracoastal Waterway. A lot of people complained about the bridge and said it kept Sunset behind the times, turning away frustrated tourists from visiting again. From a business perspective, he understood the push to build a new bridge, but from a personal perspective, he loved the bridge. Just one small way, at least partially,
to hold on to the past.

  To take his mind off Nikki, he cranked the radio as the DJ announced the “All ’80s Lunch Hour.” A song came on—“Boys of Summer”—that took him to a time before Nikki, before Ellie. A time when one face and one face alone got him up in the morning and kept him going all day. A simpler time, indeed. For that moment, Campbell let himself remember what he spent most of his time trying to forget. The image of Lindsey as a teenager filled his mind, and he wondered, as he always did, where she was at that moment, what she was doing. He focused on the memory of her face—her kind blue eyes, her chestnut hair blowing on the windy beach. Her smile.

  An unscheduled trip down memory lane didn’t fit with his agenda, and he banished the images that played in his mind. He had to get to his daughter. Anything else would have to wait.

  w

  As his tires crunched over the shell and gravel drive, he saw his mother sitting on the front porch, a packed suitcase perched by her feet on the weathered gray boards, her purse in her lap. Even though the temperature gauge in his truck said 97, her trademark cardigan sweater was pulled over her shoulders. She owned a rainbow of colors and never left the house without one.

  “You just never know when you might get chilled, Campbell,” she had said when he teased her about it. “People keep their air conditioners cranked down entirely too low.” Today’s cardigan, a pale pink, reminded him of the baby blankets she used to knit for Nikki. She wore a white T-shirt that said “Sunset Beach” in matching pink lettering, a sign. She only wore that T-shirt when she left the island, claiming it was good advertising.

  “No need to advertise the place,” he often said. “Let’s just keep it to ourselves.”

  He walked up the porch steps, silently cursing Minerva. He nodded at his mother and looked pointedly at the suitcase.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, playing dumb.